American

This weekend was very rainy (and my 3 possible teams for t-walk dissolved in the mud), so I spent it mostly hanging about and doing some thesis work and brewing some beer.   For those of you who know it, the highlight of the weekend was introducing 30 kiwi’s to the wonder that is hotdog (for those of you who don’t know it—ridiculous 80s Hollywood ski film).     Because of this laziness (hey I’m blaming the rain) I have no interesting photos to share.   That being said I did make a promise to my parents to keep this blog more up to date, so I’m still going to write something up—consider yourself forewarned.

First a catch up on what’s going on with my academic life.  My project started out as an examination of methane flux at 3 geothermal sites, White Island, Ngatamariki, and Ketatahi springs.   As most of you know, not so much luck getting to Ketatahi and no methane at Ngatamariki.  I’m still going to sample CH₄ flux from White Island (heading up on Thursday), but the scope of my project has changed to involve CO₂ composition at low flux.   Without going into depth or details it’s going well and I’m working on the first draft of a paper—hopefully.   There’s more, but I don’t really want to post them to the world at large… tact Matt tact.

            The other thing to write about is America.    Lets start at the beginning, pre NZ I had never really been out of the country.  I have never spent so much time so far away from home.   I also didn’t consider myself an American.   Not that I was confused about my place of birth…  only the Trump could question it, but I never had anything to compare it with.   Since arriving in NZ I’ve come to feel how much the States are ingrained in my blood.  The seasons, the climate, and particularly the position of the sun all feel off.  I feel constantly unnerved and on edge (not to mention lost for the first few weeks—it’s amazing how much I intuitively relied on the position of the sun for my sense of direction).   Don’t get me wrong, NZ is phenomenal, but it’s not home.    I’ve never felt such an ingrained sense of home before in my life.  I love SLC (well the mountains around it), but it only took a couple of months before eastern Washington also became a home.  When it wasn’t home I don’t remember longing to be back in SLC, I just felt unfamiliar.   I think it is part habit (it’s spring time, I ski corn, spend time in the sun and go to the desert; It’s winter it get’s dark early, time to drink dark beer and ski; it’s fall, there’s the musty smell of leaves, new snow up high, and it’s time to bike; it’s summer, long days, long adventures, and hopefully a thunderstorm).   Not only is the timing wrong, many of the cues are missing—I can’t see the mountains, there are very few deciduous trees, and praise the gods when you find a good dark beer.   Maybe with more time exposure to the character of the seasons and a better sense of place, I would feel equally at home.  Right now I don’t and it is a challenge.  The Fulbright is about increased cultural understanding and I don’t believe that my current feelings are oppositional to it.  If anything I am developing a better sense of my person and my place, which I feel is necessary to understand others.

Well you made it through the ramble, sorry for the grammer/spelling mistakes—it was late and I was tired.   Hopefully in about a week (maybe two if there’s crappy internet) I’ll have new nerdy photos of an active volcano.