God's Country

I decided to leave Christchurch for the west coast of South Island via Arthur's Pass. The guidebook had spoke of its beauty and, having enjoyed my brief hike into Lyttelton, I wanted a little more higher up in the mountains.

I hadn't counted on snow.

Snowfall started when I was about 22km outside of Springfield, a small town on the route where I had planned on stopping for coffee and the restroom. There was a sign on my approach though: Arthur's Pass was closed to all vehicles that didn't have chains on the tires. No way! But, true enough, the snow increased until the surrounding land was covered in a thick blanket.

By the time I arrived in Springfield, I was almost certain that it would be my home for the evening. Unbelievably, I could see children making a snowman in the open ground near the fuel station. I pulled over.

I decided to use my cell phone to call Mountain House, an accommodation in Arthur's Pass Village. Jan, the co-proprietor, confirmed the worst. Yes, there was thick snow in Arthur's Pass and, no, there was no getting in there until the snow let up. In fact, cars without chains were being turned back on the road.

Sigh.

The Cottage Cafe in Springfield was a godsend. There was a wood stove in the corner, comfy seating, plenty of food offerings and not a care in the world if I stayed 10 minutes or 10 hours. I stayed for 4, reading my book (back to The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle) and nibbled on scones with cream. The cafe owner would question every person entering. Which way did you come from? If from the Pass, she asked about if they had chains and what the conditions were like. There were some who thought they would drive through who had indeed been turned back. We all sat down -- locals, travelers, kids and adults -- for a long number of hours.

The snowfall gradually lessened around 3 in the afternoon. I gathered up my things, did a quick run to the toilet, paid my bill and headed off.

Let me summarize the rest of that day like this: Arthur's Pass will make a believer out of any atheist.

This part of the Southern Alps is magnificent, glorious, jaw-dropping, awe-inspiring, breath-taking...you name it. The road winds its way through simply spectacular landscape, and the snowfall had made it that much more incredible.




I pulled over many times to take pictures. I also laughed my head off. (I don't know if that's ever happened to any of you, but sometimes the emotion simply overwhelms me to such a degree that I simply have to make noise.)

I hope that my photos can capture some of what I experienced, but I believe only Ansel Adams could do the place justice.

But wait, there's more.

The Mountain House backpackers and cottages were outstanding. Jan was a wonderful, laughing-eyes type with a quick smile and not a worried thought in her head. She is a relocated Canadian who has been in New Zealand for more than 15 years. I can't say enough pleasant about our brief time together.

And the cottage? Cold! but incredibly charming with those same spectacular views. It had shared toilet and shower facilities, a well-equipped kitchen, and -- oh yeah -- a fireplace.

My cabin mates were great people. Aussies Debbie and her daughter, Lauren, were on their first international excursion. Lauren had actually won their roundtrip airfare through a contest at her retail job. Of all the people she could have taken, she chose her mom. (Insert the appropriate "ahhhh" here.) Debbie plays a mean game of Scrabble, beating the two of us handily by about 30 points.

Our other cabinmates included a fellow American, Mary-Anne. She's a nutritionist and former Blue Ridge, Virginia organic farmer. (Vicki, she knew Thornton Gap!) She was great to chat with. Although absent from the States since May, she was up-to-date on all the election craziness and did her fair share of ranting about W without a prompt from me (hey, I'm on vacation). In the U.S., she lives on an island off the coast of Maine. She's fighting to get her absentee ballot sent, which is more about small-town ineptitude than grand schemes to keep Our Dear Idiot in the White House. She took me on a short walk up to some lovely waterfalls near the visitors center. She also took me to the local chapel - also near the visitors' center and stunning in its simple, inviting beauty. You can see the waterfalls just beyond the sanctuary window.



I stayed just last night and this morning in Mountain House. I struggled with the decision for almost two hours, but Jan told me that the forecast was calling for rain this evening and the chance for more snow by tomorrow morning. If I wanted to avoid being snowed in at Arthur's Pass, I had to go.

I am in Greymouth now at a place that Mary-Anne had stayed at called Global Village. The ambiance is exactly as she described it: warm, with world music in the common areas and art from all over the world decorating the walls. I have taken a moment to post this email but, shortly, I will borrow one of the free bikes and peddle my way into the town center. I am also thinking of taking in the local brewery tour.

Life is good.

How *not* to hike

I have been watching the car patterns for days, anticipating turns and checking driver responses to posted signs. I wanted to be familiar with driving on the left before I actually got behind the wheel.

It wasn't until I actually had the EZ Rental car keys in hand that I realized that I was terrified. There's some foundation for this. When I was talking with Steve, the non-pierced family man of my LAX to AKL flight, he recounted a horrible story. His New Zealand brother-in-law had crested a hill in his big truck when he crashed head on into an American family that was driving on the wrong side of the road. All of them died. He continued that lots of Americans die behind the wheel in New Zealand.

I'd thank Steve for creating deep and lasting paranoia, but he probably did me a favor by forcing me to pay attention. I sit very upright. I grip the wheel tighter.

I wasn't sure where I was headed, but a snippet in the Footprints guidebook about a harbor town called Lyttelton caught my attention. It wasn't too far from Christchurch, so why not.

I was more aware of my driving for most of the trek than the surrounding countryside, but a sign about a "gondola" in Heathcote diverted me from my destination. Good thing. As the promotional material states, the Christchurch Gondola, is located on the crater rim of an extinct volcano at a 15 minute ride from Christchurch. Visitors take a gondola (or "sky tram" in Americaneze) to the top to enjoy a 360 degree panorama. There are views out to the bay and ocean on the one hand and the Southern Alps in another.



The woman behind the gondola counter asked, "One way?"

As it turns out, visitors can buy either a roundtrip ride to the cafe and visitors center at the top or ride to the top and, well, hike the hour down. Hike back to the starting point or hike into Lyttelton and take the bus back from there to your car.

How could I resist? The day was fantastic. No clouds in sight (or so I thought then), sunshine and a light breeze. I had my backpack with me, stuffed with guidebooks, Speaker for the Dead, cell phone and the works (or so I thought then). A hike?

"One way, please."

I rode up to the top with a man about my age and his two, very enthusiastic, young sons. Between my crazed snap-taking, he and I chatted about the area. He was raised in Dunedin, further south, but lives in Christchurch. It seems that the Christchurch region has seen explosive development in the last 5 years. Did he say 70,000 new residents? I think so. It has its downsides, he said, but, overall, "I feel lucky to raise a family here."

I spent a little time in the ubiquitous gift shop, and more time drifting in the exhibit room downstairs. They had a great display on the Maori folktale of the creation of the Southern Alps-- with fiery gods and mountain ranges that were formerly men. And a high-end video on the formation of the crater region was fantastic. There was also a positively creepy setup of the hull of a ship, with wax figurines "talking" to each other about the harsh conditions for European travelers to the region. Thank god it was just voice over and not their mouths moving; I expected one of the figures to grab for me at any moment and to drag me, screaming, into the display like some bad rip-off of the Twilight Zone.

My overactive imagination didn't help me on the hike either.

First, let me say that there was nothing about the hike itself that was difficult. Sara, you, me and Lynne would have enjoyed this trek without a worry! Still, I was alone on the trek, without another person in sight until the very end. So, in the "how not to hike" framework, I'd like to share a sampling of my thoughts on the way down.

(1.) "What if I get eaten by a mountain lion?" (2.) "Does my cell phone work?" followed by rustling in my bag and then trying to call mom. It didn't work. (3.) "If I encounter a pack of wild dogs, should I get down on my knees like that guy did in The Truth About Cats and Dogs? Would they eat my Oreos if I offered them?" (4.) "What if I break my leg?" followed by thoughts of that movie, Into Thin Air, and me imagining myself crawling down the rest of the mountain to help. (5.) "Tammi, did you bring any water?"

Mind you, there were lovely sights all around me: the mountainside was covered by low flowering plants and scrubs rather than towering trees, so I had gorgeous, open views all the way down.



Still, I was actually talking ALOUD to myself when, near the bottom, a man emerged around the bend with a baby strapped to his back.

I laughed, "I thought I was alone here." Having no doubt heard talking before he saw me, I am sure he thought I was a loony. He paused before saying, "Another busy day in Lyttelton" and passing on.

There are never busy days in Lyttelton, I learned. The hike ends right in the backyard of a town resident. It's another 20 minute steep walk down the road into the town center.

"Town center" is more about location than offerings. Lyttelton is a charming, quiet working-harbor kind of town.



I bought a bottle of water at the local liquor store (mmm, the clerk was yummy) and then wandered down the street in search of something sweet. I had just told the owner at Satchmo's (yes, Satchmo's!) Cafe that I wasn't sure what I wanted, when it started to pour outside. So much for my cloud-free day.

I heartily recommend Satchmo's chocolate mud cake. It's served warm in a pool of chocolate liqueur with ice cream and whipped cream on the side. Exxxxxxcellent. And with the jazz playing in the background -- Satchmo et al -- it made sitting in from the rain in Lyttelton the best thing on earth.

I have just a few moments before I am out of internet time and must be on my way. I am leaving Christchurch today for a drive out to the west coast via Arthurs Pass. Into the mountains! But before I go, I want to share a little humor about my dinner at Lone Star. Yep, Texas-style eating in New Zealand. Well, not exactly. Menu items included the "Baked Redneck Ribs" with hoisin, orange and sesame seed sauce and the "Dixie Chicken" filets in a wine, garlic and spring onion sauce. My waiter could not figure out why I was laughing!

My steak dinner there was SUPERB, Julian, so put it on your list.

Christchurch

My plan to go to Rotorua was an "if" one. As in, "if I got a cheap car" or "if the bus schedule were favorable I could be soaking in a thermal pool by the afternoon." On a Sunday departure from Auckland, neither was actually a great option for price or timing. So when Frazer at the Aspen House suggested that I jump south and drive north, well, I jumped south.

Frazer quickly booked me a flight, a car and a shuttle to the airport and I was on my way to Christchurch on the South Island. I was so engrossed in Speaker for the Dead (thanks, Julian) that there were no fond last looks at Auckland from the shuttle bus nor disappointment that my Qantas aisle seat kept me from a aerial view of the South Island landscape. There may be time for both at some later point. (Needless to say, I recommend the book.)

The flight to Christchurch was short, and soon I was in another shuttle winding my way through the sunny day toward Stonehurst Accommodation, a highly reviewed backpackers hostel. The praise is well deserved. Although located on a stretch that looks fairly suburban, it is just blocks from central Cathedral Square. My very small room is nevertheless charming, and the layout of the entire place makes it easy to get to a large kitchen, laundry, rec room and pool. I kept my oohing over the Stonehurst to a minimum and strapped on my bag for a walk to the Botanical Gardens.

Christchurch quickly proved to be a much more pedestrian friendly city than Auckland. And cleaner. It actually has the look and sentiment of a quiet European town, with an architectural mix of "swiss chalet," "roman cathedral," and "city tower." This is, I think, Canterbury township, with all of its English references.

As it was Sunday, the streets were extremely quiet. The few people I passed on the way seemed to be fellow travelers, backpack-laden and guidebooks in hand. With the exception of the souvenir sellers, most shops and restaurants were closed. I noted an open Korean restaurant, told my rumbling belly that I'd stop on the way back from the gardens, and pressed on.

Although my hunger kept my visit to little over an hour, I did enjoy my stroll through the gardens. The sunny day had really encouraged the local and visiting community to take a stroll, so the paths -- while not crowded -- were rarely absent of others. Spring is just arriving in Christchurch, so while there were some beautiful offerings from the early bloomers, I could only guess at the awe-inspiring display to come later. Still, it was great to see the kids dashing about, the man asleep in a quiet patch of sun, the lovers walking hand-in-hand, and the many small and large groups posing for just the right photo memory. I even saw a small gondola go by along the snaking Avon River.



I didn't exactly run for the Korean restaurant when I left the gardens at 5, but I certainly didn't stroll either. Mmmmm, bi bim bahp. The restaurant that I had chosen turned out to be tasty, with large dishes at very cheap prices. It's 5:30 a.m. now, and if I thought they were open at this hour, I wouldn't be sitting in front of this terminal.

I roamed a bit more after dinner, not ready to return to the Stonehurst. I stopped a local woman on a bicycle and asked her where the local cinema was. She pointed it out and then pressed me with questions: where are you from, how long are you here, etc. Although a fellow cyclist and helpful with the information, she wasn't exactly "warm." I was relieved when the light changed again and she hastened on her way.

I was just in time for a showing of The Village, by the same guy who did The Sixth Sense and Unbreakable. Julian, was it you who told me the ending? In any case, I can say that knowing what was real and what was not did not take away from the creepy nature of the movie. I thought it was pretty good, certainly a fine way to spend a few hours on a quiet Christchurch evening. Certainly better than the laundry that kept me up until 11.

In just a few hours, the car rental company will pick me up, process me and send me on my way. I don't know where I am headed, but I expect to figure it out when I get there.

Leaving Auckland

It turns out that gathering up my will to leave this city is harder than I had expected. There is a certain comfort in being on foot, in knowing Janene is close by to chat with, and in running into people that I have already met.

But I didn't come here to stay put.

So, by car or bus, I am leaving Auckland this afternoon. I am back at the Base internet lounge now "researching" the car options. Just two really, both with good rates by U.S. standards.

After a long drive with Janene in the countryside, I am looking forward to doing the same on my own out to Rotorua, near the eastern coast. (Neil and Joan, you should be pleased!) The Rotorua hot springs are supposedly superb, and I am sooooo looking forward to a dip after the chill of last night. I am going to try to book a room at the Kiwi Paka , but (1) this is a student vacation week and (2) Rotorua is a popular tourist destination.

Wish me luck.

The sea, the sea

I wasn't sure what I wanted to do yesterday. Another museum? Another neighborhood? I did know that I was hungry after yesterday's long post, so I headed out with the intent of returning to Cima for more eggs and, er, bacon.

It was grey and breezy. Ah, another beautiful day in Auckland, I thought. The sidewalks were crowded, but I was plugged into 80s music on my iPod. A Birkenstock shoe store caught my eye, and I was just turning in when someone called my name. Impossible, I thought, but I heard it again, louder this time.

It was Mickey. She was very obviously hungover from the previous night's festivities. Scott the Brit (not to be confused with John the Scot) was upstairs in the internet area of the Korean owned kebob cafe (go figure) and why don't I join them.

So I did. Mickey filled me in on the stuff that happened after my midnight departure. It sounded a lot like my own birthday drink fest, with, er, urgent bathroom visits and the like. Scott took some glee in showing me a photo that he had taken of me and John the Scot speaking. He hadn't realized when he took the photo what we were talking about... Mickey told me that I had reached icon status. LOL. Here I was just trying to have a good time...

I parted with them with nary a clue about what I should do. Scott had suggested that I head down to the Viaduct, where the America's Cup boats were. I was drifting in that general direction, when the Britomart travel center caught my eye. I had been thinking about getting across the water to Devonport, which the travel guide had described as being a village in look and sentiment.

The Britomart is all steel-glass modern. I learned later that it cost quite a pretty penny to build, so much so that they had to skip on the trains that they were planning on purchase for 1950s throw-backs instead. Someone lost their job over that one. But I was in the wrong place for travel to Devonport anyway. Head to the ferry, said the information attendant graciously. I wasn't the first clueless tourist to show up at his window.

I bought my ticket at the very scaled down ferry office and made a mad dash for the departing boat. I spent some of the quick minutes across to Devonport writing out some postcards. More on that later.

Devonport is as charming and village-like as the guide stated. It reminded me so much of Friday Harbor in the San Juan Islands area of Seattle, Washington. Yes, in that memory, I thought of Ned and our time there. Sigh.

I wandered in and out of the shops there. Julian, I think you will like the Strawpeople cd that I bought there. (Hear clips from that album here.) They are a NZ electronica/dance band. Nice sound. Jeff#2, I saw something at the antique shop that you might be interested in: an HMV portable gramophone. Masters Voice, if that rings a bell. Was that the kind of machine you were talking to me about the other day?

Mt. Victoria is near the end of the main walk in Devonport, with a paved road taking visitors to its summit. The view at the top is unbelievable, even if the photo below shows the grey, grey day.



It took me forever to include that photo here, and I am due to meet Janene in just minutes. Oh, Janene, for those who don't know, is the Aucklander that I met in Nairobi, Kenya some ten years ago. I met up with her and her long-term friend Frances last night. Oh, I have to dash. More later.

***

It is 8:20 p.m. and I am here in the Base Auckland internet room. I have missed my third chance to see Sophia. This evening, I seem to have arrived at the wrong place. Last night, I had departed with Janene and Frances just moments before her arrival -- which I learned from the note on my door when I returned. :-(

If I have a moment tomorrow to post, I will talk about the lovely time I enjoyed with Janene today, roaming the farmland north of Auckland. If not, then I am on the road to Wellington.

In any case, I need some sleep.

Yesterday's novella, complete with drama and dreams of romance

The weather turned better than the morning's rain suggested, becoming much like my ideal Spring or Fall day: warm enough that a sweater and light jacket was too much, breezy enough to whip the hair all about my face like some Medusa, and softly shaded so that all the greens and browns took on rich hues. I'll say more on the last a little later.

Rather than hop the bus, I decided to walk the few miles over to the
Auckland Museum. I took the long-route along Queen Street to hunt out some eggs and bacon, a supplement to the yummy but unsatisfying raisin-nut toast I had at the Aspen House. I found my breakfast at a place called Cima, accessible by a back alley that a street sweeper pointed out. It wasn't until they put the plate in front of me that I remembered that the bacon would't be the good ol' Smithfield variety of the South, but the kind that you, Julian, crave. For those of you who are not British, I'll describe it as a cross between a thinly sliced breakfast ham and bologna. Ok, that's not entirely fair, since the taste is superior to bologna. But it ain't Smithfield. I gobbled it down just the same.

I flipped through the New Zealand Herald. Did you folks catch that
Cat Stevens (Cat Stevens! now Yusuf Islam) had his plane diverted from a D.C. landing to Boston and was removed from the flight because he is on the government's terrorist-link list? The guy's a peacenik! Fucking insane (if you will pardon my French, Mom). Emigrating to New Zealand looks better and better...

But not to Auckland. I learned from Matt, the pierced guy of yesterday's flight, that Auckland had a lot in common in L.A. Uh huh. I saw that myself. Downtown is congested, packed with retail hell, tagged by local street "artists" and very cosmopolitan. This ain't the landscape of Lord of the Rings, folks. Maybe in the urban sequel? Come on, can't you see the Wraiths riding down Queen Street? I can.

Still, the walk to the Auckland Museum was charming. I'm on vacation, so what's not to treasure about each new-to-me billboard or shop? I took some photos as I crossed the Grafton Bridge. When I get to a USB-ready computer, I will post a photo, but in its absence I'll say that that one shot shows the freeway below and the harbor in the sunlit distance. The other shows the curve of the suicide-prevention glass that they have installed on the bridge. It is actually very appealing in a futuristic way. Ok, that might be just me...



The museum is on the grounds of something called Auckland Domain. It is a beautiful multi-acre parkland. (Harsha, you'll appreciate that I actually saw some guys playing cricket and, hey, could identify it as cricket. Thanks.) The light at that moment cast everything in the richest, jaw-dropping green. The slope from the cricket area curved up to a grove of trees that was simply unearthly. If you recall the promo poster for Big Fish, it was like that and just as magical. I headed for the greenhouses in the background.

The greenhouses sit on what's called the Wintergarden. I wasn't
impressed by the structure itself, but the greenhouses -- one Cool
House and one Tropical House, by name -- were spectacular. Vicki, I
took plenty of lovely flower photos in the Cool House. Ohmygod what a fragrance in that place. I took so many photos and notes there and in the Tropical House that a couple of guys on staff started to chat with me about all the offerings -- golden shrimp, torch ginger, etc.. It was so clear that they loved their work, that it still makes me smile. The older one asked me "is horticulture your field back at home?" LOL, don't I wish!



If you get to Auckland, *do* visit there. (Especially you, Kim!) And check out their Fernz Fernery there. Unfrigginbelievable. My photo will never do it justice.

The Auckland Museum sits atop the lip of a crater beyond the greenhouses, and it is quite foreboding. I learned later that it is also a war memorial, so that explains the grand columns and the imposing character. I won't say much about all the exhibits I saw. Hey, it's a museum after all (complete with yucky cafeteria food), and after living in the shadow of the Smithsonian all these years, it is hard to be impressed by what I see abroad. (Louvre aside, of course.) But the Maori artifacts -especially the waka (war canoe) and reconstructed meeting houses -- were superb! I also saw a lovely exhibit called "Fashion on Wheels: The New Zealand Gown of the Year," about an annual 1960s national contest for the best ballroom gown. Consider it the precursor to American Idol, complete with traveling sites, popular votes and stardom. It was interesting, too, that many of the designers behind these treasures were housewives who sewed for extra money on the side.

After the museum, I hopped a bus into Ponsonby. It is supposedly Gay Auckland, but there wasn't much. The Surrender Dorothy bar had an amusing graphic of a hairy-legged man in ruby slippers. I also found the local feminist bookstore. Nice, but small and dominated by "healing" books. Sigh. I sat for a while at a local cafe, had a yummy chicken-cranberry-brie wrap and started reading Speaker for the Dead. Julian, I hope I get some points for the latter.

Between the walk, the hunt for food, Cat Stevens, Dorothy and the wrap, I was a bit tired. But I still had committed to getting out to a happy hour that some folks on the backpacker board had organized. I got back to my room, unloaded some of my gear and had a pep talk with myself when I was considering just bailing out. LOL, I'm glad I didn't. I met the most lovely woman...

I was lost. It was 7 o' clock, which would make me on time (or grossly early), but the bar wasn't where it was supposed to be on the street. Maybe addresses worked differently here, but wasn't 62 Fort Street supposed to be between that 58 and 64? Grrr. No matter, I thought, there goes a cutie that I can ask... ;-)

So Sophia is from Germany and living with her aunt since she arrived 6 weeks ago. Like me, she didn't know a soul here, but was willing to help a stranger if she could. It turns out that she had been to Base at 62 Fort before and led me there directly. She was going to the travel center there, but, after depositing me in the bar, said, yes, she'd come back to have a drink with me.

While I waited for her and the rest of the backpacker group, I forced myself to accept the invitation of some guys who were just sitting and drinking which, as you all know, ain't my thing. Two were from Canada, military enlisted and the other an officer. I don't know where the others were from, and they weren't really all together. The Canadians were on break from Dubai, which they couldn't wait to leave in just four more months. The chat was quite difficult (I think they needed more alcohol), so I was very relieved when the members of the board arrived.

I was a little nervous when I went over to introduce myself, but the organizer, Mickey, greeted me like an old friend -- a loud HI! and a hug. (Thanks, Mickey!) It broke the ice for me, and I slipped into the round of introductions: Dean the French Canadian, Simon the Pole, Amanda from Michigan, Marc the Aussie, plus May, Joanna, and many other names I will never remember. John the Scot made an early bad impression: "you look like Whoopi Goldberg." Yeah. Uh huh. Sophia showed up just afterwards and it began to feel like any party at home: easy, funny, and new.

Not surprisingly, we all began to drink a little too much and to talk a little too loudly. Mickey and I got it into our heads to go dancing at another bar that she'd been to the night before (80s music!) and gathered up about 10 to go there. Sophia wasn't sure-- she was waitressing in the morning. No problem, I said, you can sleep over with me if you need to. Oh, Tammi, you are soooo slick.

There was no dancing at the other bar that night so we all headed back to Base for more drinking silliness. And this, of course, is where things took a turn for the worse. I was chatting with Micki, Joanna and Amanda when I learned that John the Scot (of Whoopi fame) had offered each of them, privately, a chance to see him via web cam in his Speedos. LOL!!!! To Joanna, he also mentioned that he had a thong with the Bristish Jack on it. Holy Mother of Christ! And they were sharing a dorm with this guy! At this point, having confirmed that they were collectively subject to his bs, they were NOT happy that he was there and were uncomfortable that he still wanted to hang out with them for the evening. I was STUNNED that none of them had told him to simply get lost.

So I did it.

I would like to say, in my defense, that I was sober when I pulled him aside. I would like to note, too, that my peer women were openly slapping me on the back and offering to ply me with drinks for the rest of the night. But oh, did it cause a scene! He said that I should tell them all to "fuck themselves" and he stormed off, not before telling his male buddies that "he wanted to hit someone" and "I'm getting a new room." Heeheehee. Strike another blow for feminism!

Ok, I have a lot more to post -- about Marc, for example. (No, Julian!) But I will simply have to leave that for another day. Hm. Hopefully there will be more to share...

Hm. I'll need that coat.

My first stop of the day may have to be the local thrift store. The
light jacket that I brought with me will handle today's light rain,
but the chill makes me long for thermal underwear. Of course, it was sunny and very warm when I left Washington. Go figure.

Obviously from this post, I have arrived in New Zealand in one piece. It was a full day's travel to get here, made easier by the two men I met on my way from LAX. Get your mind out of the gutter, Meg. One was 19, and just out of a Hamilton, New Zealand high school. He reminded me a lot of Christopher Kaufman --known as the Guru to some of you -- but with extra piercings and shockingly black hair. (Ok, ok, he was a cutie.) The other was 43 and traveling with his family. He is a native of Australia but a 14 year resident of Atlanta with his New Zealand wife and their three kids. They are relocating home. Quite a shock to their American born children, as you can imagine. Both men made the long (12-hour!) jump from L.A. enjoyable.

It's nearly 9 a.m. here. I am ditching the comfort of the Aspen House for a rainy walk to the Auckland Museum. I need to stretch my legs, breathe the air...and find a coat.

It had to come to this

What I imagined was a leisurely morning, coffee in one hand and the Washington Post in the other down at the Dupont Starbucks. No last minute rush. I certainly didn't imagine this - me, naked in front of my computer, and my apartment looking like Ivan tore through here on his way to drowning the Southern coast. Jeff says that it's a character flaw that I should want a clean apartment to greet my return. His own travel preparations -- kids, minivan, booster seats -- resemble a recent nightmare...

I am otherwise ready. The grant proposals are the mail, the bills are paid, the iPod is charged, and my mother has been given all my travel information she's been demanding for days. (Mom, I am not coming home. Love, Tammi.)

I suppose it's time to get my clothes on.