Bungy jumping

Continuing the series of corny analogies: NZ is a bungy jump. If the shit really hits the fan there's a big splat & I'll never get up again. (This is not the actual plan however.) I don't mean dying though leaving everything behind me certainly has felt something like it. Maybe as a result I've been afraid of death to an alarming extent & thinking about the limits of life a lot. It's resticting and annoying. For example, contrary to my what my gut had to say, the most dangerous bit of the whole two-day Helsinki–London–Bankok– Sydney–Auckland–Wanganui journey was not any of the flights — not even the noisy one in the adorable 17-seat propeller airplane to Wanganui — but the very last five minutes prior to reaching my new home when a crazy Kiwi driver almost crashed into the van I was in.

Answers to frequently asked questions:

• It's a one year post. I'm coming back in the end of June 2007.
• NZ is 9 hours ahead of Finland.
• On my summer vacation Dec–Feb I'll be touring NZ with any friends who manage to get themselves over here. Not coming back to Finland. (One across-the-globe trip a year is enough, thank you very much.)
• My address is Bell Street 2/65, Wanganui 5001.
• My phone number is +64 21212 94 90. It costs me 30 eurocents to send an sms so bomb away.

Footnotes:

• My luggage was left in London. It's due tomorrow. Meanwhile I'm using my foster parents' clothes and say, "None of this is mine."
• Fer fuck's sakes left hand traffic is weird shit.
• I doubt I'll get used to wearing shoes indoors, too.
• Rocky asked me if I was from Africa.
• I had a lucid dream in which I was paralyzed and my brother stuck me in the shoulder with a syringe. オーディション
• 5 am last night, jetlagged in a cold room in a flooding city, I threw a college around myself and imagined a special someone wrapping his arms around me.