Some of the different ways of doing things are expected, such as the Kiwi penchant for driving on the left side of the road. I have been trying, without success, to get them to change over to the right side by the simple expedient of driving on the right whenever possible. (It's obvious that they're doing things wrong, because if the left side were the right side, we wouldn't call it the left side, we'd call it the right side, right? It's obviously right that we should drive on the right or the English language wouldn't use “right” to mean right. You don't hear people going around saying things like “You got 23 answers left on that test” or “Left on!” or even “Lefty tighty righty loosey,” which doesn't even rhyme. Really, would we have ever invented rhyming English if “left” meant right? No, of course not.)
Anyway, everybody knows about that whole driving-on-the-wrong-side thing, the goofy spellings, and the incomprehensible accents (“Oil tyke the Oll Blecks at sivin tyo one” apparently means something here, though I haven't quite figured out what). It turns out that it's the little things that really get you.
For example, every single wall outlet in the entire country has a cute little switch on it. When you plug something in, you're supposed to turn the switch on (did I mention that down is on?) and then switch it off when you unplug. Apparently nobody ever figured out that unplugging something disconnects the electricity, so there's no need to turn it off separately. So the New Zealanders spend their lives going around, flipping these little switches that have absolutely no effect whatsoever. I guess it makes them feel safe or something. But try plugging in your run-down laptop to charge it up, only to come back an hour later to find it dead because you left the switch on last night and some helpful soul turned off the danged switch FOR YOU and you didn't notice. I guess they think the electricity is going leak out on the ground if they don't turn it off.
Speaking of electrical things, light bulbs are fun too. There's not just one size, there's regular, mini, extra-mini, and probably super-duper-ultra-teeny-mini (also known as “invisible”). When a bulb burns out, you have to take it to the store and then spend 45 minutes finding the section for the proper size before you can even think about wattage. Then you take it home and find out that you still can't change the bulb because the socket is bayonet style (what the heck is that?) instead of a simple screw. So you go back, get a nice efficient compact fluorescent (have I mentioned the electricity prices?) with the right size, mount, and wattage, only to discover that it still won't go in the stupid fixture because the socket is old and the bulb isn't quite long enough. So, in the dark, you fall off the chair you're using for a ladder and sprain your ankle. But that's OK, because New Zealanders are super-friendly, so you can be sure you'll have somebody to chat with in the ER.
And then there are the spoons. You wouldn't think that something as simple as a spoon could possibly give cultural problems, right?
Wrong.
New Zealand offers spoons in two sizes: too small, and too large. A teaspoon here is just slightly bigger than a swizzle stick. Apparently its purpose is to stir things, not to put sugar in your tea or (heaven forbid) lift cereal to your mouth to eat it. But the only other size in our house is something that can be best described as a serving spoon. For all of New York City. The only way to eat with this spoon is to climb on the edge and dip your face in.
Fine, so we went shopping today and bought some new spoons. The package was labeled “dessert spoons,” so we were sure we had purchased a sensible size. Only when we got home, we discovered that we could pour an entire bottle of beer into one spoon without spilling. That's OK, though, because the next time I get pulled over I can truthfully tell the officer that I only had seven spoonfuls.
Only he won't understand me because I didn't say “sivin.”
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