Best Ground Score Ever

A few months ago, I found a didgeridoo in the dirt behind my office. Being a large and awkward item, it seemed a most unlikely object for someone to lose. It's not like dropping a glove, which might go unnoticed until the next cold snap - I just think one would be very aware of suddenly NOT carrying a 3 foot long brightly painted wooden pipe. I was forced to conclude that it must be stolen and that the perpetrator felt suddenly conspicuous, though I could not imagine why one would ditch such an object in this particular location. I toyed briefly with the idea of turning it into lost and found, but in the end my love for a found object outweighed all of my moral qualms.

And so my didge has taken up a proud position among my gallery of adopted discards. However, last night, a most mysterious occurrence occurred...

Has the ghost of some unsettled ancient aborigine, adrift among the apartments of St Leonards come to reclaim his lost musical instrument? And why had he been dipped in chocolate ice cream...?

What in the Word?

I suppose I should be rather embarrassed that a very violent episode in a very public location exposed two deficiencies of vocabulary, but such is my delight at learning new words, that I cannot be bothered to feel ashamed for not already knowing them.

When I first read the newspaper headlines about the disturbance at Sydney Airport, I had to ask a passing Australian what a 'bollard' was, this being the murder weapon in question. It quickly occurred to me that such an item is most likely called a bollard in America as well - I just never had occasion to have a conversation about one.

Not being entirely familiar with the terms used for criminal misconduct in Australia, I misunderstood the evening news anchor and believed the bikies gang members had been charged with being 'in a fray', which in my vocabulary is synonymous with being in a 'fracas', and seemed a rather innocuous word to apply to the bashing in of a man's head with a large metal object. However, upon reading about the incident further, I realized the bikies had been charged with 'affray', a word which still seems a frightful understatement.

However, understatement seems to be a prevalent trend among Australian news reports, and I am increasingly of the opinion that such a practice helps to curb the intentional hysteria that is the cornerstone of modern American journalism. I have no doubt that had the incident occurred at LAX, it would have been described as a massacre. Of course, if it had occurred at LAX, the cops would have shot all the bikers and it would indeed have been a true massacre.

Although understatement does not lessen the shock and horror of the facts, it does not further propagate those feelings. By using calming language, it is possible to move beyond the violence more quickly and get down to the more important matter of pointing fingers at various government entities for their lack of responsiveness and to promptly introduce new legislation making it illegal to be a member of a bikie gang.

Can the softening of language go too far? Can use of the wrong adjective completely deflate the intensity of an event? You be the judge in this quote from a Liberal Party (read: conservative) Senator:

"It doesn't say much for the millions of dollars we have spent on airport security, nor does it say much, in the event of a fair dinkum terrorist attack, what would happen."

The Bread Winner

“Sorry, Honey – I didn’t buy that bread you really like.”

“Why not? You said that was good bread.”

“Yeah I know, but the label said it supports women’s health, and I just couldn’t bring myself to buy it. So instead I bought the bread that supports men’s health.”

“What, you were afraid you’d start having a period, so now I have to risk growing a beard? What exactly makes a bread support ‘men’s health’?”

“Well, it has lots of whole grains to promote a healthy digestion.”

“Women don’t digest? The bread I buy has lots of whole grains.”

“And this one has soy to promote male reproductive health.”

“My bread has soy.”

“Yes, but that soy is to promote female reproductive health.”

“What is different about the soy?”

“Probably nothing.”

“Then wouldn’t my bread also promote male reproductive health?”

“Yes, but your bread is for women.”

“So now we need to buy two loaves of bread? Wasn’t there some sort of gender-neutral bread with whole grains and soy?”

“Yes, but that is for transvestite reproductive health.”

“Did it say that on the label?”

“No. Look – I just couldn’t be seen buying women’s bread when there was men’s bread right next to it.”

“Just who do you think is watching you buy bread?”

“I don’t know. That’s the point.”

“Well, how does it taste?”

“Like bread.”

Pity Party

One of the advantages – if you can call it that – to moving as much as I have is that I am seldom one of the people who get ‘left behind’. Distracted by the novelty and busyness of relocation, I am somewhat sheltered from the pain of missing my friends. My daily routine is new. My surroundings are unfamiliar. I am not sharply aware that the people I love are absent because they have never been a physical part of this present.


There are friends that come from history - for better or worse, kept because they are old and irreplaceable. Like antique furniture, they might look out of place in a modern living room, but they provide a feeling of continuity and make for good conversation.

There are friends that come from circumstance - coworkers, neighbors, or club members, essential but often superficial. Like a favorite new pair of shoes, they are comfortable and stylish, but eventually they will wear out and need replacing.

Then there are friends that come from intense mutual admiration. Like a warmly lit mirror that magically softens wrinkles, blemishes and character defects, they reflect a self portrait of confident radiance.

Richard has been this sort of friend to me, and today he is moving to London. I can almost hear the sucking sound of the emotional vacuum created by his departure. I feel like a better person when I am in his company, and his absence will be sorely felt. My own self indulgence is preventing me from celebrating his opportunity and wishing him well. Indeed, I have been quite nasty about it.

Of course, as I write this, I am immediately consumed by my own hypocrisy and flooded with feelings of regret and longing for all of those friends who I have left behind, and especially for the one I have lost altogether...



What I mean to say is:

I miss you.

Purple Penguin

It's not unusual for me to see groups of holy people on my morning commute through Sydney's Central Business District. I often see Franciscan Friars or Buddhist Monks waiting for the bus in front of St Andrew's Church. So I didn't think twice when I saw cluster of nuns in starched white habits walking through the Town Hall station.


Until I noticed that they were surrounding a nun with a black wide brimmed hat who was wearing a deep purple robe.

I was suddenly compelled to investigate their footwear: a pair of black combat boots, some fishnet stockings, a set of take-me-back-to-Kansas slippers, a pair of snake-skin stilettos.

Another quick glance before they vanished behind the closing doors of the train to Bondi Junction revealed a shaggy red beard.


Where on earth are they going at 9 in the morning? Surely, no Buck's Night starts at that hour...and their habits were far too clean for them to be on their way home from last night...

Ah yes...The Parade is this Saturday...I reckon The Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence are hosting morning tea.



Can any of my antipodean readers enlighten me as to why it is that in Australia, Mardi Gras falls on a Saturday in the middle of Lent?

Le Invitan

About Australian Grocery Stores

A trip to the grocery store doesn’t exactly constitute an ‘adventure’, but it is an activity worthy of comment, if only for purposes of cultural compare and contrast. Indeed a perusal of commercially available provisions in any foreign country is an enlightening if not confounding experience. I once spent hours in a grocery store in Zimbabwe marveling over bags of unidentifiable ingredients and calculating exchange rates – of course, that was back when grocery stores in Zimbabwe actually had groceries on the shelves, and one did not require a 24-digit calculator in order to perform monetary conversions. The procurement of basic sustenance and household items is a hot topic of discussion among expatriates, rivaled only, perhaps, by lengthy tirades bemoaning the dominance of cricket coverage on television. (Sometimes, when a game has been suspended due to inclement weather, they still broadcast hours of footage of beer drinking spectators staring wishfully at an empty pitch.)

For Americans, the most confounding aspect of Australian grocery stores is their location. It is extremely unusual (although not unheard of) to find a free standing grocery store with a sprawling asphalt parking lot. Most often, a grocery store is located within a congested shopping center surrounded by a convoluted multi-leveled garage. Frequently, grocery stores serve as the anchor shops for full-on malls, much like Macy’s or JCPenney in the States. Large malls may even have two or more competing stores, though it should be noted that there are really only two major competitors for the Aussie grocery dollar – Coles and Woolworth’s (shortened, of course, to Woolie’s and not to be confused with long underwear, the latter seldom offering avocados at 2 for $5.)

One might be tempted to assume that there is no drama associated with a grocery store being located in a mall, except one might also be tempted to assume there would be an outside entrance to such a store. There is not. Access to the market is typically deep within the center of the mall and often involves transcending levels by means of cramped lifts or long sloping escalators (more on those in a bit). Despite the inconvenience, I think it is a brilliant business model: arrive with the intention of simply buying milk and Tim-Tams, and on impulse, go home with a pair of trainers, a new doona, and a hamster (if you follow one link, make it this one!). I don’t know why Westfield has yet to implement this strategy in any of the multitude of defunct malls they have snapped up in dying US townships.

It is a popular pastime in America to lament the demise of small bakeries, butcher shops, and green grocers, these having been forced out of business by large conglomerate chains. Such is not the case in Australia, and indeed these shops are thriving, despite charging far more for their goods and being located immediately outside the entrance to the big stores. I cannot offer much in the way of an explanation for their success in such proximity to their cost cutting competitors, except that they typically offer goods of considerably higher quality and the shopping experience itself is more friendly, more nourishing to the soul than a hectic expedition through crammed narrow aisles stocked with too many choices of lesser evils.
And speaking of evil, that brings me to shopping carts, or trolley’s as they are called here (in New Zealand, they are known as ‘trundlers’, a word I adore and am striving to permanently incorporate into my vocabulary even though trundlers are just as evil as trolleys.) Perhaps evil is too strong of a descriptor, but they are most certainly possessed with a strong will of their own, owing to the fact that all four wheels turn independently and seldom in the same direction at once, such that navigating a corner often resembles a graceless modern ballet of flesh partnered with steel. If you have the misfortune of being parked on a level that is not flush with the store entrance, then you must negotiate your obstinate trolley onto a sloping escalator. The carts and escalators are cleverly engineered such that the wheels lock into place. However, being built and maintained by humans, there are occasional malfunctions. I have seen many frightened pedestrians leaping over rubber rails in fear for their lives ahead of careening carts dragging helpless old ladies behind weighty loads of discounted canned dog food.

The stores themselves are well stocked and modern, with the major differences being units of measure, an excessively large tea aisle, and the presence of kangaroo mince meat. I have a catalog of other observations, but I fear that listing them would sound like complaining…unless I were to specifically state that these are merely observations of differences and not in anyway a proclamation of superiority or inferiority of either country’s approach to edibility:

Cheddar cheese is not dyed orange nor is it widely available, with ‘tasty’ cheese being the more popular curdled milk product.
Bacon. I cannot quite put my finger on the bacon situation, but it is not at all the same entity that I know and love. I am not sure if it is a difference in the cut or the curing process, and although it seems to be more flavorful and less laden with chemicals, it does not cook up with the same satisfying crispiness that makes my heart skip a beat (literally). There is a product here called ‘streaky bacon’, which alleges to be American style, but it still misses the mark. However, the upside to this is that when I visit America, a simple staple becomes a gourmet treat.
Chips are known as crisps (so as not to be confused with French fries which are known as chips) and come in all manner of meat flavors, such as cheese and bacon, honey lime chicken, and pork roast.
Biscuits (aka bikkies) may be either cookies or crackers, but never fluffy rolls laden with baking soda.
Cuts of meat are different and have different names. I have not quite figured out from which part of the animal a Scotch fillet is derived, but it is a damn nice cut of meat. A chicken breast is still a breast, but it is hard to find one with bones that still has the skin – except at the poultry shops (not the butcher shop) located just outside the main entrance.
Every donut case ALWAYS features at least one pink donut.

One of the more frustrating aspects of shopping at any new store is getting accustomed to the general lay-out and organization. At the Coles in Lane Cove, I had the damndest time finding paper towels. There was half an aisle of toilet paper, but not a single paper towel. They were not shelved with the sponges nor with the cleaning products, nor the napkins. I finally found them wedged between onion soup mix and quince paste. At Big W, the dental floss is located, not along side the tooth brushes and tooth paste, but next to the deodorant. I have finally come to realize that many items are shelved alphabetically rather than categorically.

Perhaps grocery shopping is a bit of an adventure after all.

Geography Lesson

When I Grow Up

Yesterday, in an animated fashion, I was recounting the details of our 8-course degustation meal had in the Barossa Wine Region over the long Australia Day Weekend (I ate pigeon! It was quite good, lean and beefy and not at all gamey, though I was disappointed in myself that I could not quite get over the fact that I was eating a flying rat). I concluded my anecdote by saying “It was fun. I felt really grown up.”

Then it occurred to me, that I am 41 years old. 41 years. Yet, I only ever ‘feel’ grown up on rare fleeting occasions. Most of the time, I feel like a confused little kid, constantly befuddled and amazed by the workings of the world and always uncertain of my place in it. This thought was quickly followed by the revelation that if I don’t feel grown up by now, I likely never will. Which made me suspect that most people probably feel the same way and those few people who do feel grown up all the time are probably the very people I typically classify as boring.

I remember the first time I felt ‘grown up’ I was 17. My grandfather had given me his old 76 Ford Pinto, and I spent the day purchasing insurance, getting a smog check, and standing in line at the DMV. At each stop, I wrote a rather large check from my account that had been funded by working extra hours at the library (among other more creative and less taxable means of income generation). It was an immensely satisfying feeling to run around town taking care of business, one of responsibility and maturity.

It occurs to me that people become addicted to that emotion, which might be why people create incredibly busy lives for themselves - because even insignificant activities, like wallpapering the bathroom, arranging fake flowers, or shopping for undersized odd-shaped pillows that perfectly compliment the red highlights in the bedroom drapes can provide a sense of accomplishment. Fortunately, my own addictions tend to be more meditative than industrious. Nonetheless, I still enjoy those ephemeral moments of grown-upedness when I ever-so-briefly feel like an adult steeped in self actualization.

And that is why I love going to wine country.

Even more than drinking wine itself (which, don’t get me wrong, is absolutely wonderful), the rituals and culture of wine and wine making are the embodiment of the process of cultivated maturation which seep into my psyche as I learn about the challenges of viticulture, the turmoil of harvest, and the complexities of ageing. As I practice using the language of appreciation, I develop a sensation of mellow profundity. Contemplating the multilayered metaphors of enological traditions, I become the embodiment of wisdom and gain a deep understanding of the subtleties of the human experience.

Then, after the third or fourth glass, the spell is broken, and once more I am a giddy little child with a remarkably low threshold of entertainment:

Seurat Knew a Lot About Dots

When I was a kid, Channel 2 aired these charming little ‘commercials’ that have become an integral part of my memories of childhood, conjuring up feelings of hot lazy afternoons spent idle in front of the television in our cool dark living room. My favorite featured a little boy and an old man in a canoe. The boy asks, “Jimmy said I am ‘prejudiced’. Grampa, what does ‘prejudice’ mean?” He replied that it meant that you judged someone based on things beyond their control rather than for who they really are.

“But I don’t do that.”

“Who is Jimmy?”

“Jimmy is my Jewish friend.”

“Then you are prejudiced, because you think of Jimmy as your Jewish friend, and not just your friend.”

That last line has echoed in my mind for over 30 years. Not that it made a difference - I still use qualifying adjectives to categorize my friends, such as my Republican friend, my plumber friend, or my crack-head friend. However, I don’t treat them any differently…it just helps me keep them sorted in my muddled brain.

Another of the commercials was all about the French painter Seurat and his technique of creating scenes of harmony and emotion using colored dots. But it is not my intention to discuss the finer points of neo-impressionist art history, rather the catch phrase of that snippet has been on my mind lately as my world has been infiltrated by polka dots. And I have come to a very simple yet powerful conclusion:

Polka dots make me happy.

I have not yet dissected the reasons why such a simple design should have such a profound influence on my psyche (maybe it is because their qualifying adjective evokes images of people bouncing around happily to the strains of an accordion), but I cannot help but smile when I see them. They are frivolous, uplifting, unconcerned with rigid linear thinking, unencumbered by worries of global economic crises or airline safety records. Polka dots care not about their carbon footprint nor do they fear the CIA replacing sovereign governments with sham democracies.

One of my New Year’s resolutions has been to replace my daily consumption of coffee with green tea. To facilitate this goal, I bought myself a cute little polka dot tea pot with matching cup and saucer. These items sit beside me on my desk. I cannot help feeling cheerful as throughout the day, I reach over and pour myself a refreshing constitutional of herbal anti-oxidants, knowing that the polka dots are not preoccupied with thoughts of damaging free radicals coursing through my blood stream.

Yesterday, Kevin organized a picnic, and by organized, I mean he bought the wine, while I selected the venue, planned the menu, and did all the cooking. I was feeling a bit frazzled by the end of the day, but my mood was immediately brightened by the appearance of a rather peculiar flying insect:

I don't know if it was the polka dots or the cool little jazz-note on his tiny man-face!

Warning: Potential Time Sink

The job itself may be a long-shot fantasy, but there are hours of entertainment to be had by watching the video applications:

http://www.islandreefjob.com/

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.

Nu Zilland - Day Eleven - New Years Eve

The Kaikoura Peninsula features a wide plateau formed by uplift of the sea floor surrounded by a ledge of flat rocks that serve as the breeding grounds for large colonies of fur seals and sea gulls. Evidence of old Maori Pa (or forts) is still visible. I know all of this, because in New Zealand - unlike in Australia - such sites feature signs that actually have information on them, rather than nonsensical stories about dreamtime worms that shit out mountain ranges.



We hiked acros the large and very exposed plateau until our flesh was bright pink, then decided to return along the rocky coast - which was just as exposed and, miserably, much more difficult walking. We were absolutely fried by the time we finally returned to our car, which was luckily parked by a makeshift seafood restaurant which offered more restorative chowder.

A deep sun-burnt nap readied us for the evening festivities. We opted to avoid the crowds (ha) of the town pubs and decided to have our own party on our lovely deck.



As Kaikoura did not have much to offer in the way of a fireworks display, I decided to create my own show using a long exposure and playing with the lights that lined the boardwalk across the bay. I was throughly delighted with the results and now have sever megabytes of such:

As the other guests at the hotel pooped out one by one, we were left celebrating the midnight hour with a gorgeous 65 year-old Scotswoman, who has been surviving pancreatic cancer now for one year and three months. She had some very interesting things to say about taking life by the balls.


Happy 19th Anniversary Darling. Here's to an even better year.

Nu Zilland - Day Ten

We arrived in the beautiful seaide town of Kaikoura under a cloud of confusion that was quickly swept away by a delicious bowl of seafood chowder. In my attempt to include a variety of accommodation styles, I had booked us into an old-fashioned pub hotel located at the pier on the end of the peninsula far from the bustling town centre. Any misgivings about the inconveniences of shared bathroom facilities were immediately allayed by the soothing sounds of the surf pounding the rocks just outside of our balcony, the stunning view of snow-capped mountain peaks across a glorious aquamarine bay, and the presence of a deep claw-footed bathtub.






That afternoon, I set out on a solo adventure to go snorkeling with the resident fur seal colony. I was very glad that Kevin had changed his mind about accompanying me. Not that I didn't want to share the experience with him, but we have both finally gained the wisdom to know that he would not have enjoyed bouncing over 5 meter waves in a small open boat in order to plunge into rough frigid water just to have a large dog peer into his leaky face mask (mustaches and snorkeling don't mix). I, on the other hand, was throughly delighted with the playful mammals as a pair of selas frolicked in a bubbly game of chase in the water beneath me. Our guide instructed us to imitate their behavior when they approached. As one large pup swam by my face and rolled on the surface of the water, I did the same - which certainly got his attention. When I copied his duck dive and dipped below the surface, he was so charmed that he swam right up into my face and smiled his little dog smile beneath his round blue eyes. However, he swam away when I squealed with a childish thrill through my snorkel.

Nu Zilland - Day Seven, Eight, Nine

Eternally a sucker for any sort of road-side ‘attraction’, I could not pass up a sign that said “Tame Anatoki Eels”. Eel attractions seem to be quite popular around the Golden Bay region – who wouldn’t want to feed minced animal flesh to a slithering pile of sharp slimy teeth? I am not sure if ‘tame’ is really an appropriate term for a creature that catapults itself out of the water towards your toes at the first whiff of meat.

We drove the Treasured Pathway (doesn’t that sound ever so much more romantic than ‘scenic route?) out of Nelson around the bottom of the Queen Charlotte Sound. I’m still not entirely clear on the exact definition of a sound, versus say an inlet or a bay or a fjord, but it was quite stunning and certainly worthy of being treasured by the nation.

After a much needed week of relative isolation, I felt ready to socialize once again, thus booked us a stay at the campground/RV park in Blenheim, the heart of the Marlborough wine region. Sure enough, as soon as we checked into our cabin, this friendly jumping duck came over to welcome me to town and offered her services as a wine tour guide:

Instead, we opted for a more reputable operation with more comfortable seating arrangements. The Marlborough is famous for its Sauvignon Blanc, and if you are ever shopping for one, you really cannot go wrong to select one from this region. If someone dropped me into the middle of the valley, I would swear I was in California - one side was lined with soft brown hills dotted with oaks and the other with lush green mountains. There were even fields of golden poppies interspersed amongst the vines.

I could dribble on and on about the quality of the varieties, the sumptuousness of the venues, and the conviviality of the people, but after two days of ‘Extreme Winetasting’, I have exhausted my supply of enological adjectives. After the ninth winery, I was forced to resort to descriptors such as ‘unambiguous’, ‘mischievous’, and ‘perpendicular’. My tongue feels like it has been soaked in nitric acid.

Nothing creates camaraderie among strangers like getting sotted together in a big white van, especially if you happen to share some rather unpopular yet strongly held reproductive opinions. We met two absolutely delightful couples on the tour, and I say that because I really liked them and not just because they fed me dinner and sprayed me with bug repellent then wrapped me in a fuzzy blanket and pointed out to Kevin that he had been using the women’s toilet all night and let us drink all their beer as we sat in their camper laughing into the wee hours of the evening.

Nu Zilland - Day Six

The Northwest corner of the South Island of New Zealand is a 25 km long sand bar called Farewell Spit. Because of the delicate and unique ecology of this special region, visitors are only allowed to walk 2.5 km out onto the spit. However, visitors are encouraged to sign up for a full tour aboard an enormous 4-wheel drive diesel bus that climbs up and down the dunes along the entire length of the peninsula. I don’t mind the restriction, just the bullshit. One kilometer into the hot barren walk, it was quite obvious that the real reason for the policy was undoubtedly the cost of rescuing lost and exhausted pedestrians with poor depth perception from the sandy landscape.

Crossing over from the ‘inside’ of the spit to the Tasman Coast, we began to doubt our decision to eschew motor vehicle transport, but when the trail emptied onto an expansive and empty stretch of pristine beach, all doubts evaporated. In each direction, at the limits of my focus, the landscape dissolved into a mirage of dunes reflecting water and water reflecting dunes. It felt like standing on the edge of the end of the world. I would not have been surprised to see the Statue of Liberty half buried in the tidal zone.



Walking along the water’s edge towards what we hoped was the return trail to the carpark, I spied a large dark lump beached upon the sand. I gasped as a large flipper fanned the air. My sensibilities told me to give the seal its space and privacy, but my sense of adventure told me to go touch it! Unfortunately, my sense of speech refused to stand down, and the seal was soon alerted to my approach.



At the trail head, we encountered an exasperated old couple asking for directions, which was disconcerting, because I was hoping to ask them for directions. They claimed to have taken the trail from the carpark ‘through the pastures’, but they neglected to mention that the pastures were filled with cows and sheep, co-habitating together! Climbing a wooden staircase over a barbed-wire enclosure, we were able to sight a bright orange triangle across a field of grazing livestock, then we would pick our way through poop and paddock until the next orange triangle appeared to guide our trajectory. Soon, I too felt the old couple’s exasperation.

Earlier in the day, we visited Te Waikoropupu Springs (Pupu Springs, for short), a site of great spiritual significance to the Maori tribes that lived nearby. As when visiting churches and cathedrals, I soon felt my eyes swelling with the familiar yet unfathomable tears of reverence and respect. 14,000 liters per second of crystal clear water drain from the Marble Mountains and emerge in aquamarine pools that feed a raging river that is quickly becoming choked by invasive algae. If I were didymo, I would want to live in that river, too!

Nu Zilland - Day Five

Wishing you a Maori Christmas and Hippy Holidays!

The weather was unremarkable, so I shan’t remark upon it.

Our day was fairly low key. After a lovely breakfast, we explored Abel Tasman Park by car and then went for a walk to Wainui Falls. I was on constant alert, looking for the giant land snails that purportedly inhabit the area, but I suspect the guidebook was lying, as I saw neither snail nor slime.

I did see plenty of cows, though:

We cooked ourselves a lovely dinner of BBQ Spare Ribs and Sweet potatoes au Gratin, followed by Boysenberry Shortbread with fresh whipped cream – we cut the cholesterol with a couple of bottles of local wine.

And that was pretty much our Christmas!

Nu Zilland - Day Four

I reckon it is kind of pathetic that I feel the need to start off each of my vacation entries with a weather report, but there is no denying the effect that weather has on my general disposition and therefore my perceptions of my experiences. Maybe it is human nature, or maybe it is simply weakness of character, but I am undeniably uninspired by gloomy skies and misty vistas…which is why I don’t have a lot to say about today.

The two hour drive from Nelson to Pohara on Golden Bay took us over 6 hours. Lest you accuse me of dilly-dallying, know that the route is dotted with wineries and fruit stands, so yes, I was dilly-dallying…and some rather expensive (but tasty) dilly-dallying at that! However, we are now well stocked for the holiday with fresh boysenberries and plenty of Pinot Gris.

We arrived at our cozy beachfront cottage and unpacked enough groceries to feed a boy-scout troupe (of course, they aren’t allowed to have any of the wine…or the berries.) Our plans for an afternoon hike were dashed by rain (I lost my rain coat to a strong wind off the balcony and Kevin’s was stolen out of our mailbox), so instead we are holed up with a heater, staring out across a placid but not quite golden bay, which is fine, because it gives me a chance to write postcards and to watch New Zealand news broadcasts. There was a report that Santa had finally left America, after being detained by Homeland Security, seems that because of a spelling error, they had confused him with the known terrorist ‘Satan’.

And then, at 9:00 at night, the most extraordinary thing happened. The sun came out. Its long golden rays slipped over the mountains, igniting the underbelly of the clouds and producing a magnificent full rainbow, which was so close you could almost touch it (but also so close, you could not photograph it in its entirety – or at least not with my lens). Soon, the beach was strewn with holiday makers, smiling and gawping at the sky, delighted to be liberated from their tents, campers, and cabins for this spectacular evening treat.

Gotta go – it’s time to eat more Bosyenberries.

Nu Zilland - Day Three

This morning was another spectacularly warm and cloud free day – perfect conditions for our long drive up the west coast into Nelson. I know that the kind weather is a key factor, yet I find myself enraptured beyond all conceivable expectations with the lush green landscape, the shimmering blue sea, and the towering jagged mountain ranges. We were even able to see some beauty in the lovely sparkling star that suddenly appeared in the center of our windscreen as a double tanker truck kicked a rock into our path.



Note to self: re-read that travel insurance policy, since the rental agent made it a point to tell me I am wholly liable for windscreen damage.

At any rate, there were plenty of amusing road signs to further divert us from that glassine tragedy.

For better or worse, I was unable to locate any penguin roadkill, although I did see heaps of possums. However, Kevin wouldn’t pull over to let me collect their tails, despite the knowledge that there is a pub to the north that pays a one pint bounty per tail.

We stopped off at Pancake Rocks (What an odd coincidence that the Maori word for Pancake is ‘Panakaki’…er…) a bizarre formation of flat-stacked limestone rocks that form a series of violent pools and impressive blowholes. Unfortunately, the blowholes are only truly impressive when the weather is truly shit, but I was not the least bit bothered by the tradeoff.

It’s been a long time since we’ve had a long drive in the country, and I learned that my city left-side driving skills reside in a different portion of my brain than do my rural left-side driving skills. It took a great deal of concentration to remember which side of the road to enter when pulling out of a scenic overlook. Luckily, the roads were nearly deserted, which further enhanced the pleasantness of the journey.

In the small village of Murchison, we stopped into The Commercial Hotel to deliver a photograph to the mother of our friend and neighbor in Shingletown. It was a fun surprise for her, even though he had just returned to California from a visit two days before…it makes the world feel smaller to meet someone who knows someone you love especially when they are halfway around the world.

Leaving Murchison, we were flabbergasted to see a field filled with reindeer – or maybe there were elk – either way, they did not belong in a fenced pasture. Neither did that yak. I’ve never actually seen a yak, but I am pretty damn sure that is what it was, cuz it sure as hell wasn’t a Texas long horn. Then we bought some fresh raspberries from a roadside shed fitted with an ‘honesty box’ and closed circuit security cameras…which reminds me…I should eat some right now…oh, yum.

For fear of sounding like my Aunt Bette, I am reluctant to describe my vacation meals in too much detail, so I will suffice to say that on the whole, I find the fare in New Zealand superior to Australia. I credit that observation to the fact that in the early days of the country, a group of explorers – upon discovering that they could not claim the country for France – decided to say “fuck it” (or whatever the French would say under such circumstances) and settled here anyway…I cannot say for certain whether French influences germinated a pizza topped with garlic, bacon, and bleu cheese, or its presentation (served in a box shaped like a coffin) – but it is a brilliant combination!

Rats, now I’ve gone and ate all of my raspberries…

Nu Zilland - Day Two

I awoke to a gentle sunrise in our windowless room. “Audra?” you might ask, “How is that possible?” I have already alluded to the amusing lighting system in our Japanese style pod of a hotel room. Our early morning alarm consisted of a slow brightening of a full spectrum sun lamp above the bed, punctuated by a single sharp beep at 6:30 am as the television switched on the “wake channel” which featured the time lapse clouds. I stumbled into the glassy shower nook which we had affectionately nick-named “The Orgasmatron” – more for its appearance than for any menial satisfaction we experienced therein, as there was barely room for one person, much less two in any sort of carnal contortion.

I was quite startled to emerge from the hotel into bright sunlight, not so much from the sensory deprivation as from my low expectations of this country and our holiday, and considering that our plan for the day was to take the TransScenic Railway through the Southern Alps, we could not have asked for more glorious travel conditions. With nary a cloud in sight, we boarded our comfortable carriage and began the slow rocking journey across sheep filled pastures, criss-crossing braided rivers before climbing into snow capped peaks and high meadows filled to the breaking point with white daisies, purple lupines, and golden scotch-bloom. Train travel is truly luxurious and well suited to the indulgent introspection I had hoped to gain from this vacation.

I was feeling quite sublime by the time we pulled into the coastal town of Greymouth, and was pleased to find it did not appear nearly as washed out as it did in the pictures on the internet. However, a ten minute stroll through the town center proved more than adequate to acquaint us with all the best on offer, so we opted to back track (quite literally) along our inbound journey to visit the ruins of an abandoned coal mine where I learned all about coking and the dangers of mis-laid explosives. Nonetheless, I was surprised later, when driving through the town, at the number of houses that had coal storage sheds and the pungent smoke smell that will forever remind me of a Mexican barbeque.

Fooled by the incredibly long days, we went in search of dinner only to find that all the restaurants had already closed their kitchens. However, we did find this, which was much more fun than dinner:

Tonight we are staying at a back-packer hostel. As expected, there is a broad contingency of sneering Germans with preposterous dread-locks (“Und let me tell you vhat else is wrong mit Amerika…”), but we were also delighted that we were not the eldest travelers in residence…in fact, not by a long shot – a lovely pair of withered old French women arrived with a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine, and there are also several Australian couples older than us (none of them with dread locks…what the hell is it with backpackers and dreadlocks?? Is it some sort of badge of honor to show how long it has been since you’ve had a job??). There is also a delightful tortoise-shell kitten who volunteered to kill all the back-packer cooties that have been left behind in our room – and there were PLENTY!