Smoke gets in your eyes… and throat.

The good thing about waiting all day and night for my luggage is that I was rewarded with this beefy guy lifting—not rolling or dragging—the thing up the stairs. Nice, but what the hell was I thinking to pack so much? Sara? Vicki? Weren’t you two responsible for inserting reason?

Friends.

So I spent my first real day in Berlin cooped up in the apartment. Just as well, as I seem to be suffering from a cold and sore throat. I “enjoy” these symptoms after most flights, but the sore throat was likely exacerbated by last night’s smoky restaurant. Marianne told me that the trick to avoiding smokers is eating on my American schedule. Berliners eat (and smoke) later.

Eating alone in German restaurants equals better health minus eye candy (E^a=H²-EC). Is that the right formula for the single gal?

Sigh.

So I amused myself in the apartment by listening to music –

for which a shout-out *must* be given to Keith for his iTunes gift downloads of German music (e.g. “99 Luftballoons” and “Bitch! Wo Ist Mein Geld?”)

– responding to my randy-never-gonna-be-chaste friends who expected more titillating material in my first post.

I just got here. Give me time. ;-)

– and watching German versions of The Simpsons and MTV’s Pimp My Whatever.

A Tiki toilet remake? Someone was smoking crack.

It's almost 11 a.m. here, but I am still not feeling myself. Time to lie down.

Good day, good people.

But my dream on waking was of being home

It’s Saturday morning, and my first load of wash is in. I have no other clothes as the first, and, thankfully, only problem of the trip was that the bag with all of my clothing was lost. My landlady, Marianne, assured me that this was the best news: once found, a delivery service is responsible for hefting the nearly 70 pound bag up the four flights to my door.

I am gleefully naked in my Berlin apartment until then.

Yesterday’s departure was a mix of things: a heavenly and joyous morning followed by…well, exhaustion. My plan of relaxing through the afternoon, haunting Busboys & Poets for tea and comfy furniture, never materialized. Instead, I reacquainted myself with my cleaning supplies. The refrigerator, the stove, the bathroom, the floors… When Vicki came to pick me up for the trip to the airport, I closed the door on some other apartment entirely. New shelving, rearranged furniture… Well, I hope that Jennifer loves the place as much as I do.

There was no traffic on the beltway or I95 despite our 6 p.m. departure. There was something about the dark sky, the last phone calls goodbye… I said to Vicki on the drive out to BWI, “I could change my mind.” She reminded me about Jennifer. Burned my bridges behind me. Nothing but onward.

I fell asleep in the middle of takeoff and woke only for the dinner and snack breaks. It went by so fast that it felt as if I simply materialized in Heathrow. Although I do recall a spectacular plunge from a blue and sunny sky through a bank of clouds and into the gray landscape of the British Isle below.

I had a long layover in Heathrow so, after navigating an unexpected series of security checkpoints, I made my way to a coffee shop and breakfast. There, I listened to a fascinating podcast of Open Source Sex by Violet Blue. Violet was interviewing the famous porn star, Nina Hartley, about her most recent instructional video release, “Nina Hartley’s Guide to Erotic Bondage.” (Um, can I put that on my Amazon wish list?)

The interview was less about that video than it was about the entire context of community obscenity standards, sex education, feminism and the sex positive movements, and female sexual empowerment. Favorite quotes:

“I never have bad sex anymore, and it’s no accident.” – Nina Hartley

“I’ve always been about sex so this gives me the perfect cover. I would not get the respect I do talking about sex if I had a day job as a banker.” – Nina Hartley on her sex education lectures

“… just because they don’t know what a reverse cowgirl is doesn’t mean that they are stupid.” – Violet Blue on popular misperceptions of sex ed consumers

“I like men! I like penises, thank you very much!” – Nina Hartley on the “barnacle” of men-as-predators perspectives that latched onto the women’s sexual liberation work of the of the 70s

Hm. I’m reminded of some items in my missing luggage…

My landlady, Marianne, was a real gem about picking me up at the airport. She waited patiently while I filed the appropriate luggage claim (blessedly, in English) and exchanged some currency. She drove me to a T-Mobile store (cursedly not in English) and even went in for me when my own bad German yielded nothing. (I did get the gist of it though—“no SIM card for your phone”—so Marianne just verified that’s what I heard.) And she didn’t mind joining me for dinner before going up into the apartment.

This has become a lengthy post, so I will end on this: I live in a BEAUTIFUL place in a HIP neighborhood. Seriously. Four Indian restaurants within two blocks, and the one we ate at is right next door. And next door to that is the bakery. And next to that…

And did I mention my balcony?

I remain stunned at my luck.

I love your curiosity...

Come on, I haven't even left the country yet! Skip the reading material and drop by my place on Wednesday night instead. Um, 7ish? Bring wine.

Leaving Flagstaff

I'm writing today from the library of Northern Arizona University. With my backpack and casual clothes, I pretend that I fit in. But who am I kidding: I've barely seen any black folks during this entire excursion, let alone on this campus. Lot of Native Americans though.

Race stuff aside, I'm already missing Flagstaff. It's another perfect weather day, and the women at the Downtown Diner are as warm as ever. There's another waitress today that I hadn't met previously. She too is from Virginia, but Alexandria this time. We gab about her trek here, the relocation of her family and her siblings. "I couldn't raise my kids there," she says of metro Washington. I nod, as if I really understand.

Yesterday's trek back into the Grand Canyon was relaxing. I'd figured out the mile count of the previous day's hike: 5.7 of the 8 miles of the Rim Trail. No wonder I ached. My knee was throbbing, and I had to stop at a general store in Tucsayan to get band-aids for developing blisters. I worried about how I'd hold up for the planned descent into the Canyon. It was an easy excuse to simply sit and read after the long drive while I stretched the leg out.

So that's what I did for my first hours back on park ground. I sat first at Yavapi Observation Station, reading with the sweep of the Canyon and the beautiful day as my backdrop. A tour of Africans -- Kenyans maybe, but I didn't ask -- goes by with their white guide. One of the party gives me a long stare and I realize that I am drawing attention for simply sitting on my duff rather than peering over the rails into the Canyon like the rest of the tourists. It's around 12:30 and I'm hungry, so might as well go.

I find a precious parking spot right behind El Tovar. Plenty others decided to eat there too, so it was a half-hour's wait in the bizarrely decorated hall -- an historic hunting lodge with the required mounted animal heads on dark log panels. I'm finally reading Jonathan Lethem's Fortress of Solitude, which my book group took up some months ago. It's hard for me to tear myself away from it, honestly, so my salad and Indian fry bread / taco salad meal get picked at while I thumb through. (Um, I don't recommend the apple dessert there. Thick and gummy.)

It's near 3 p.m., and if I want to do that hike down into the Canyon, I have to let the book go. I shove my book into the trunk of the car, make sure I have two bottles of water and little else to weigh down the backpack, and I head off for the Bright Angel Trailhead.

The information guide states that hikers should plan two times the amount of time going down into the canyon for the return climb. I know that there is a rest house 1-1/2 miles down and I shoot to get there or turn back at a 45 minute mark. Frankly, I didn't think 45 minutes would be enough time to get there, but I didn't want to underestimate the labor it would take to climb back to the rim, even on switchback trails. I set off.

Hans had heartily recommended the below-the-rim hike for its perspective on the canyon and, wow, no kidding. Despite the mule droppings and the folks just walking a few feet in with small kids and flip-flops, it's easy enough to feel elated by a sense of accomplishment as the cliff walls shoot higher and higher above you. Everything about the hike charmed: the college-aged maintenance workers raking rocks (hey, someone has to do it), the color of the canyon walls, the fellow hikers breezing down and the fellow hikers wheezing up. I've got a goofy smile on my face most of the way down, but I'm seriously watching the path too. One trip on a loose rock and it's a busted nose or a slip over into the canyon.

Or, at least, that's what my wild imagination offers me.

All the water I sipped over lunch is nagging the old bladder. I skip the plan to just turn back at 45, and focus instead on getting to the toilet and water station. I stop a climber on the way down with "Do you speak English?" Not an unreasonable start as I've heard Japanese, French, Vietnamese, German and plenty else I couldn't recognize. Not only does she speak English, I'm just a few switchbacks above the station, she says. I'm excited...ABOUT A TOILET. I curse myself for not thinking ahead on that matter, but walk on.

Just before the station, the trail turns a beautifully rusty orange. It's soft, so I am kicking it up and practically dancing in it. It's the Orange Brick Road to my OZ reststop. I pause to take a photo of the toilet sign and climb the steep steps. My knee is still a bit sore but, oh well, no way but up!

It was little more than 45 minutes down, and I surprise myself with just over an hour back to the top. I creep the entire way, "just one foot in front of the other." (Indeed, the old Easter special with the bunny singing that line plays over and over in my head. That, and I am counting my steps, 1-2-3...) I am passed by expert hikers who've climbed from farther below the canyon; I pass people who believe they are expert hikers and who've pushed themselves too quickly. I imagine that my chubby-thighed self is an annoyance: "How can she do it?" they groan. My imaginings keep me motivated when my calves and thighs are burning.

Near the top, I get an ungodly burst of energy. It's like my lunch-fuel decided to kick in. I ride the wave to the top, and quit only when I am back past the trailhead. Two women in their mid-forties stop me with "How far'd you go?" To the rest station, I reply with a big smile. "You did that?!" I respond with an even cheesier grin, if you can imagine.

I'm in a wicker chair on the patio of the El Tovar looking over the canyon just a minute after that exchange. I've fallen asleep just one minute after that, and don't wake for 20 minutes.

Guess the hike tired me out.

I decided against staying for dinner. The previous night, I'd driven back in the dark. I had the iPod playing, but -- damn my wild imagination -- I worried about hitting a stray deer. Ok, not so imaginative, as one did leap into the road in front of my car on the way up. I had plenty of breaking room, and was more pleased than scared at the time. But that was daylight.

Despite my fear, I had pulled off the road shortly before the small town of Valle to take a look at the night sky. I must admit it: I was terrified. The road was COMPLETELY dark, COMPLETELY silent and the sky was brimming with stars. I was out of the car for just seconds, looking up into that expansiveness and feeling very, very small. I dashed back in.

I figured that I would redeem my cowardly-ness, by taking into the Lowell Observatory open house. They were starting at 7:30, so leaving the Grand Canyon shortly after 5 should have given me plenty of time. All would have been on time, but I spot what I thought was a very realistic elk statue near a Tusayan hotel. It turns its head and I realize THAT'S NO STATUE.

I turn the car around and join the throng of shutter-happy tourists. I take a picture from my window, and then a couple walking near ask me "What is it?" and takes my camera to get a closer shot. I yell, Not too close! and shake my head in amazement as some big guy strides up. I'm driving off and watching him in my rearview mirror. He's gotten even closer and I wonder if I will read about him in the next day's news: Grand Canyon tourist gored by elk.

Film at 11.

My phone just rang, and I'd forgotten it was on. It was Mark who, learning that I am sitting in front of a computer screen, chides me for being a geek. "Can't you do that when you are home?" It's all about discipline, I reply.

Ok, ok. Let me sum up by saying that, after another nap and a quick shower back at the hostel, I took the dark road drive out to the observatory as planned. It was beautiful, and a lot less frightening to share the night sky with other admirers. I even met some people: Alexis and Greg who were traveling from Lancaster, Pennsylvania, and Jay, who was driving through from seeing his son in Pomona and heading back to Hastings, Nebraska. I even got to hang out with Jay back in Flagstaff and hear about his near-retirement joys and old-musician blues.

If you're listening, Jay, here's a shout-out.

Off to Sedona...

That can't be real...

I skipped back to the Downtown Diner for breakfast before heading out for The Big Day. There was just one other table occupied when I arrived and the waitress was a chatty blond. Turns out she is from Virginia Beach, and just arrived a few weeks ago. Small world.

Backpack, water, a salty snack and a book -- the basics for any outdoor excursion -- and I was on the road. According to the signs, it's just 87 miles north to the Grand Canyon from the Museum of Northern Arizona. Despite the 75 mph postings, it seemed to take forever. Of course, I stopped along the way to take a few photos, so that might account for the length of the trip. But who could resist? The landscape between Flagstaff and the Canyon is just STUNNING. It's a varied picture of pine forest, scattered shrubs, fields of flowers, farms with mountains rising in the background... Just amazing.

I arrived at the Canyon shortly after noon, parking just past Mather Point and heading first to the toilets. I didn't want to spoil my view of the Canyon by doing "the bathroom dance" on the rim.

I have just a few more minutes on the computer this morning before heading back up there, so let me just say that the Grand Canyon is as otherworldly as many travellers say. Indeed, my first impression was that the distant rises and drops were a massive and shifting backdrop to an equally unreal canyon in the foreground. Bizarrely, it reminded me of a Star Trek episode. Um, I'll stop there.

I spent a good hour doing the typical tourist thing of drifting between the lookout points and the ever-cheesy gift shops. Knowing that I would return on Sunday, I figured that I should get that out of my system early.

Thereafter, I set my sights on reaching Hermit's Rest on foot from the Shrine of Ages. It's the farthest point of the Rim Trail, paved nearest the commercial sites and then rough and railing-less for the bulk of it. I will have to calculate how many miles I did in those many hours, but know I did work-off the brownie I had treated myself to back at Bright Angel Lodge. LOL.

I did that, and then some.

Still, I didn't make it all the way on foot. The sun was just setting when I reached the Abyss, and there was nothing but more largely-solitary and close-to-the-cliff trail ahead. I hopped a shuttle from the Abyss to Pima Point and then hiked and ran the trail to Hermit's.

Yes, ran. Who knew that trail running could feel so liberating?

Wait 'til you see my victory photo... :)

My first canyon

I was well rested after a deep sleep. The earplugs worked perfectly, leaving just the faintest trace of a passing train whistle and the occasional shout of a drunken college student. I showered, dressed and made a brief sketch of what I wanted to see for the day-- mainly Sedonna, but I gave that up after just minutes at the Downtown Diner in Flagstaff. Great staff, an ever-full cup of coffee, and the "no worries" atmosphere that simply begged for me to just hang out in town. I spent hours there, reading the local LIVE paper, studying German (yep, brought the textbooks with me), scribbling out the "wish you were here" postcards, and thinking of what I'd write in yesterday's blog.

I eventually walked back over to the hostel, dumped the study gear, blogged, and headed out for the Museum of Northern Arizona. It's just about 5 miles from downtown on a lovely winding road and nestled amongst the pine trees. The museum was quiet, as it was a weekday. I noticed that a class of high school students made their way through, forced, no doubt, by a well-meaning teacher to look at and appreciate the museum's anthropology collection. They looked like teenagers do: bored, and wishing they were elsewhere.

Too bad, because the museum had some really nice offerings. I was very taken by the weaving samples, which were surprisingly well-preserved for their age and so intricate that I wanted to dash off with one as a prize. Gotta look into a basketweaving class. (Just kidding.)

The museum had two special exhibitions. One hall was taken by the large-scale oil paintings of Joella Jean Mahoney. I'd never heard of her, and couldn't tell if she'd garnered an audience beyond Arizona's borders. But her work was very impressive, with an incredible savvy for portraying the oranges, yellows and browns that make a desert landscape. Ha, I speak like I am well-aquainted! Well, no, but I certainly appreciated her obvious awe and long-time love of the place. She made me want to take more time here to see what she had seen.

The exhibit on petroglyphs and pictographs was not as nice. Too many rock art pieces crammed into one place made my head ache. Too much! But I did like the part about the role it played in early time-keeping and the tracking of the seasons. We humans are an ingenious lot.

After a little more browsing and the prerequisite stop in the gift shop, I ditched the museum for an afternoon lunch at a local cafe about a mile from the museum. Yum, had a great turkey club with avocado. I stayed just long enough to plot my way to Walnut Canyon National Monument.

About Walnut Canyon...wow. My photographs will never do justice to what it was like looking over into that canyon. Ravens were wheeling about on the great breeze, the sun was shining but not burning and the few other visitors were in great spirits. (I overheard a couple gabbing in German! I resisted the urge to try out my few classes worth.)

There are 200+ steps down into the Canyon along the Island Trail. I stopped some folks on the way down, asking them to snap my picture. It's the one downside of travelling alone, complete with the looks of pity or concern when the rangers, waitresses or other travellers get that you're out hoofing solo. I don't think men would get the same, but that's mere speculation.

In any case, I had a FANTASTIC few hours at the Canyon and highly recommend it. I imagine that my view of the Grand Canyon may eclipse it to some degree, so I am glad I saw it first.

The rest of the day was just as perfect. I took a self-guided tour book for a walk around Flagstaff's historic buildings. Nice! And I ate at THE BEST restaurant, this place called Racha Thai. It's new in town, and I was persuaded to go by the recommendation of the hostel staff and the posted review of a local food critic who said it was the best she'd had since leaving Bangkok. I've eaten a lot of Thai food, but I've never seen the dish I tried on any Washington menu. It was ground chicken with basil leaves, red pepper strips, cabbage and onions topped with egg and baked casserole-ish in a coconut curry sauce. Spicy and outstanding. I saved the leftovers to take with me to the Grand Canyon for lunch.

To complete the evening, I headed back to the museum to catch a one-man show that I'd seen listed in LIVE for the amazingly low price of $5 per adult. The show was Tortilla Heaven, and starred a comedian who'd had some time on Comedy Central and the brother of the actor who was supposed to perform that night. The show was well-worth the price, painful and poignant and hilarious. I was surprised by how much of it was in Spanish, and pleased to pick up a few phrases and get the gist from the staging. Kudos all around.

I'd say more but it's time to pack my bags for the Grand Canyon. Adios, tschuss and ciao.

And on to Arizona

I'm writing from the Grand Canyon International Hostel in Flagstaff, Arizona. I've wanted to get out to Arizona for years, and finally treated myself for my birthday. Glad to share the joy of my new adventure with you folks.

The morning's start was difficult. On the eve of my departure, Cori and four others were performing at mothertongue at the Black Cat. Expecting that they would arrive around 10ish, I had offered my place to crash for the night. Egads, they arrived after midnight, barely eliciting grunts and directions to the living room before I crept back to bed and sleep. At 4 in the morning, my alarm clock was practically deafening. I leapt from bed, called Vicki (Mr. Woofy's Taxi Service!), and grabbed my bags for a dash out the door.

I slept all the way to Phoenix.

The Phoenix airport was little improvement over the Philadelphia transfer point. Thankfully, I was warned of the area around the airport: it looked just as blighted and unwelcome as LAX. I had already decided to nix Phoenix from my "see Arizona" plans, but that definitely confirmed it. It took about an hour for me to pay for and pick up my rental car, and to get on the road out of there.

I was well on the road listening to a wonderful classic rock station (100.7, I think) when I realized that I didn't have my iPod's radio transmitter for the desert north of the city. Meine Gute!

I would love to say that my first stop in Arizona was a lovely national park but, alas, I couldn't do without a constant stream of music for the nearly 3 hour drive to Flagstaff. So, sigh, I stopped at a Super Wal-Mart. Yeah, yeah, I know. But with 100+ degree temperatures, it made sense to also stop for water to keep in the car.

Watered and with music, I hit the road again in search of a local place to eat. I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw a sign for Byler's Amish Kitchen? Amish? In Arizona?!


Turns out that the restaurant was opened by an Amish couple that migrated to Arizona sometime in the 70s. The "formerly Amish" line was thin and I can't recommend the decor, but the food...ohmygod. For 8 bucks, I got a simple salad, a still-makes-my-mouth-water-at-the-thought chicken and dumplings entree, and a scrumptious apple betty. The woman who served me (the owner? a relative?) was so Southern Hospitality that I think my own ya'll and ma'am crept back into my language. YUM-E!

Up the road a ways, I found the signs for Montezuma Castle. No, Montezuma had nothing to do with the place, but the early assumption that Aztec's had built the cliff dwellings stuck.

My pictures don't do it justice, but it's a lovely place, and the home of about 50 Sinagua (yes, without water) residents many hundreds of years ago. Despite their name, the Sinagua lived next to a creek and used irrigation techniques for farming. There was more evidence of their handicraft another 7 miles north at Montezuma Well, a naturally replenishing spring with some beautifully shaded areas down near the water's edge.

Still, these areas of water are in otherwise dry land. It reminded me of Colorado, and I feared that the expansive brown would only make me long for the green East Coast. But about 30 minutes outside of Flagstaff the landscape makes a dramatic shift to lush greenery. Indeed, with the 30 degree temperature drop, the incredibly blue sky and the evergreen trees, it became just what that Arizona reporter said to me last week: "God's country." (It reminded me of New Zealand. Sniffle!)

Flagstaff itself has the feel of a college town or a ski resort: the route in on the highway has its Denny's and McDonalds, but they give ground to an historic downtown of local bars and craft shops. The very active train station -- some 5 trains pulled through while I was still awake! -- only ads to the charm.

Although my plan had been to drop things off at the hostel and head right back out to Sedona for the evening, I decided instead to leave the car behind and simply hoof it around town to see the shops. I made a guilty purchase of some Simple tennis shoes. (See the picture; aren't they just the cutest?)


And I had dinner at Charley's. (Julian, I do NOT recommend their steak. Ugh.)

By the time 8:30 rolled around though, my wacky sleepless night and hikes about the area had worn me out. I put the ear plugs in (those trains!) and called it a night.

P.S. You know who you are, and you know you are missed.

Rainbow's End

I had planned to just reach Taupo, four hours north of Wellington. There, I would find a night's accommodation, wake to a sunrise over the lake and then slowly creep into Auckland for the business of international flying.

That was the plan.

Instead, after breakfast, I wandered about Wellington searching for a new backpack. The one I had purchased last year in Victoria, B.C. gave up the ghost when Dan and I were wandering around in Te Papa. Although I eventually found one -- a garish yellow color and emblazoned with a huge Nike logo -- somewhere over the period of the search I decided to do it. To drive 8 hours to Auckland.

In hindsight, it was a good decision. The southern towns and hills of the North Island were awash in rain showers all afternoon. Nice. A strong rain, as I learned from my Greymouth to Nelson trip, makes it easier to stop the i-should-haves, as in "I should have hiked to the top of Victoria" or "I should have stopped to view the falls."

I stopped every two hours to stretch my legs and to nibble at the food stands. I enjoyed a very tasty chicken kabab pita in a little town called Bulls. The restaurant owner also happened to own a large, brass Indian elephant bell of the type that I have been collecting. It was an exquisite one. He wouldn't let me buy it off of him, and the antique shop on the corner didn't have any more. Bummer. In Taupo, I stopped for the loo and wolfed down the baklava that I purchased at the kabab place. Damn, that was yummy. Outside of Hamilton, a couple hours north of Taupo, I pulled off the highway and ate at KFC, known locally as "Kiwi for Chicken." LOL, it tasted like the same Kentucky-fried of my youth though!

With the rain, there was little I could note of the passing scenery south of Taupo. But just before Taupo, the sun burst through the clouds and created a spectacular rainbow. I whooped like I'd never seen one.

In the last stretch of highway coming into Auckland, the signs for the airport also announce "Rainbow's End." It turns out that Rainbow's End is Auckland's theme park, with rollercoasters, bumper cars and cotton candy. I prefer to think of the sign as I first imagined it: my notice that my lovely vacation is at an end.

There is a lot I want to say here: about the way that thoughts of work wormed their way into my dreams last night, about what "going home" means for a woman who recently left her marriage, about what I would have done differently in this trip, about my thoughts of a future living abroad... Lots to say.

But it is 7:30 a.m. here in Auckland and the city demands that I pay attention. I have to go move my car.

See you all soon.

Wellington with Dan

Wellington, like any urban center, is a parking nightmare. I woke at 5 a.m. yesterday and every hour thereafter, worried about moving my car from the street and into the garage. Well, at least I was ready for the day to begin.

Car safely stowed, I joined the bustle of downtown in search of breakfast. Despite the number of commuters in their cars, on the bus or on foot, there actually weren't many breakfast spots open at that hour. I eventually found another Caffe L'affare (who knew they were a chain?) and settled in for a yummy breakfast and more of Desirable Daughters.

My only "to do" item for the day was to finally meet Dan Mortimer. When I was using the internet over at Base Backpackers in Auckland, I saw a post there from Dan, who was looking for a ride south. By the time I had made up my mind to fly rather than drive to Christchurch, he had already made it to Wellington. We kept in touch via email while I bopped around the South Island, with a plan to rendezvous if I made it to Wellington before he departed. I did, so we made plans to meet at Te Papa in the afternoon.

The morning remained my own. Despite the guidebooks warning that the walk to the Botanical Gardens required oxygen and a base camp, I was eager for the walk. I had also eaten a rather generous breakfast and really *needed* the walk. Still, I took plenty of little breaks on my 40 minute hike into the hills, occasionally harassing passersby for clarification on my direction. I saw the Wellington Cable Car cruise up on its tracks and resisted the urge to scurry to its platform for a lift. I walked on.



The Botanical Gardens are certainly worth the trek. It is expansive, with two hiking trails passing through, a children's playground, a treehouse information center, an old observatory, the Cable Car Museum, and all the green-growth that you could desire. I particularly loved the succulents garden worked into a hillside terrace and the California redwood towering next to the information center. (Damn, I need to get back out to the U.S. West Coast.)

I rode the cable car back into town (charming!) and walked from the end station back to Wildlife House. They didn't have any singles available when I checked in late on Sunday night, so I was sharing a dorm with three other women. This was the first time during my trip that I have and, urgh, never again. One of the women, Victoria, was great (maybe it's the name, Vicki?), but the other women were rather cold. And one of them made little eating noises in her sleep that *just* grossed me out. Wildlife had a single opening up, so I moved into it, took a shower and headed out for lunch before meeting Dan. (Mmmm, chicken tikka masala and onion kulcha. Oh, life is swell.)

Speaking of swell, Dan Mortimer is too. (If you have found my blog, Dan, feel free to correct me on my details.) Dan and I had no trouble meeting each other in Te Papa. (There are not a lot of dreadheaded black women in Wellington.) Dan is a 32 year old, blonde Brit from Weymouth. Bored with his job training teachers in IT and getting over a heartbreak, he decided to chuck it all for the beauty of New Zealand. He applied for residency before leaving the U.K., but is in the country, now, on a six-month travel visa. He's not sure if he will make it. Although he sold all his things and did all of the goodbye parties, Dan misses his friends much more than he anticipated. Has he done the right thing? Stay tuned.

More thanks to Neil Tangri for the recommendation: Te Papa is superb! It is New Zealand's premiere museum, a well-deserved honor. The high ceilings, the layout, the coloring -- what a nicely designed space. The displays of Maori artifacts, history and recent political struggle are thoroughly engrossing. There were also exhibits on wool -- baa! baa! -- the replication of the natural world in architecture, and contemporary art. Although I have enjoyed traveling on my own, it was nice to have Dan there to laugh and talk with about the things I was seeing.

Dan and I wandered about Te Papa for four hours until they kicked us out. (Heck, we only made a dent in the place.) We walked along the waterfront, watching the canoe (kayak) polo team practice their speed in the water and chatting about the other sights that Dan has taken in during his 10-day stay in Wellington.

Dan and I managed to have enough to talk about -- family and friends, aspirations, music, travel drama, and more -- to carry us through dinner at a yummy (and cheap!) Malaysian restaurant and a shared bottle of wine at a very chic, and very hidden, late-night bar.



For those of you expecting to hear more, what kind of woman do you think I am? (Don't answer that.) Dan walked me back to Wildlife and, after thanks and goodbye hugs, made his way off into the rain.

It's time for me to checkout of Wildlife, to rustle up some breakfast and to eventually make my way to Lake Taupo for the evening. I leave for home tomorrow night and, thanks to the beauty of the International Date Line, will be there within four hours of my departure. Not really, but that's what the clocks will say. Ah, time travel...

Where did the time go?

The countdown begins

I am exhausted. The travel to Wellington took, in total, 8 hours. That was 2 hours driving to Picton to catch the ferry. Then, it was 1.5 hours waiting for the ferry to arrive (it was late). Between loading and unloading cars and on-foot travelers, the ferry consumed another 4.5 hours. Again, I'm exhausted.

Okay, the day had its good points.

Right after checkout (and laundry, ugh), I took a long stroll along the Matai River in Nelson before doing a steep climb up to the "Geographic Center of New Zealand." The advertising and signage about the Geographic Center of New Zealand (with caps, thank you very much) is more impressive than the site itself. Still, the beauty of the river walk *and* the awesome view of Nelson and Tasman Bay from the hilltop made the two-hour trek worth it.



LOL, isn't everything here lovely?

I made my way back down into town and grabbed a bite at the (you guessed it) lovely Caffe L'affare, where I had enjoyed a breakfast the day before. If you are traveling in Nelson, I definitely recommend them. Not only are their dishes savory, but their presentation makes you think you are dining at a place billing twice the price. I lingered there for about 2 hours, reading Desirable Daughters, the October assignment for the book group. I just started but, already 100 pages in, I find it pretty compelling reading. For those of you who recently saw Vijai Nathan's one-woman show, Good Girls Don't, But Indian Girls Do, at the Takoma Theatre, this book is the same "Hindu woman coming into her own" story but with a lot more detail.

Okay, enough.

It's 11 p.m. here, and I am fading fast. I'll skip the details about the showing of The Bourne Supremacy on the ferry or info on my new lodging at Wildlife House for a chance to get some sleep. Let me just say that today is the 3rd, my departure is on the 6th, and the thought of flying home is bumming me out.

Okay, enough. Sleep.

A kayak on the deep blue

Yesterday's tour of Nelson's galleries was a real pleasure. The Suter Gallery had an outstanding exhibit called "Handycrafts, at home with textiles," which had tongue-in-cheek artistic takes on the domestic arts of a 50s housewife. I *loved* the crocheted toilet seat cover! And the harried-looking hen tea cosey (knit) with her baby chick egg coseys was hilarious. The needlepoint sampler on email, laptops and the like -- hell, all of the exhibit was inspired. Well done, Suter!

The World of Wearable Art Museum continued that thread (no pun intended). This is an annual show in which artists submit, er, thematic art that can be worn as garments. It's wild! Vivid colors, crazy materials, and truly inspired designs. Some of the "Bizarre Bra" competitors made me laugh out loud: wolves, boobies (the animals, "these are not boobies"), and the chandelier attachments...This year's winner, Booby Trap by Hilary & Judy Unwin of Nelson is fantastic! (Women, I think we should make our own theme bras for Halloween this year.) Check out the other winners at www.WorldofWearableArts.com

With a little bit of time before my plans to catch Shark Tale at the cinema, I drove down to Tahunanui Beach. Even at low tide, there were a number of kids playing on the beach as their parents sat by at the cafe enjoying drinks and food. I sipped some tea and read some more of the (still bizarre) Wind-Up Bird Chronicle.

Speaking of bizarre, how about Shark Tale. No, no, it wasn't the movie itself. It was seeing a movie featuring, predominantly, Black America in a theatre where I am the only Black American. I was pretty sure that most of the cultural references to Car Wash, 70s afros, hip-hop and reggae (including jellyfish tentacles as dreadlocks) were sailing right over people's heads. And, hey, when I laughed aloud at the Krispy Kreme bag that Oscar (Will Smith) pulls out, nobody else laughed. Hilarious.

Not surprisingly, the offerings of the natural world did nothing but enhance the lovely human-made pleasures of Nelson.

Bright and early this morning, I was off with Kiwi Kayaks for a full day of kayaking and hiking in Abel Tasman National Park. (Thank you, Neil Tangri, for the recommendation.) There were just five of us on the trip: Spencer from Lake Tahoe, Judith from Germany, Avi from Israel, a young Japanese student whose name I am sad to say has already slipped from my brain (Sapa?), and our guide, Locke. After a brief introduction to the gear, the trek and each other, we took out three two-seater kayaks onto the water.



Because this is still off-season for most companies, we were blessedly and amazingly alone on the water. I saw only one other kayak the entire time we were out there. Unfrigginbelieveable.

What an amazing day. We kayaked into four different bays. Locke chatted with us about the coastal scenery, history of the specific islands we passed, wildlife, and (lol) getting better at our stroke technique. We stopped for an early breakfast of tea and biscuits (cookies, for you Americans) and later cruised to our last beach for lunch. Spencer and I then broke off from the other three who were on a tour that sent them higher up the coast, and hiked about 3 hours back to a point near our start. The hike -- with views of all the beaches that we had kayaked by -- was just glorious.



Spencer kept me in stitches, too, with some great banter about politics, extreme sports (he's quite the adventurist), family and the like.

Oops, just 10 minutes before I need to ditch this lovely internet shop. Let me sum up as I have before:

Life is good.

Nelson, in a driving rain

My visit to Greymouth and the Global Village Backpackers was lovely, albeit brief. The bikes there were barely usable, so I ditched them in favor of a hoof into town.



Greymouth is rather unremarkable, actually. I walked past a number of car mechanic shops and the mix of light industrial buildings on my search of a coffee shop. I found one that could make a soy latte, and enjoyed a very yummy salad there of spinach, English bacon, brie and grilled scallops in a balsamic vinaigrette. I wouldn't have put those ingredients together myself, but everything's an adventure on vacation. :-)

I booked myself for an evening tour of the Montieth Brewery. I heartily recommend it! For about $15 USD, we merry drinkers got an hilarious tour of the brewery, with samplings of raw malt and (if you were crazy enough) hops, a look into a huge vat of beer, generous samples of five Montieth brews, and the equivalent of three large pints of your choice brew. Yeah, I got a little tipsy. Blessedly, our tour guide was six years sober and could get us back to the host hotel for our (included!) buffet meal with steak.



One of the other people on my tour asked if there was ever a time when Montieth had to toss out a batch of brew. Twice, replied our guide. Once, when the local water turned salty. It killed the yeast and, as a result, the beer. The second time was when one of the brewery staff, leaning over the vat to skim off yeast, fell into the beer. It turns out that there isn't enough oxygen in beer to keep you buoyant, no matter how good a swimmer you may be. He sank to the bottom like a stone. Not surprisingly, they tossed out that beer.

I spent the rest of my late evening back at Global Village, curled up in front of the television for a showing of Yi Yi. My choice: I hadn't seen it before and video showings at Global are free. It was a nice film. Or, rather, I think it might have been. I fell asleep in the middle of it. The thing is three hours long! I woke up, watched about 45 minutes more, then ditched it and went to bed.

I woke in the middle of the night to the strong drumming of rain on the roof. I managed to get back to sleep, but it woke me again in the morning. That hard, driving rain was predicted to last all day, so I decided that it would be a good time to push on north to Nelson and the Tasman Bay.

The west coast of the South Island, north of Greymouth, is spectacular. I know I have used the word before, but trust me when I say that I am not using it lightly. I ditched the idea of capturing its beauty with my camera; the rain was unrelenting. But I did make a couple of stops along the way to stand and gape in the rain.

One hour long break was at Paparoa National Park to see Dolomite Point and its famous pancake rocks. The 15 minute walk from the visitor center was intense, with high, whipping wind and cold, cold rain. I spent more time in the cafe then out in that crazy weather, but the view was breathtaking. The odd-shaped rocks look like stacked pancakes, and the water had carved out natural bridges under which the waves thundered and thundered. It would have been great to stick around...if I weren't soaked to the bone.

I dragged myself away from the warm cafe to hit the road again. It's a beautiful drive inland through the Victoria Range-- the kind of landscape deserving of an RV and a family camping outing. I was determined to get to Nelson by late afternoon, so my stops in the Buller Gorge area for the toilet and in Murchison for a muffin and water were very, very brief.

From Murchison it is long, lonely stretches of rolling hills. Please excuse me while I make a commercial break here. I couldn't have done the trip without my iPod and Belkin radio transmitter. Except from tracks by The The (Julian, I am deleting them when I get home), I jammed to Radiohead, Ziskakan, Ani diFranco, The Cardigans, A3, Cesaria Evora, Erykah Badu...you name it, my whole damn collection in six hours on the road from Greymouth. Ok, end of commercial.

I lodged last night in the Palace Backpackers. The place is in a worn-down but architecturally beautiful Victorian mansion. The place makes you eager to purchase and renovate. While my room had a fantastic view of the town and the distant mountains of the Richmond Range, a cat roaming the premises had me sneezing and reaching for the Visine. I am writing at the local internet cafe while they prepare my room at Tasman Bay Backpacker.

I am off to see the World of Wearable Art gallery this afternoon, and to take a peek in the Suter Gallery near the Queen's Gardens. I actually hope to get into Tasman National Park tomorrow. I want to kayak! Wish me luck.

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.