For almost as long as I’ve been at 10c Moat Street, we’ve been trying to have a get-together with the residents of 10a and 10b, which effectively constitute the rest of Moat Street. Finally, on Tuesday, we were able to have our block party. Marco, the party planner, and Tom and Thorsten (pronounce it without the H) from 10b took the lead, renting a grill, buying meat, buns, toppings, condiments, and even hiring a keg. Realizing that it would likely take more than the population of Moat to finish all that off, we all invited a few friends for “the barbecue.” That’s right, contrary to popular belief, I don’t think I heard a single person call it a “barbie,” which I found slightly disappointing, but hey, not every stereotype can come true.

I must confess that after so many weeks of date-making and date-breaking, I really had no expectation that Tuesday would be any different. With assignment deadlines looming, I barricaded myself in my bedroom, determined to work through whatever small barbecue they had, maybe stealing down for a burger in a couple of hours.

I didn’t even get to shut the door before Simon, a Kiwi from Wellington, walked in and said, “Don’t be such a lamer, Jon.” I shooed him away, but not before the smell of delectable steaks, burgers, and sizzlers (same stuff as hot dogs, but as big and round as sausages) wafted in and forcibly removed me from my room. Already, our kitchen table was outside, piled high with assorted BBQ-related items, and a sizeable knot of people were gathered round, chatting animatedly.

My assignment now just a nagging memory, I joined in, and met several new people, including most of 10a Moat, whom I had never seen before. It was a little odd, meeting people who had been living twenty feet away from you for three months. As the sun set, people poured into Moat Street, and we had a full-fledged party on our hands.



[Caption for picture] We couldn’t get enough light from the flats to see the food on the grill as the sun set, so in a moment of brilliance, someone suggested Christa’s head light, so Marco and Dan took turns strapping it on and being Grill Master.




[Caption for picture] Could any non-vegetarian refuse the smell of all this? Not likely.


Christa, in a rare night at home, prepared large cubes of feta cheese, topped with tomatoes, onions, and garlic pepper. She then wrapped each chunk in foil, and tossed them on the grill, much to the consternation of every non-European in attendance (around twenty-five or so by that time). She patiently explained that a barbecue just wasn’t a barbecue without melted, foil-wrapped cheese. Apparently, there’s not a name for this culinary concoction, but in the end, I and a few other brave souls tried it, and I am happy to report that they are delicious, though I felt obligated to put the whole thing on bread first.

Afternoon gave way to evening, and finally night. The party had grown immensely, and around 10 pm, showed no sign of slowing. Someone in 10b put on some music, and then things got crazy. Marco decided to join the 10c Moat Street No-Hair Club, and whether it was him talking or perhaps the beer in him, everyone decided it was a fantastic idea.




[Caption for picture] Dan is trying his hardest to look like a hardcore partier, but he just looks silly. Meanwhile, Marco is having his hair cut by Tom, our neighbor.

Ultimately, Marco ended up with a double mohawk, which he sported around before having the rest of it cut later in the evening. The party continued to rage into the odd hours of the night, and we were visited by foreigners, Kiwis, collegiate politicians, you name it, they were there and doing their thing. Eventually, I re-retired to my room, cursing myself for being fallible to the scent of cooking, but not before taking one last picture.



Rest in peace, Hal. You were a good basil plant. I’m sorry I overwatered you.