I have fallen in love with hills. Great, big, startlingly green hills that undulate like slow earthen waves as I drive past them. Some peppered with snowy white sheep and dairy cows, others blanketed in tufts of impenetrable forest. New Zealand is not your postcard "tropical sunset over some generic beach" type of gorgeous; it is something entirely different - something cozy and comfortable, like warm cocoa on a chilly day or a favorite book on a quiet afternoon.

Last week, two friends and I travelled through the North Island, beginning in Wellington at the Southernmost tip and going to the Bay of Islands at the very top before heading back down to Auckland for our departure flight.

I still find it difficult to describe what the experience was like and find myself spitting out repetitions of "beautiful, beautiful, beautiful" rather than actually describing anything. I think the sights and sounds are still too close to me.

I'm just putting that out there. The 'study' portion of 'study abroad' is not at all exciting nor desired. Beautiful Sydney with its oceanic waves of traffic and the squawks of stark-white cockatoos outside my window. And I'm cooped up in here, in self-imposed exile to get these papers done.

With a sigh... Back to work.

How much of a beating have I put them through? In the past year they've sloshed through snow, rain, and mud. And then this weekend I took them climbing up craggy paths of sun-baked dirt and nimbly down a cliff face. They plunged into a freezing river and navigated around slippery, mossy stones and the submerged logs that lurk in the gurgling water to bruise unsuspecting shins. Then finally... they groped their way down a roaring waterfall in Empress canyon and dove into the foamy pool below. Falling apart, but yet to fall apart. And thank goodness for that.

My Literature class took a trip to the Blue Mountains this weekend, and spent all of Sunday canyoning and abseiling. Basically, all of us had a bit of rope wrapped around us and decided that it would be a perfectly marvelous idea to scuttle down the side of a cliff with only this to keep us from falling victim to gravity. And a marvelous idea it was. But that wasn't good enough. We decided to scuttle down the side of a 30 meter (about 98 feet) waterfall as well.

Leaping off the edge of a waterfall on a length of rope and then navigating backwards to the foaming pool at the bottom (all the while getting pelted with water) is strangely exhilarating. I was so exhausted by the time I plunked into the river, the instructors dragged me in like the catch of the day. All the while, one of them--tall, blue-eyed Charles--laughed and laughed until I laughed too. Imagine that.

Back at the headquarters, I stood absent-mindedly at the doorway holding a can of lemonade. Everyone else in my class milled around, chatting excitedly until all their voices melded into indiscernable humming. I plopped down onto a plastic lawn chair and felt the cold of my damp clothes on my back. I listened to the humming rise and fall.

Minutes passed, and finally our group leader wrangled us up to leave for the hotel. I lethargically stood up and saw tall, blue-eyed Charles observing the scene too. Was he also listening to the humming rise and fall? I hefted my overnight bag onto my shoulder. His gaze shifted to me and he nodded ever-so-slightly.

"Goodbye," he said.

"Bye. Thanks for not letting me die."

At this, he smiled, then laughed. "Never. I wouldn't let that happen," he said.

I bolted out of the door and melted into the group trooping out into the street, hoping fiercely that tall, blue-eyed Charles did not see me blush.

My leather satchel is flung haphazardly onto our pitiful excuse for a dining table, which is more like an oversized wooden stool. I keep eyeing the satchel, daring myself to leave it there overnight with its contents spilling out of the gaping top like it got sick and puked notebooks. I thought that with a weekend to myself, I could let loose and be as slovenly as I'd like. Leave the dishes in the sink. Fling my books and towel over the chairs. Pull the armchair into the middle of the floor so I can prop my feet up and leave it there. But I found myself putting the armchair back, neatly draping my towel over the banister all proper-like, and elbows-deep in lemony soap and lukewarm dishwater.

Everything in my little loft upstairs is neatly organized. Even the little odds and ends on my desk are perfectly spaced apart, neatly stacked, and parallel to the edge of the tabletop.

Downstairs is my roommate's dominion. The contents of her suitcases are scattered across her bed, the couch, our two dressers, the desk, and the bathroom. The orientation papers that we got three weeks ago are still sitting beside the television. Half-drained water bottles peep out from underneath her mound of gym clothes and towels heaped on the couch. Overstuffed drawers bulge open.

"I wish I could be neat," she said to me once after a search for scissors led her up the narrow spiral staircase to my loft.

I only nodded and laughed, not confessing that part of me wishes I could be messy. Guiltlessly messy. There is something free and organic about the way a bag is flung off by the front door and left there because that is what she feels at the moment. How a towel is left crumpled up on the bed despite it looking unseemly simply because it is convenient.

Maybe I am just tired of always trying to have things just so, of the 'saucepan goes on the left on top of the frying pan, bowls in the middle on top of the plates, cups and mugs on the right' self-imposed rules. But I can't help it.

Then again, if it weren't for me, this whole apartment would be in the shits. So as absurdly ridiculous as I can be in my military-like efforts to tidy and straighten, I'd like to think that people like me are needed.

Week One of classes is already over. There isn't much to say about them-- they are exceedingly long (4 hours!) and my professors have heavy Australian accents. The reading load is somewhat ridiculous, but eh. I expected that much.

Next weekend my roommate and friends will be going off to Surf Camp. I plan to take that time alone to explore the city at my own pace. Go to the Rocks, which has an awesome street market on the weekends, go on a dolphin watching boat, and in general check out some other places in Sydney that only I seem to take interest in. It's good to have a weekend or two where I can do what I want instead of worrying about pleasing everyone, and it's also good to have a quiet weekend or two.

That being said, it's also nice to have weekends where you get ripping smashed with your mates.

How's Amy?
Confused.

Sydney looks like a mish-mash of every place I've ever been to. The area where I live reminds me of Hong Kong crossed with the huge green campus of Trinity College in San Antonio, Texas. Half an hour away towards the beaches, concrete buildings and billboards give way to red-roofed villas resting on massive hills that evoke a memory of grand Italian towns. The cliffsides and beaches remind me of Hawaii and the Virgin Islands, except bluer, clearer, and less infested with wooly, white-nosed tourists and more infested with wetsuit-clad surfers. Not a bad swap, I'd say.

I'm simultaneously at home and alienated. My biggest bout of "culture shock" was not in the Aussie accent, the wrong-side driving, or the no tipping policy, but rather in my first visit to an Australian Target. While perusing the aisles, I noticed a strange trend of Target being insanely overpriced. Since when did a shirt from Target cost $39.99? That's when I knew I wasn't in the States anymore. Welcome to Australia!

I will be getting on the first of 4 flights that will carry my restless little body to Australia in about 15 hours. The longest flight [epic ocean crossing from the City of Angels to New Zealand] will be about a day long. I've equipped myself for the journey with Kurt Vonnegut, Jack Kerouac, a music player full of tunes, and a fistful of tranquilizers.

I should sleep now.