Nu Zilland - Finale

New Year’s Day arrived with a punishing hangover. Fortunately, our groovy host Steve gave us full license to sleep late, as he had given his staff the morning off anyway. I say Steve was groovy, because in my book, sporting a jazz note automatically makes one so.

We eventually dragged our aching heads and woozy stomachs and our mountains of luggage into the car and onto yet another twisty winding road, through yet more sheep pastures. The jokes bout sheep and New Zealand are no joke – there are a ridiculous number of the woolly beasts here in various stages of undress. I wonder what they do with them all when they stop growing hair? Probably auction them off as internet brides.

On our way down to Christchurch, we detoured through Hanmer Springs, a mountain town built around a hot springs resort. The tourist brochures made it look beautifully rustic, so with memories of our visit to Tabacon – a wild resort built along the banks of a volcanic river in Costa Rica – we eagerly set off in pursuit of a restorative soak in smelly mineral water.

Although the soak proved restorative, the resort itself was a bit of a disappointment. The rustic appearance of the tourist brochures clearly had more to do with clever photography than architectural ingenuity, and nothing sours an experience more than being squeezed for every nickel and dime at every turn of the corner…entry fee, towel rental, locker rental, exit fee…why not just have one fee and let me get on with it? It was bloody taxing to my throbbing head.

Reeking of rotten eggs, we completed our descent into Christchurch and opted for a quiet evening in with another bleu cheese pizza from Hell. Not the fiery depository of lost souls, but the extraordinary pizza kitchen to which I have previously alluded, who, to my great delight, turned out to be a nationwide chain. After several soaks in the Jacuzzi tub and another sleep in, we were ready to explore the greater surrounds.

We considered taking a ride on the gondola to the top of some or other mountain, but then we realized we could just as easily, if not much more affordably, drive there. Only we couldn’t drive directly there, first we had to drive through a long eerie tunnel through the mountain to the port of Lyttleton then drive up the backside of the mountain, which isn’t technically a mountain, but actually the rim of an ancient volcanic crater that rises out of the flat Canterbury plains along the coast like a giant chin zit that popped several thousands of years ago but still won’t go away.

In Lyttleton, we could not resist a visit to the Time Ball Station, mostly because we couldn’t figure out what it could possibly be. We’re still not sure about the time ball part, because we were reluctant to pay the $7 admission charge, but the hillside castle served as a communication station for ships at port through the use of a set of four coded flags. In this way, the harbour master could convey information about the tides, or the weather, or could warn the ladies that their husbands are about to return from sea and that they had better get back to their own beds.

We drove along the scenic summit drive, fearing for our lives on the narrow twisting track that dropped off to oblivion on one side. Creeping along, once more through sheep filled pastures, we followed the guideposts to “The Sign of the Kiwi”, which we thought would surely be something spectacular, but which turned out to be a sign that said, profoundly “The Sign of the Kiwi.” Eventually we came to realize that The Sign of the Kiwi was actually a stage coach stop of sorts that served wonderfully affordable ice cream.

“What flavor is Hokey Pokey?”

“Where are you from?”

“Sydney”

“Then you’d know it as Violet Crumble.”

“Er, I’m really from the US.”

“Oh. In that case, it is Butter Crunch.”

“What’s in a name?” By any other name, it was still delicious.

We celebrated our last night in New Zealand with a flash dinner at a gothic church that had been converted into a jazz dinner club. Polished wood arch ceilings and an ornate pipe organ served as a sumptuous backdrop for a dinner of beef wellington served by aspiring singers and musicians. One of the better uses for a church I have experienced. Too bad the food paled in comparison to the venue.

Our final day in Christchurch was spent shopping for souvenirs and searching for the location on the Avon River where two weeks before, a brutally murdered prostitute had been dumped. I fully expected to find a pile of flowers and ripped fish net stockings, but evidently, that is bad for tourism. However, mentioning the crime and the investigation on every newscast and headline evidently is not.

Having run out of ways to entertain ourselves and being chased from the city streets by a violent hail storm, we arrived at the (shockingly empty) airport quite early. Upon check-in the gate agent and a pretty lady with a fancy hat began whispering about us over walkie-talkies. Remembering our immigration crisis upon departure, I flashed a worried expression. But then the pretty lady softly explained that our flight had been oversold and we were being upgraded to business class. I nearly cried as a Julie Andrews tune ran through my head… “Some where in my youth, or childhood…”

And so, as I sit in the airport lounge, with the last claps of thunder and flashes of lightning clearing from the sky, sipping Speight’s Gold Medal Ale, I have had the time to bring to a close this narrative of our wonderful New Zealand vacation. If there is one lesson I have learned, one take home message from this adventure, it is this: Keep your expectations low, and you will never suffer disappointment in life...indeed, you leave yourself open to be delighted with every little thing.

And...always grab life by the balls.