Rest Day Part II: It’s Something, Mate

Parakai, and all is well. I am chilling in the hottest hot tub I could find, spending the day writing because my Advanced Alien Technology, aka iPhone, is waterproof.

My en suite mineral hot spring bath last night was… well, not what you’re picturing. The hotel does sit on a spring, because hot, mineral-scented water did come out of the tap. But the tub it filled was a big black plastic industrial number, the kind Walter White would dissolve a body in. The room itself was about 18” wider than the twin mattress it contained, and honestly the proprietor was a little embarrassed to show it to me. It’s called the trucker room. It has no shower, no mirror, and you walk through someone else’s hallway to get to it. In yesterday’s case, the someone elses were in their much nicer mineral spa, which I couldn’t help noticing because they’d left their door open. I also couldn’t help noticing they were fucking.

But hey, when you roll into a busy spa resort town on a Friday afternoon without a reservation—or indeed planning of any kind—then the trucker room is what you get.

I didn’t care. Gimme a hot tub and life is good. Plus, within easy limping distance is one of the weirdest restaurants I’ve ever been to: a pizzeria that serves Indian food, one Thai dish, and all three mixed together.

So here I am with my tikka paneer pizza, feeling no pain. Still thinking about yesterday’s fear culture versus care culture stuff, though. It’s not as if the US is only the former and NZ is only the latter. The difference is emphasis and undercurrent. But even when it’s subtle, the difference explains a lot.

For example, this morning I was chilling in a pool with three women, a kiwi couple and a single woman from San Francisco. We’re talking home repairs, and the American mentions casually that when she has a handyman at her condo, she always makes sure to stand between him and the door. The kiwis are baffled. They ask why. She says, “Because I live alone.”

I’m going to guess any American who reads this doesn’t need to ask the kiwis’ question. I was surprised the question was even asked, and doubly surprised when the kiwis had follow-up questions. I felt we already had a full explanation. But it’s not. The “because” of “because I live alone“ does no work in that sentence. It’s only an indicator of our fear culture.

Here’s a full explanation with the unstated assumptions spelled out: “Women are attacked so frequently where I live that my default response whenever I’m alone with a stranger is suspicion and self-preservation. I need to be able to run for the door, because otherwise I worry I’d be lying there for days before anyone found my body.”

This is some seriously depressing shit, and this travelogue is supposed to be lighthearted, so that’s all I’ll say on the matter. It’s not a problem I have any solution to, anyway. The best I can do is encourage fear culture people to spend some serious time abroad, soaking in a new kind of background radiation. Truly relaxing, letting your guard down for once, feels better than any hot tub.

Though while we’re on the subject, may I propose one more modification to the general background radiation? If we can still hold a society together despite our deep divisions over Hawaiian pizza, then we are ready for tikka paneer pizza coast to coast. Seriously. This is damn good, y’all.