The city that always sleeps.

As the train pulled into the station at Greymouth, to my left was a Wal-Mart-sized Warehouse and Fresh Choice, two giants in the New Zealand circle of chain stores, and to my right a main street lined with buildings sporting Wild West-style facades.

But the sun was shining and that was all that mattered. I couldn’t care less that I was about to spend a Saturday night in a town just shy of 10,000 people. I had a mild panic Friday night as it occurred to me that maybe the train station wasn’t within walking distance of the town or my hostel. Those thoughts proved useless as I walked the 500 meters down Mackay Street and easily spotted my accommodation for the night, the Duke Backpackers, blending in in subtle shades of purple and neon green and orange trim. There was no one at reception, so I obediently rang the bell. A girl my age came downstairs and made a phone call, to the owners I presumed – Dory and Shoshy, Israeli transplants.

“Hi…Someone’s here…No, just one, a lady…uh, Candace?” she asked, looking up at me. Nothing like being on first-name basis with the owners to make you feel at home. Dory arrived shortly and with him an American guy. His name was Dan and he was wearing khaki cargo pants, a polar fleece, hiking boots, an oversized backpack, and a beard…all signs of a tried-and-true backpacker.

Soon after two more people walked through the door, two French students named Eva and Benoit. Dan was showed to his single room, then Dory took me and the others to the four-bed dorm we’d be sharing. We did the usual introductions, put our few belongings on our respective beds, and then they asked if I’d like to join them as they took a walk around town. Going solo on the trip, I’d planned a few things based on what Greymouth seemed to offer in the form of entertainment: a visit to Shantytown, a site dedicated to the West Coast Gold Rush of the 1860s; a tour of Monteith’s Brewery. But I welcome any chance to throw aside pre-made plans in the name of spontaneity. Dory had suggested a few hikes around town, so after inviting Dan along, the four of us set off for the King Domain Walk, an hour and a half hike that starts right near the rail station. But it’s not long before you forget the freeway behind you and find your heart racing from the unexpected incline of the trail and the vines and roots you’re forced to fight. I teach Eva the word “slippery” as we trek along the muddy paths.

The hike up, I walk mostly with Eva, learning that she and Benoit are from different parts of France – Nice and Brittany, respectively – but attend the same university and are in Christchurch to study food science for five months. Eva and I share a love for London and click instantly. She asks me which I like better, “Europe or New Zealand?” and we lament  how quiet and small New Zealand often seems. The walk down, I get to know Dan, a rising college senior from Illinois on summer break. For five weeks, he’ll be the hut warden at Westland National Park, a 12km hike from any form of basic civilization, getting his drinking water from a river.

As we leave the trail, Dory and Shoshy and their three kids drive up, the middle child holding a roll of toilet paper. They know how to come prepared. Dory offered to take a group shot. Considering we’d only just met each other, it’s a fairly awkward shot, all of us standing to ourselves. But we’re bonding slowly, over how out of shape we all are and how small the town is. We walk to the beach, taking all of thirty seconds to pass through the center of town, and arrive at the shore of the Tasman Sea. The beach is all smooth grey rocks, no sand, and makes for tricky walking. Eva and I skip rocks with Benoit, who can get up to four skips, while Dan texts a picture of the ocean home. The sun begins to set and I am taken over by the familiar emotion of disbelief and thoughts like “Am I really here?” while in foreign places of intense beauty.

As we pick up our bags to leave the beach, there were two guys gathering driftwood into plastic shopping bags. One remarked to us that it would be a cool group shot to take a picture of us silhouetted against the sky and the recently-set sun. He handed me back my camera after taking the picture and of course we got to talking about where we were from, what we were doing (in New Zealand and in Greymouth – two importantly distinct questions) – the usual conversation. One invites us to a reggae band’s show in Hokitika, about half an hour away. The other says, “It’s just about the only thing happening in this area tonight.”

We returned to our hostel for the free hot soup promised to be served at seven that night, which gave us a chance to get to know the four other people staying in the hostel. Conversation centered around employment, or the lack thereof. A Malaysian girl complained of sore muscles as a result of fruit picking. An Italian guy bemoaned the lack of job opportunities in Greymouth. On our way out, we ask for suggestions for dinner. The same Italian tells us everything is closed – “We could drink upstairs, but we’d have to get some booze first.”

Once outside, I start to cross the empty street when Benoit throws both his arms out, holding us all back. “Watch out! Look both ways first!” And that was the key – making our own fun. We could have been miserable, but with a sense of humor and an open mind we didn’t have such a bad time. It was like being let loose on a movie set after they’ve finished filming for the day. Everything’s there – buildings, street signs, parked cars – but the people. We were delighted to find the Bonzai Pizzeria open and bustling with a surprising amount of business. We dine on Monteith’s brews and pizza, an unimaginably perfect meal after the day’s travels and hike. Eva and Benoit remarked that they hardly ever eat dinner before 9pm in France and as it was just hitting that time as we left the restaurant, we decided we had to go somewhere else.

But where? We passed closed sign after closed sign, asking, “But this is Saturday night, right?” Benoit is determined, holding his pinkie finger in the air like some homing device, in a desperate attempt to find a bar/pub/any other open establishment. We see a neon sign a few blocks down, usually a good indicator, but are greeted with “Ellerly’s Home Appliance Centre” upon closer inspection. Just then Benoit goes out onto the street, looks up, and kisses his finger. Right above the refrigerators was Franks Café and Bar – oh thank heaven. A chalkboard sign on the sidewalk says, “We are open til late.” Upstairs, again, more business than you’d expect. A large birthday party takes up much of the place. Dan and Benoit order more drinks, but Eva and I opt for desserts and I choose a slice of feijoa cake and vanilla ice cream, which is warm and delicious.

Our Sunday morning in Greymouth passed uneventfully – an unsuccessful trip to the History House Museum where we discovered it’s only open on weekdays, a walk through the affluence that is Cobden, and a final hike to another picturesque lookout. The highlight was, hands down, my mocha and steak-and-cheese pie for lunch at the Wild Branch Café. We said goodbye to Dan who wouldn’t be heading back to Christchurch with us, and boarded the train.

As I settled into my seat, I was completely content with all that the weekend had held.

Unexpected friendships, great food, even better weather and a beautiful natural environment – anymore people around and it probably would have spoiled it.