Storytime

Given the price of reading material, it’s a wonder that the Kiwis are a literate people. A paperback book costs at least $30 (about 24 US dollars). Hardcover, forget it. People magazine (not that I read such drivel; I prefer The Economist) is over $20. Fashion magazines are closer to $30. Even the Australian and local NZ magazines are over $10. To add insult to injury, there is a 10 cent charge for a plastic bag at the bookstore.

This naturally leads me to the Wellington library. It is a very nice place, but there are some odd rules. First of all, it is not exactly free. There are fees to access the internet, to borrow bestseller books, magazines, all CDs, all DVDs, and books on tape. The charge for interlibrary loan is $14. Basically, the books that no one wants to read are free. The application process for a library card is quite involved. There is a thick welcome packet, and I have to provide the name and address of a reference who does not live with me. Excuse me?? I want to read “He’s Just Not That Into You,” not apply for a mortgage. Plus, my NZ friendships are not ready for this level of intimacy. This is a good motivator for the prompt return of books. I’d be embarrassed if my acquaintances became responsible for my library fines.

I borrow "Angela's Ashes," which I’ve been meaning to read for approximately the last decade. Wow, perfect timing. Frank McCourt's description of his childhood in 1930s Ireland sounds eerily similar to my current living conditions in Wellington.

• "Above all - we were wet... Out in the Atlantic Ocean great sheets of rain gathered to drift slowly up the River Shannon and settle down forever in Limerick. The rain dampened the city from the Feast of Circumcision to New Year's Eve. It created a cacophony of hacking coughs, bronchial rattles, asthmatic wheezes, consumptive croaks. It turned noses into fountains, lungs into bacterial sponges... From October to April the walls of Limerick glistened with the damp. Clothes never dried: tweed and woolen coats housed living things, sometimes sprouted mysterious vegetations. In pubs, steam rose from damp bodies and garments to be inhaled with cigarette and pipe smoke laced with the stale fumes of spilled stout and whiskey and tinged with the odor of piss wafting from the outdoor jakes where many a man puked up his wages."