When you hear ‘moonshine’, what do you think of? Maybe a high-proof alcohol that’s comparable to gasoline, or bootleggers during Prohibition selling crystal-clear alcohol in Mason jars making those who drink it go blind. You’ve probably come to know it as white lightning, hooch and mountain dew. But at the end of the day, that bottle of whiskey you have on your shelf at home actually began as moonshine.
Boston. Growing up less than three hours away in Albany, it was a frequent destination for everything from historical field trips to wholesome vacations. Yet frankly, it was never my favourite. I always saw Boston as New York’s uptight older sister, a buttoned-up city where last call was at 12:30, the unofficial uniform was Ugg boots and a North Face jacket, where parking was a horror show and the subway nonsensically stopped running before the bars closed.
It’s been almost two years since I was living in Wellington, and almost the exact moment I fell in love with New Zealand birds. My roommate dragged me camping on Matiu/Somes Island for the night, and it was the first of many New Zealand firsts for me. It was the first time I saw the Southern Cross and the clearest Milky Way I’ve ever seen. I saw tuatara (native New Zealand reptiles or I’m fairly convinced, tiny dinosaurs), wetas (dinosaur bugs that can grow larger than your hand) and little blue penguins.
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Published in the March 2016 issue of National Geographic Traveller (UK)