Kiwiville

I’ve touched on this briefly, as you’ll know if you’re one of the three or four people who actually read this. But it was more about the idea of becoming an expat, not so much my story. So here’s the story. I first left the U.S. at 26 years old in 1991. I’m not counting the odd jumps over the Mexican border over the years; I grew up in San Diego County, so that was just an easy way to spend an afternoon.

BACKSTORY

I went to Musicians Institute in Hollywood, back in 19…….88? I think 1988. Sounds about right. Most of my classmates were from out-of-state, and many of them were from abroad. I lived in an apartment block and most of my neighbors were classmates, and most were from elsewhere. One guy, Craig, was not a guy I hung out with much, but we knew each other well because we were neighbors. We got to know each other and even played together in school things, from time to time. He was sort of a pop-metal guy, a big Gary Moore fan. Not really my kind of thing, but it was OK to play now and then. Pretty simple drum parts. Well, that guy remembered me a few years later, when he decided to….well, this part is all just what I heard, but after M.I., we all went our separate ways. Craig went back to New Zealand.

In New Zealand, Craig decided to split from the group he had played with for a long time, even before going to California, and go solo. He needed a band, and his band needed a drummer, so he invited me to go down to NZ and be in his band, no audition necessary.

Meanwhile, I was back with some guys I had played with previously as well, back in North San Diego County. It wasn’t going great. We weren’t getting tons of gigs, we had personal issues among the members of the group, and I eventually got fired (which always strikes me as stupid wording, getting “fired” from a “job” that doesn’t pay anything, anyway). It was around that time that Craig made his offer. I took the gig.

PREPARING AND LEAVING

Craig’s offer included staying with him rent-free, but that was pretty much it. I can’t say I went there for any sort of secure job, and in fact, I did some research on New Zealand, to see if there would be any chance that I could legally work there, and it turned out that I could, and eventually did. I knew how to operate an offset printing press, and NZ had a list of jobs and a connected list of countries, and if I was from one of those countries, and managed to find a job that matched up with the job list, I’d be good to go. I was, and I did.

Then there was my mom. Oh, man, she just lost it. “You can’t move to New Zealand! What will you do if something happens?”

“What do you mean?”

I don’t want to get into details of that conversation, but it got absurd pretty quickly. What if you can’t find a job? Mom, I can always find a job. What if you run out of money? (Maybe that came before getting a job, I don’t remember.). Then I’ll get (another?) job. What if…what if…what if…

Eventually, it came to something like, what if you get into trouble and you can’t get out? or something like that. And I remember how I ended that conversation: Well, then, Mom, I guess I’ll die. That’s basically what happens to everyone, right? Isn’t that the life cycle? Live until something goes so wrong that you can’t cope with it, and then you die. She wasn’t happy with that answer, but she finally let it go. “Well, don’t come running back to ME.” So far, I haven’t. That was in 1991.

From then, I had to get a passport and get a plane ticket together. I don’t remember exactly what the deal was with getting a return flight because I didn’t have immigration status, but I had to do something. I think I just got an open-ended return ticket or something like that. I had Craig’s contact information, in case I needed to prove that I had a place to stay. In the end, I didn’t need it. They stamped my visa (oh yeah, I had to get a tourist visa, too – in those days, travel agents dealt with visas and tickets, so I had that) and I was in.

TO BE CONTINUED…