Southern Girl on the South Island: It's O-Week Y'all!

Ah O-Week: the official rite of passage for ALL college freshmen. A week of parties without having to worry about waking up for class the next morning. A week of meeting countless new people (whose names you can never remember when you see them in the daylight). A week where every college stereotype you’ve ever seen on TV or in movies is confirmed.

Or if you’re like me and have always had soccer preseason, the week where you have to wake up at the crack of dawn for practice and are back before your friends crawl out of bed. The week where you can hardly stay up past 9 o’clock. The week of serving as a chauffer to all your NARP (Non Athletic Real People) friends.

So you can imagine my excitement when my newly-NARP self got to experience an official O-Week without the threat of a fitness test or a 6:30 AM practice looming over my head. Expectations were high, especially since I had to pay ninety New Zealand dollars for the official O-Week parties. But these were not your typical Old House parties with beer pong and a sea of freshmen anxious for their first college social event.

RECAP:

TOGA PARTY

After a few casual hangouts in the common room and in various flats, I was ready for a school-wide party. Or at least I thought I was. A large group of us walked over to the party together, conveniently located across the street from our flat. After going through security that was stricter than New Zealand airport security, we headed for the dance floor. To my horror, the dance floor turned out to be a mosh pit. No swing dancing. No space to dance with anybody. Only a head-banging, sardine-packed mob. I had found my own personal Inferno. Reeling from having my dreams of dancing the night away dashed, I headed to the bathrooms with a friend. While waiting for her outside, some guys came up to me, and we proceeded to have the typical “what’s your name, where are you from, what’s your major, etc.” conversation. Everything was going great until we got to the “what year are you?” question. Oh dear. Since university is usually a 3-year program in New Zealand my American friends and I have had to decide how our status in 4-year American universities translated. We decided to go with calling ourselves third years. When I responded with this answer, the guys I was talking to paused and then asked how old I was: 21. I had hardly given my response when they started laughing; they were 18. Next thing I know, they’re calling me a “cougar” and asking me how I “stalk my prey”. Game. Over. Time to go home.

PAINT PARTY

With the toga party being such a bust, the pressure was on for the paint party to be a good time. It didn’t disappoint. The fact that I got to wear Nike shorts and a huge t-shirt helped. This time I had my Kiwi flat mate Mary to guide me through the basics of moshing. The most important thing is to keep moving no matter what. You’ve got to keep with the flow of the mob. After losing a few toenails and catching a few elbows Mary and I made it to the front and enjoyed some casual head banging. And then the paint came. Members of ENSOC (Engineering Society/arguably the best party throwers at UC) shot red and blue paint from the top of a van out into the crowd. A few of us also engaged in guerrilla warfare in a tent next to the bus where we found large bottles of paint. I managed to hold onto my jandals, both my IDs, my contact lenses, and, unlike the toga party, my pride. Great Success.

SummerStein

This all-day music fest was the most casual of the three parties, featuring Kiwi bands, beer, and sunshine. There was more room to dance in front of the stage so of course I was a fan. My favorite act was The Babysitters Circus, a group of white rappers/singers in velour tracksuits. The best way for me to describe them is that they were a cross between Eminem, Weird Al Yankovic, and Michael Franti. Six60 was the headlining band for the day, but I was so hungry I wanted to leave before. Every Kiwi looked at me as if I had just committed the worst of all blasphemes. So I stayed…for one song. And then I went back to the flat and roasted some vegetables for supper. No regrets.

To cap off O-Week my American friends and I decided to treat our Kiwi and Canadian friends (but mostly ourselves) to an American Food Night. Abby made her “famous” chili with her secret ingredient: peanut butter. Danica made mac n’ cheese. Kate made REAL biscuits. And of course I made dessert: Paula Deen’s banana pudding. Minds were blown, stomachs were stuffed, and America’s spot as the fattest country in the world was secured.