Welcome Home to That Small-Town Vibe, New Zealand Style.

We are small-town people. My husband and I grew up in a town of 2,500. Despite proximity to a larger city with restaurants, malls, and the Chicago Cubs farm team, our hometown felt eons away from all the hustle and bustle. There was (and still is) a grain elevator in sore need of a paint job, a quaint town “triangle” (I guess we didn’t qualify for a whole “square.”), and everyone knew everyone else. It was familiar, a bit shabby, and not-quite-with-it…like a favorite pair of old sweatpants. So we were more than pleased when we relocated, and got a hearty welcome home to that small-town vibe, New Zealand style.

The west coast, a diamond in the rough.

Our current home in Aotearoa is the largest city on the west coast of the south island. Getting anywhere takes hours of driving up and down winding roads, sometimes through mountain passes. And if the direct route is closed…due to an accident, weather or construction…you’re stuck taking an even more circuitous route (six or seven additional hours) to get home.

It’s ok if you think that sounds claustrophobic. Plenty of people on our travels around New Zealand give us this…look…when we tell them we live. Barely a beat passes before they ask,

So…how do you like living there?

It’s not unlike the familiar prodromic look and reaction that mean Oh, there...that we’ve gotten when we tell people we are from/grew up in Iowa. Except Americans are more direct about how they feel about the flyover zone of the U.S.

To which I respond, fine, because I like small towns. Don’t get me wrong, though, I do love a big bustling city…I just don’t want to live in one. Small towns, for those of us who love them, feel like a well-kept secret.

Stepping into a simpler time and place.

Years ago, my husband was passing through a small town in the middle of rural Iowa. He stopped for gas, then took his cash payment to the counter inside the station. The quaint, slightly run-down shop appeared empty, until a voice from the back room called out:

Just leave your cash on the counter, thanks.

Even then, the request seemed overly trusting, yet it made sense in a tiny place with few visitors and everyone knowing everyone else. A place where directions were given as “Make a right at the Johnsons’ place…” Today, such a trusting request seems naive.

And almost as unbelievable as paying cash in person.

After a few weeks stay with us, a family member offered her impressions of New Zealand life. And she hit on the head the quality I myself struggled with putting into words:

(New Zealand) feels like America from 50 years ago.

She didn’t mean backward or primitive. Far from it. She elaborated and said it feels…small town.

We’re not in Iowa anymore…

Here’s my bank number

For one, there’s a trust here that seems long forgotten where we came from. And it’s, admittedly, a bit tough to grow accustomed to. I still can’t believe some of the practices that would in no way work back home. For example,

Here’s my bank account number, you can pay me when you get home.

You read that right. I’ve paid craft vendors, dog kennels and exercise trainers in this way. It’s common practice, to transfer funds from your personal account to someone else’s personal or business account. Simple fail-safes are in place to keep someone from draining your life savings (just don’t lose your bank card). But still. The idea of

Printing my bank number on a business card,

Handing it to a

Perfect stranger, and

trusting them to pay me at some later time seems ludicrous.

But that’s my curated American reaction. No one here blinks an eye at what I feel is a fast-and-loose transactional process.

But it’s safe to do here.

A to B, in five minutes (or less)

More times than I can count, I gear up for the red tape…only to find out there isn’t any. For example, our New Zealand taxes took us zero time to submit last year.

As in, zero.

As in, how much additional U.S. tax we hope to pay.

As in, the number of times Kiwis understood the time-consuming effort involved in filing with the IRS.

My husband and I honestly didn’t know what to do with that full day we normally set aside to do our stateside taxes, except we ended up using it to do our stateside taxes.

Another example of New Zealand efficiency comes from when I was in the hospital. One of my daughter’s teachers offered help and we accepted. My vision of signup sheets for meals and a flurry of phone calls for carpools (because that’s how I’m used to these things going down) dissolved literally in moments. She replied to my profuse thanks with,

Give me five minutes.

She wasn’t kidding. In no time at all she had organized meals from the school’s hospitality class (similar to home ec classes in U.S. schools) and rides to and from school with the attendance officer, because, of course, the weather was in monsoon mode that week.

Boom. Done.

It couldn’t be that easy, could it? But it was.

Again, streamlined.

Kiwis know how to get shit done, let me tell ‘ya.

An easy acceptance

Well, ok, a much easier acceptance. (We’ve lived in some places where it is very hard to break into the community.) Aside from a few teenagers (because, well, teenagers), one cranky store clerk, and a solitary American, we’ve had a pretty easy transition into our New Zealand community.

In fact, weeks after our arrival we were informed that we were now Kiwis, despite our weird U.S. fly-over zone accents, which were on full display from the moment we arrived. It’s tough to stay mum in New Zealand. People here have perfected the fine art of small talk, and you need to be ready to participate. You’d have to be made of stone to not respond, though. Almost everyone has an easy smile and a way of making you feel at home.

Because, as we were informed, we were home. And we’ve experienced that warm welcome over and over again.

People are friendly. There’s mutual trust, even with people who are clearly not from these parts. Life is straightforward, and simple. Community is a priority.

The west coast has that small-town vibe. And we adore it.