Ana found a great Indian restaurant just a couple of blocks from our house on the edge of the University campus (another edge besides the one our house is on). Indian restaurants are more plentiful here than Mickey D's are there, but the food is so good.
So we picked some up for takeaway (Yeah, we speak Kiwi.), ordering from the only Indian guy in the place. Clearly he was the manager. I mean, by the way he composed himself and his dress a step above the white folk. So when the food was bagged and brought to the counter, the obviously Kiwi girl stepped up with it and started rolling off some jibberish, Maori or something. Neither one of us could make out a lick of what she said. "Doesn't sound like our order," I said.
The manager overheard and came over, took the receipt from her hand and read off the exact four things that we had ordered! Now how the heck does an English speaking Kiwi sound more foreign than an Indian?! Apparently when reading Indian terms...
I think the take home point is that Kiwi is not a good medium for translation into "Amerkin."
Now for the obligatory photos:
Just us boys getting some work done in the kitchen.
Ryan out in our little "front yard".
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