Ice People

We are easily identified, the pasty white Americans who smell flowers and roll in the grass and perhaps smell faintly still of diesl fuel. Over a thousand of us transit through Christchurch every feburary over a 3 week period, and we almost overwhelm the town. Walking through the square or between popular resturants or bars, every other minute I see another group of Ice people. It is kinda nice, in an inbred, sociopathic way: as we attempt to transition from the ordered and modulated life of the station to the wider world and re-enter polite society, we can be here without having to actually talk to normal people, since Ice people are always at hand. But after a few days the itch to move along comes on; I've only been here 36 hours and I feel the gravity of the open road calling. But for now I can enjoy the social protection afforded by friends and cohorts known for so long in close quarters. But now I can enjoy them at a distance and at my leisure, a far more pleasant prospect than the enforced confinment of only 2 days ago.

Now if you will excuse me, I have an urgent need to sit in a meadow of flowers at the botanical garden.