Another week begins
at the Sargeson flat. Monday mornings mean the homeless guys disappear and the
Language School students return. Determined battalions of marauding ants trek
their way across my walls and into the pantry: I kill them, and remove
everything in their path. I have a mysterious pinch-shaped bruise on my left calf.
The water that disappeared from the taps yesterday is flowing again.
Alex (dentist,
Brazilian) calls me. Last week he rang to see how I was adjusting –
emotionally, physically – to the tooth splint. When I called him back on
Friday, he was in the car driving down to Ruapehu to go snowboarding. I told
him that the splint was bearable, but one of my lower wisdom teeth, embedded
within my gum, was hurting. Basically, I needed to disrupt his happy weekend in
some way. If I must suffer with the tooth splint of discomfort and
unattractiveness, so must he! Today he told me (“Hello, Miss Paula!”) that he’d
checked my X-rays, and I don’t have any wisdom teeth, embedded or otherwise.
I remember getting
a tooth or two out at some point in my early 20s, involving an ugly yellow bruise
across my jaw, but I’d thought I still had some wisdom teeth lurking. Obviously
not. Now Alex must think I’m insane. This is why I tell my students not to
drink too much in their 20s: their brain cells will dissolve, and they won’t be
able to remember whether they had their wisdom teeth removed or not.
To distract him
from my non-existent medical complaint, I asked Alex if there was anywhere good
in Auckland to hear Brazilian music. He said he doesn’t know: he just stays at
home watching shows on Animal Planet. Last time when I went into the surgery, I
told him I listened to a lot of
Brazilian music. He asked me who I liked, and I said Marcio Faraco (who
I’m listening to right now, actually). The look on Alex’s face suggested I had
just named the Brazilian equivalent of Kenny G. Though he WAS wearing a dental
mask at the time, so maybe I’m misreading his expression.
This weekend I
stayed at my sister’s to avoid the noise in the park. I had two literary-ish
events to attend. On Sunday, I spoke to the Auckland Literary Society at Kinder
House in Parnell. Everyone was extremely nice, though I find that after thirty
minutes of listening to myself talk, I start to feel sorry for the audience. One of the English names I was
researching in Birmingham, Sneyd Kynnersley, popped up in a picture on the wall
of the Kinder House, so I have some other leads to pursue now.
On Saturday night,
I ate at Chow down at the Viaduct, invited by Susanna Andrew of the New Zealand
Book Council. Susanna is extremely nice, though – as I later discovered – she
drives like a nut. The dinner was for the visiting Australian writer, Arnold
Zable; also in attendance were the poet Denys Trussell, who was interviewing
Arnold the next day for a Book Month event, and Denys’s very nice wife, Hilary,
who’s a drama teacher.
Dinner was good
and the discussion was lively. The vodka martinis at Chow are too small and
weak, in my opinion, especially given their excessive cost, and the unfortunate
insistence of the bar staff in referring to the drink as a “kangaroo.” Towards
the end of the meal there was an odd incident, which involved someone walking
towards the table, pointing at us, and saying “Susanna Andrew! Paula Morris!”
in an accusing voice. It turned out to be Holly from Third Party Productions,
the TV company that makes Talk Talk. Holly has to call us both this week,
apparently. She reminded me that when I was interviewed for Talk Talk I had a
really bad cold.
After dinner the
real fun began. We all piled into Susanna’s mini-van and roared off to Queen
Street; Arnold was staying at the City Life Heritage Hotel. But when we pulled
up across the street, we could see that the hotel’s grate was down, and no
means of entry was at all apparent. Susanna drove up Victoria Street and along
Albert Street, but we couldn’t see any obvious door. So she called the Heritage
number on Arnold’s card key, and the person on the other end started giving her
confusing directions, involving wild U-turns. Susanna lives in Wellington, so I
took over the phone to apply my native Aucklandness to the navigation.
The guy on the
phone kept insisting we drive up Victoria Street past Sky City – i.e. away from
Queen Street – to Nelson Street. This made no sense at all. How big was this
hotel, I asked Arnold? Did he have to walk for miles from the Queen Street
entrance? No, he said; he’d just gone upstairs. The Heritage employee was
unmoved. Past Sky City, madam, he told me, and right on Nelson Street. I was
imagining a warren-like underground bunker hotel stretching for blocks and
blocks, but no: when we pulled into the Heritage on Nelson Street, the guy on
reception told me we were at the wrong hotel. Duh!
Susanna and Arnold
stayed in the van, but Denys and Hilary had accompanied me into the lobby. I’m
not sure why. It was a confusing evening in many ways. The receptionist told me
the night entrance for the City Life was just around the corner from Queen
Street. Drive back there, he said, and then take the first right on Albert
Street. We then had the following exchange.
Me: But Albert
Street isn’t off Queen Street.
Him: Yes, it is.
Me: No, it isn’t.
Him: Yes, it is.
It’s just past the hotel.
Me: Albert Street
runs parallel to Queen Street.
Him: No, it
doesn’t.
Me: Do you mean
Victoria Street?
Him: No.
Me: Do you mean
Wellesley Street?
Him: No. It’s
Albert Street, just off Queen Street.
[And so on, for
several minutes, involving him drawing me a map in which Albert Street leads
off Queen Street, and me asking him to get an actual map.]
Me: Look – here is
Albert Street!
Him: [silence]
Me: See? It runs
parallel to Queen Street.
Him: Then I don’t
know what the name of the street is.
At this point, we
returned to the mini-van. Hilary and Denys seemed convinced that the street in
question was the entrance to a parking garage on Wyndham Street, but we finally
ended up on Queen Street again. The street turned out to be Durham Lane, just
past the hotel, and Susanna obligingly turned into it despite the “no right
turn” sign. I could see the hotel’s night entrance on the right, but not
everyone in our van was persuaded. Denys suggested we keep driving around some
more to find it, but luckily Arnold made his escape from the vehicle before
confusion enveloped us again.
Some time later,
after we took Denys and Hilary home to Eden Terrace – around the corner from
the home of my BFF Don McGlashan – Susanna dropped me off at my sister’s place
in Mt Albert. When I opened the front door, Marilyn the cat shot in and spent
the next twenty minutes eluding capture and expulsion.
A suggestion for
the Heritage Hotel: find employees who have a clue about Auckland. A suggestion
for Chow: make your martinis bigger and stronger, or else much, much cheaper.
Tomorrow I fly to
Wellington to attend the Prime Minister’s Awards for Literary Achievement. (I
won’t be getting one: I’m just a hanger-on.) The next day I fly to Los Angeles
to meet with a writing client, then it’s back to NOLA on Thursday for a short
visit. Hurricane Ike seems to be heading for Texas, thank god – sorry, Texas,
but I can’t face evacuating this weekend. TM has just unfinished unwrapping all
the plastic.
When I’m back in
ten days, I intend to start having dinner parties in the Sargeson flat. We’ll
call them “salons,” perhaps.