When we came back from breakfast there was a large leather cover over the bed, it said "Luggage" in italics. Apparently, we are supposed to pack, place our luggage outside our cabins this evening and leave tomorrow morning. I can't believe it, our epic honeymoon cruise is coming to an end. I'm already suffering withdrawal. We returned all of our library books this morning on our way to Trivia. Trivia is always lots of fun, but sometimes crazy-making. This morning, for example. When asked for the name of Garfield the cat's teddy bear, I immediately wrote down Pookie, but than scribbled it out and put something dumb. You may think "Pookie" is dumb, but actually it's right. I don't think we'll ever win a Princess keychain or Princess carabiner, but that will not be for lack of trying.
People take Trivia very seriously. I don't think they understand the meaning of the name. The cruise director staff is constantly calming down the disgruntled masses and warding against cheaters. I don't know why you would cheat at Trivia, especially when the prizes are Princess keychains. This afternoon will be our last Trivia. Today is all about lasts: last lunch; last dinner; last walk around the promenade; last complimentary chocolates...
Our last two ports were both Canadian and named in honour of Saint John. First we went to St. John's in Newfoundland, and then to Saint John in New Brunswick. Yesterday, we spent most of our time in New Brunswick trying to find a solid internet connection because school had just started for Chris and work for me. Gulp. We eventually got online at a Starbucks, along with every other passenger from our ship, and the ship next door, and the one around the corner. Saint John is on the Bay of Fundy which gets the highest tides in the world. Fifty foot tides! As we came alongside I looked down, down at the enormous tires hanging on chains from the pier and when we left six hours later, the tires had floated to the top. We couldn't use our own gangways, instead the port provided three that were rigged up to different decks as the tide rose. A lone bagpiper played for us when we were meant to leave, but a computer glitch showed some people as ashore, so we left an hour late. Now we know, you can be late; they won't actually leave without you.
Chris finally has some homework to tear into. He is the opposite of every student everywhere, and practically danced when he found one assignment had been posted.
Tomorrow morning, in the wee hours, we will sail past Long Island. Around 4:30 am we will take on our pilot; then we'll pass under the Verazzano bridge, slip past the Statue of Liberty and come alongside around 6:00 am. I am thinking about getting up early to see the sights, but I am pretty sure the sun will still be shining on another part of the planet and the sights will be invisible.
Thank you Frank and Vicki for making this Amazing experience possible.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Scotland Rules!
The theme of the last few days has been high seas, howling winds and the tenacity of hope. We visited the Fram museum in Oslo, Norway. The Fram is a sailing ship with a deep, thick, rounded hull. It looks a little like a hazelnut and was designed to withstand the crushing ice of the polar seas. The Fram museum is the Fram itself in a building with a sharp roof, and it is one of the best museums I've been to. We clambered all over the solid ship--up the sloping deck, down steep ladders past the narrow cabins and deep into the hold. We saw photos and silent films of a the ship locked in ice, the ship being tossed about in a storm--the round hull rolling recklessly--the ship on its way to the Antarctic, its deck swarming with sled dogs. We saw photos of grizzled men with frozen beards. The men's arms stood out from their sides, the shape of their necks lost in headgear. I sometimes found it difficult to plod back up the sledding hill in all of my layers, so thick that the whole length of my legs rubbed together with every step. Swish, crunch, swish, crunch.These men traversed mountains dressed in wolfskins, snowshoed across glaciers, and survived for years on hard tack and seal fat.
When we left Oslo we learned we would skip our next port in the hope of reaching Greenock, Scotland before the roughest weather hit, kicked up from a hurricane and a tropical storm spun off of the East coast of the States. This ship glides through the water. We are so large and so heavy and so full of stabilizers, that most of the time it's hard to tell we're even moving. It took ten foot waves and near gale force winds to get us to shimmy and shake. The stabilizers prevent the typical pitching and rolling, so instead we rock and vibrate, like a train. The dining room becomes a sea of bobbling heads; people bump into walls, chairs and each other, servers rush to carry plates to safety. Chris found he couldn't comfortably read, so, just like the intrepid explorers of Antarctica, we spent the afternoon watching movies. One was surprisingly OK, "The Vow", and the other was disappointingly even worse than we expected, "The Accidental Husband". Chris also watched ESPN, when the signal allowed. We ate our meals by the large windows and watched, hypnotized, as the waves rolled by, the wind sheering off their tops and streaking them in white. Occasionally, the stabilizers, the waves and wind would fall out of synch and the ship would rumble and groan. At some point in the night the knocking and tapping of phantom items came to an end, the shuddering and shaking dropped off and we found ourselves safe in the lee of the Hebrides. Day two at sea was no big thing. The Promenade deck was even reopened.
Today was brilliant. Chris has declared it his favorite day so far, and decided that we should move. To Scotland. We came in to Greenock and passed through the friendliest, most cheerful tourism and information center. We were given clear and detailed instructions on how and where to catch the train to Glasgow, where we met up with friends and had a lovely afternoon. It was a nice treat to actually see people we know and get to have some real catching-up conversations. Throughout the day, everyone we came across was nice: the information center volunteer; the man in the corner shop who sold me a top up voucher for my phone; the girl in the phone shop who told me I needed a new SIM card for my top up voucher to work, but that I could get one for a pound across the street; the girls selling train tickets; the gentleman checking train tickets; the waiters at the coffee shop and at the restaurant; the people lining the streets waiting for the parade of returning Olympic champions. Glasgow has certainly lived up to its reputation as a friendly city ;) Even the weather treated us well, with mostly blue skies. We felt right at home and called out the names of our faithful British companions as we strolled the streets, "WHSmith", "Primark", "Argos", "Pret!" "Sainsbury's Local". We took the opportunity to stock up on some British treats. Tomorrow morning I will figure out how to smuggle crumpets past the buffet greeters to the toaster. In the end, under a dramatic sky of rolling clouds, a great big team of bagpipers gave us a wonderful send off as the wind blew our ship safely off the pier. As Chris said, it felt like the town was actually glad to have us come visit.
When we left Oslo we learned we would skip our next port in the hope of reaching Greenock, Scotland before the roughest weather hit, kicked up from a hurricane and a tropical storm spun off of the East coast of the States. This ship glides through the water. We are so large and so heavy and so full of stabilizers, that most of the time it's hard to tell we're even moving. It took ten foot waves and near gale force winds to get us to shimmy and shake. The stabilizers prevent the typical pitching and rolling, so instead we rock and vibrate, like a train. The dining room becomes a sea of bobbling heads; people bump into walls, chairs and each other, servers rush to carry plates to safety. Chris found he couldn't comfortably read, so, just like the intrepid explorers of Antarctica, we spent the afternoon watching movies. One was surprisingly OK, "The Vow", and the other was disappointingly even worse than we expected, "The Accidental Husband". Chris also watched ESPN, when the signal allowed. We ate our meals by the large windows and watched, hypnotized, as the waves rolled by, the wind sheering off their tops and streaking them in white. Occasionally, the stabilizers, the waves and wind would fall out of synch and the ship would rumble and groan. At some point in the night the knocking and tapping of phantom items came to an end, the shuddering and shaking dropped off and we found ourselves safe in the lee of the Hebrides. Day two at sea was no big thing. The Promenade deck was even reopened.
Today was brilliant. Chris has declared it his favorite day so far, and decided that we should move. To Scotland. We came in to Greenock and passed through the friendliest, most cheerful tourism and information center. We were given clear and detailed instructions on how and where to catch the train to Glasgow, where we met up with friends and had a lovely afternoon. It was a nice treat to actually see people we know and get to have some real catching-up conversations. Throughout the day, everyone we came across was nice: the information center volunteer; the man in the corner shop who sold me a top up voucher for my phone; the girl in the phone shop who told me I needed a new SIM card for my top up voucher to work, but that I could get one for a pound across the street; the girls selling train tickets; the gentleman checking train tickets; the waiters at the coffee shop and at the restaurant; the people lining the streets waiting for the parade of returning Olympic champions. Glasgow has certainly lived up to its reputation as a friendly city ;) Even the weather treated us well, with mostly blue skies. We felt right at home and called out the names of our faithful British companions as we strolled the streets, "WHSmith", "Primark", "Argos", "Pret!" "Sainsbury's Local". We took the opportunity to stock up on some British treats. Tomorrow morning I will figure out how to smuggle crumpets past the buffet greeters to the toaster. In the end, under a dramatic sky of rolling clouds, a great big team of bagpipers gave us a wonderful send off as the wind blew our ship safely off the pier. As Chris said, it felt like the town was actually glad to have us come visit.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Passenger in Transit
Our cabin smells like cantaloupe. Chris succumbed to a similar but, according to the CDC guidelines, less severe version of my stomach bug. He was not officially quarantined, but spent all of our day at sea cloistered in the cabin watching "Twilight's" melodramatic "Breaking Dawn". While I only had a taste for jello, Chris only wanted cantaloupe. Both of us thought crackers were OK, too. Yesterday was his first day out in the big world, in the vibrant city of Copenhagen. It was actually a change-over day; most of the passengers disembarked in the morning and new passengers came on board for the next cruise, the crossing. We had to carry "Passenger in Transit" cards when we went ashore and got to feel like Emerald Princess natives when we came back on board. The emergency drill passed barely noticed, we only had to put down our books to plug our ears at the sounding of the general alarm. For hours afterwards I saw people wandering around with life jackets. May as well explore and have a drink, now that I'm up.
Copenhagen is a cool city. At least I think it is. We'll have to come back to both Stockholm and Copenhagen some day. We couldn't really explore either city, as throughout both one of us walked cradling a still tender tummy. Even still, we appreciated the beautiful architecture of Copenhagen, the abundance of bicycles and the miles of pedestrian zones. Lots of the main streets and squares have been torn up and blocked off while the city frantically renovates and upgrades the metro system, the roads. We've noticed lots of construction on this cruise, everything has to be finished before the winter weather sets in and work freezes to a halt.
Although we didn't see much of Stockholm on foot, it reminds me of a cleaner, brighter version of St. Petersburg. The cities' bones are quite similar. Both are built across dozens of islands, with countless bridges crisscrossing the rivers and canals. In both cities the buildings reflected in the water look like cakes; in St. Petersburg the buildings are wide and sprawling, great big sheet cakes, while in Stockholm they're more square and contained, dainty little petit fours. And, both cities are large and busy. For us, the best, most captivating part of our visit to Stockholm was the archipelago. It took a few hours to navigate away from the city and through the thousands of islands. Apparently the Baltic does not have much of a tide, so houses are built right up against the water. Large ships must maintain a slow speed to not throw out a destructive wake. Chris and I sat up in the dining room and looked out as rocky, pine-covered islands of every size drifted past. We saw little wooden summer houses perched on the edge of even the smallest islands and listened to the lecturer describe Sweden's enlightened relationship with the outdoors.
Copenhagen is a cool city. At least I think it is. We'll have to come back to both Stockholm and Copenhagen some day. We couldn't really explore either city, as throughout both one of us walked cradling a still tender tummy. Even still, we appreciated the beautiful architecture of Copenhagen, the abundance of bicycles and the miles of pedestrian zones. Lots of the main streets and squares have been torn up and blocked off while the city frantically renovates and upgrades the metro system, the roads. We've noticed lots of construction on this cruise, everything has to be finished before the winter weather sets in and work freezes to a halt.
Although we didn't see much of Stockholm on foot, it reminds me of a cleaner, brighter version of St. Petersburg. The cities' bones are quite similar. Both are built across dozens of islands, with countless bridges crisscrossing the rivers and canals. In both cities the buildings reflected in the water look like cakes; in St. Petersburg the buildings are wide and sprawling, great big sheet cakes, while in Stockholm they're more square and contained, dainty little petit fours. And, both cities are large and busy. For us, the best, most captivating part of our visit to Stockholm was the archipelago. It took a few hours to navigate away from the city and through the thousands of islands. Apparently the Baltic does not have much of a tide, so houses are built right up against the water. Large ships must maintain a slow speed to not throw out a destructive wake. Chris and I sat up in the dining room and looked out as rocky, pine-covered islands of every size drifted past. We saw little wooden summer houses perched on the edge of even the smallest islands and listened to the lecturer describe Sweden's enlightened relationship with the outdoors.
Saturday, September 8, 2012
Grumpy Old Men
The green pine trees, craggy rocks and red wooden houses of Sweden are quietly gliding by outside our balcony. Chris is on his way up to the 16th deck to work out. I am sitting at our cabin's desk, waiting out the last thirty minutes of my 24-hour quarantine. They take their stomach bugs seriously on Emerald Princess. Good thing I had Chris to fuss and coo, "poor little sweetie" and pick out movies and make sure I rehydrated, otherwise I just felt like a criminal. At 8am, when the doctor's clinic opened, we paid the 55 dollars for a visit, because that was the only way to get any over-the-counter drugs. The gift shop remains closed when in port. Our cabin was cleaned, our linens changed by specially trained crew and I had 24-hours of free room service. Not any old room service, mind, but the Emerald Princess bland diet room service, which is really all that appealed any way. The incoming tray was handed directly to Chris -- the room service attendant is not allowed to enter the room -- the used trays were not placed outside in the hallway but handed off over the threshold when we called. Instead of going ashore in Helsinki, we both caught up on the sleep we'd missed the night before, watched three movies, ate five jello pots, and finished our books. We're really getting the full cruise ship experience.
For the two days before the "onset of the illness" we raced around St. Petersburg. In order to get ashore in St. Petersburg, without individual visas, we had to sign up for excursions. Before the first excursion of the first day we were all assembled in the Princess Theater in rows according to our tour and our bus number. Sadly, even the streamlined efficiency of Princess cruises could not overwhelm the slow moving bureaucracy that is Russian immigration. Our bus finally pulled out of the newly built and wind-swept "largest passenger terminal in the Baltic" one hour behind schedule. This was not our guide's fault, nor was the subsequent rush hour traffic, but so many of our fellow passengers complained and grumbled. The poor guide, Inna, was stuck in a bad place. Half the passengers wanted to rush and get back to the ship in time for their afternoon excursions, and the other half wanted to get their money's worth and take their time. The palace rooms at Peterhof were opulent and ornate, gilded and exquisitely crafted, but the golden fountains, glistening in the sun, and the rainbow-catching spray were the best part. There are no pumps, just the force of gravity, pushing the water through the pipes and out into the sunshine. In the afternoon, we motored up and down the Neva on a tour boat seeing the city as it's meant to be seen, from the water. We couldn't enter the canals because the high waters would have made the bridges into decapitators. We ended our chaotic, non-stop day with an evening at the ballet, Swan Lake. I am glad we did the excursions, because we really are trying to get the full experience of cruising life and we definitely saw a lot -- of St. Petersburg, and of our fellow passengers -- but I wish we could have explored on our own. There is so much more to see in a city than just the sites. On the second day we did get two hours of free time. Chris and I spent most of it at "Dom Knigi", the House of Books.
For the two days before the "onset of the illness" we raced around St. Petersburg. In order to get ashore in St. Petersburg, without individual visas, we had to sign up for excursions. Before the first excursion of the first day we were all assembled in the Princess Theater in rows according to our tour and our bus number. Sadly, even the streamlined efficiency of Princess cruises could not overwhelm the slow moving bureaucracy that is Russian immigration. Our bus finally pulled out of the newly built and wind-swept "largest passenger terminal in the Baltic" one hour behind schedule. This was not our guide's fault, nor was the subsequent rush hour traffic, but so many of our fellow passengers complained and grumbled. The poor guide, Inna, was stuck in a bad place. Half the passengers wanted to rush and get back to the ship in time for their afternoon excursions, and the other half wanted to get their money's worth and take their time. The palace rooms at Peterhof were opulent and ornate, gilded and exquisitely crafted, but the golden fountains, glistening in the sun, and the rainbow-catching spray were the best part. There are no pumps, just the force of gravity, pushing the water through the pipes and out into the sunshine. In the afternoon, we motored up and down the Neva on a tour boat seeing the city as it's meant to be seen, from the water. We couldn't enter the canals because the high waters would have made the bridges into decapitators. We ended our chaotic, non-stop day with an evening at the ballet, Swan Lake. I am glad we did the excursions, because we really are trying to get the full experience of cruising life and we definitely saw a lot -- of St. Petersburg, and of our fellow passengers -- but I wish we could have explored on our own. There is so much more to see in a city than just the sites. On the second day we did get two hours of free time. Chris and I spent most of it at "Dom Knigi", the House of Books.
Sunday, September 2, 2012
Epic Honeymoon Cruise
Some days ago, who knows how many, we left Portland, OR passed through Chicago and Munich and ended up, travel-weary and a little woozy, at the baggage reclaim in Copenhagen airport. Along with five or six others, we were bused to the ship, led through security, given our key cards (which also act as I.D. and shipboard credit card) and directed to our room, D317. We met our cabin steward, a tall, humorous, Polish guy called Kris, and were told to get ready for the emergency drill. Looking around at our muster station, Chris and I decided we must represent a minority group amongst Princess customers. We sat, orange life-jackets carefully folded on our laps, and watched as repeat-customers dozed off to the shout and crackle of the PA.
By now we have explored most of the decks -- my favorite is definitely the Promenade deck, which as the name implies, allows us to walk completely around the ship. Three times around equals one mile, because, as we now know, this ship is enormous. Not only is the circumference 1/3 of a mile (1,760 feet!) , but the height is staggering. We tower above everything else in port. The views are amazing, no matter where we are: from our balcony we watch the moon light up a strip of the sea; from the dining rooms we look out over miles of water, or at a rocky islands covered in pines; from the promenade we gaze over the stern, hypnotised by the swirling, washing-machine chaos being churned out behind us. Our wake stretches out behind us for miles.
We haven't yet eaten in the formal dining rooms, we've had all of our dinners in the buffet restaurants on the fifteenth deck. Immediately before entering the buffet we are directed to sanitize our hands--with 3,000 passengers and 1,500 crew, this plan makes a lot of sense. At peak times in the buffet lines you must be savvy and alert to keep your plate safe. Groups or individuals can suddenly reverse, cornering you by the oatmeal pots; while a passenger examines the spread to his right, his towering plate lists dangerously in his left hand; you must protect your plate from unpredictable elbows and shoulders flying in from port or starboard.
Apart from arriving in Copenhagen, we've visited two ports so far, Oslo, Norway and Aarhus, Denmark. In my mind's eye I now equate Denmark with bikes. Bike paths run faithfully between the road and the sidewalk. Not American style bike lanes, which are usually just renamed shoulders, but real paths with their own curb and all. At large intersections the bikes have their own mini set of traffic lights! Everyone peddles along: men in suits; girls in dresses; grandmas; grandpas; young dads with a child in the back; teenagers; students. No one wears a helmet and no one carries a lock. The buildings and railings are lined, two or three deep, with bikes. Bikes are everywhere! And none of them are locked up. Aarhus is Denmark's second largest city, and it's biggest port. The bike-lined mile of pedestrian streets was heaving with people this Saturday. Everyone was out to shop, dine, catch up with friends, flirt, and check out the live music. We navigated the little streets and made our way north to the Botanic garden and Aarhus University. We like having a destination, no matter what it is, as it allows us to see more sides of the city. We were led down residential streets of multi-coloured row houses; past paint stores, grocery stores, bike shops, home goods stores, tiny mini marts nestled in garden-level basements; past some graffiti and some robust front gardens. We passed the art museum with its rainbow paned panoramic walkway and the big, modern library.
This is the first time either of us has visited Scandinavia, it's fun to see the people. I recognise my fine hair and easily-burning scalp in the people we pass, my height does not feel out of place. For once I feel I am "ethneutral", I am not usually addressed in English, but Chris is. Oslo is a lovely city. Once again we chose some destinations and explored the streets. The architecture is varied -- some cake-like buildings, some pointy, doily-like buildings, lots of yellow, orange and red. The streets run into each other at odd angles and we had to pay attention to stay on the same street. We saw the Nobel Peace Prize Museum (that does not sell imitation coins), the National Library and the National Gallery. Our final destination was the Vigeland Park which was designed by Gustav Vigeland and filled with his work. His statues are a tribute to humans and to life, in all of its stages. Everyone is naked (the statues, I mean), but they are all engaged in normal activities -- swinging a child, fighting, hugging, crying, consoling, dancing, playing. His style is not overly detailed or so-realistic-it's-creepy. Instead they seem like sketches in statue form, all of the emotions and movements are so perfectly conveyed.
By now we have explored most of the decks -- my favorite is definitely the Promenade deck, which as the name implies, allows us to walk completely around the ship. Three times around equals one mile, because, as we now know, this ship is enormous. Not only is the circumference 1/3 of a mile (1,760 feet!) , but the height is staggering. We tower above everything else in port. The views are amazing, no matter where we are: from our balcony we watch the moon light up a strip of the sea; from the dining rooms we look out over miles of water, or at a rocky islands covered in pines; from the promenade we gaze over the stern, hypnotised by the swirling, washing-machine chaos being churned out behind us. Our wake stretches out behind us for miles.
We haven't yet eaten in the formal dining rooms, we've had all of our dinners in the buffet restaurants on the fifteenth deck. Immediately before entering the buffet we are directed to sanitize our hands--with 3,000 passengers and 1,500 crew, this plan makes a lot of sense. At peak times in the buffet lines you must be savvy and alert to keep your plate safe. Groups or individuals can suddenly reverse, cornering you by the oatmeal pots; while a passenger examines the spread to his right, his towering plate lists dangerously in his left hand; you must protect your plate from unpredictable elbows and shoulders flying in from port or starboard.
Apart from arriving in Copenhagen, we've visited two ports so far, Oslo, Norway and Aarhus, Denmark. In my mind's eye I now equate Denmark with bikes. Bike paths run faithfully between the road and the sidewalk. Not American style bike lanes, which are usually just renamed shoulders, but real paths with their own curb and all. At large intersections the bikes have their own mini set of traffic lights! Everyone peddles along: men in suits; girls in dresses; grandmas; grandpas; young dads with a child in the back; teenagers; students. No one wears a helmet and no one carries a lock. The buildings and railings are lined, two or three deep, with bikes. Bikes are everywhere! And none of them are locked up. Aarhus is Denmark's second largest city, and it's biggest port. The bike-lined mile of pedestrian streets was heaving with people this Saturday. Everyone was out to shop, dine, catch up with friends, flirt, and check out the live music. We navigated the little streets and made our way north to the Botanic garden and Aarhus University. We like having a destination, no matter what it is, as it allows us to see more sides of the city. We were led down residential streets of multi-coloured row houses; past paint stores, grocery stores, bike shops, home goods stores, tiny mini marts nestled in garden-level basements; past some graffiti and some robust front gardens. We passed the art museum with its rainbow paned panoramic walkway and the big, modern library.
This is the first time either of us has visited Scandinavia, it's fun to see the people. I recognise my fine hair and easily-burning scalp in the people we pass, my height does not feel out of place. For once I feel I am "ethneutral", I am not usually addressed in English, but Chris is. Oslo is a lovely city. Once again we chose some destinations and explored the streets. The architecture is varied -- some cake-like buildings, some pointy, doily-like buildings, lots of yellow, orange and red. The streets run into each other at odd angles and we had to pay attention to stay on the same street. We saw the Nobel Peace Prize Museum (that does not sell imitation coins), the National Library and the National Gallery. Our final destination was the Vigeland Park which was designed by Gustav Vigeland and filled with his work. His statues are a tribute to humans and to life, in all of its stages. Everyone is naked (the statues, I mean), but they are all engaged in normal activities -- swinging a child, fighting, hugging, crying, consoling, dancing, playing. His style is not overly detailed or so-realistic-it's-creepy. Instead they seem like sketches in statue form, all of the emotions and movements are so perfectly conveyed.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
The People Upstairs and the Green Belt
They must have wooden floors up there; no brown, one-millimeter-thick, industrial carpet softens the noise. It’s a couple living above us. The wife worked for Imelda Marcos and stole half her shoes: tap shoes, golf shoes, combat boots, a pair of cleats, steel-toed construction boots, ballet point slippers and some wooden clogs. At least I assume some such footwear magnifies the pounding of her feet. Her husband has two peg legs, obviously. They have nightly square dance lessons and step aerobics throughout the day. Some times they go to the store, buy a bag of apples and bring them home to drop, over and over again. There’s an awful lot of vacuuming too.
Chris and I went on a day hike through “Happy Valley”, along the North Downs Way and back up through another valley to the train station. The London green belt is in zone 6. This means you can swipe your tube card and take a commuter train out to a valley, where there are cows and birds and wide-open views. The walk was lovely, just long enough to tucker us out, but not so long as to make anyone (Chris!) grumpy (“I hate hiking!”). We had perfect weather, warm with long periods of sun. Chris got to pet a lot of dogs out on their walk, and he even got to pet three horses. We walked past a field and called the horses over. The enormous beasts eagerly trotted over and looked for apples in our hands. Chris held out his hand and let the horse’s big lips cover his whole fist. Chris didn’t have an apple. Then we pet them. I was nervous that the horse would bite Chris’s hand off, and then we’d have a problem. So I took pictures to distract the horse, and myself. They were sweeties though, and did not bite off Chris’s hand, or his face. They just waited patiently to be stroked. Horses are big.
Our guidebook was very detailed. “Walk one meter, turn left and walk fifteen meters, pass to the left of the cattle-guard. Walk 200 meters with the field to your right and a wood to your left”. Our guidebook was so detailed we got confused. We assumed that the cattle guard in front of our face must not be right, or else it wouldn’t require such precise directions. Soon though it turned the hike into a scavenger hunt! We eagerly sought out the table with two benches, or the metal cattle barrier, we knew what sort of landmarks waited for us up ahead. I suppose because we were just in the suburbs of London, the hike did not follow a single path, instead a trail was cobbled together from all of the green spaces. We passed through an old village and stopped at a church that was written in the Domesday Book. The parish was founded in 1076. America was founded seven hundred years later. Woah.
Chris and I went on a day hike through “Happy Valley”, along the North Downs Way and back up through another valley to the train station. The London green belt is in zone 6. This means you can swipe your tube card and take a commuter train out to a valley, where there are cows and birds and wide-open views. The walk was lovely, just long enough to tucker us out, but not so long as to make anyone (Chris!) grumpy (“I hate hiking!”). We had perfect weather, warm with long periods of sun. Chris got to pet a lot of dogs out on their walk, and he even got to pet three horses. We walked past a field and called the horses over. The enormous beasts eagerly trotted over and looked for apples in our hands. Chris held out his hand and let the horse’s big lips cover his whole fist. Chris didn’t have an apple. Then we pet them. I was nervous that the horse would bite Chris’s hand off, and then we’d have a problem. So I took pictures to distract the horse, and myself. They were sweeties though, and did not bite off Chris’s hand, or his face. They just waited patiently to be stroked. Horses are big.
Our guidebook was very detailed. “Walk one meter, turn left and walk fifteen meters, pass to the left of the cattle-guard. Walk 200 meters with the field to your right and a wood to your left”. Our guidebook was so detailed we got confused. We assumed that the cattle guard in front of our face must not be right, or else it wouldn’t require such precise directions. Soon though it turned the hike into a scavenger hunt! We eagerly sought out the table with two benches, or the metal cattle barrier, we knew what sort of landmarks waited for us up ahead. I suppose because we were just in the suburbs of London, the hike did not follow a single path, instead a trail was cobbled together from all of the green spaces. We passed through an old village and stopped at a church that was written in the Domesday Book. The parish was founded in 1076. America was founded seven hundred years later. Woah.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
The Newcastle
We rode the Megabus to Newcastle. What’s so mega about a Megabus? Not much, perhaps the length of the journey, or the mega-deal of the unmegacious prices. We left at four, after Chris finished his shift, (and after we loaded up on the café's goodies). The bus lumbered through the dusk, past the suburbs of London, into night, and we swayed to a wheezing halt in downtown Newcastle at eleven pm. There we had a fabulous visit with the fabulous Gerry and Adele. On Saturday we clambered aboard the train to Durham (a ten-minute journey) and enthusiastically showed Chris our old streets, shops and homes and investigated the new development (restaurants and bars) down by the river. The day was beautiful and mild; we admired the architecture, the cathedral, the castle, the bridges and the cobbled streets. We glared and scoffed at the unfortunate university buildings that came into the world in the sixties, a decade of concrete, clunky shapes and no respect for natural light. Gerry and I argued is the Union building the most hideous, or the library? I guess the library at least has beautiful books inside; you should never judge a book by its library!
Chris had to head home to London the next day to be back in time for work, but I got to stay a little longer—it was my “reading week” and I had no classes. After hanging out in downtown Newcastle, Adele and I flung ourselves about the room as we perfected every Wii challenge. The Wii is the first video game thing since Tetris to claim my attention for more than fourteen seconds. The next day we wandered along the coast, to the end of a nearly endless pier, through the mud to a Collingwood monument, and had a perfect cup of tea before going to the cinema.
If you haven't seen "True Grit" you should, unless you don't like movies. In that case, I'm sorry, there's nothing we can do for you. Then watch it again, because it is beautiful and extremely re-watchable. On Wednesdays Chris and I can go to the cinema--that's what we call it here in Engerland--for half price (a mobile phone deal), and a couple of weeks ago we saw "Black Swan". The music swirled around my head for the next ninety-nine hours. I'd like to thank my brother for shattering my be-a-ballerina dreams, and my parents for never signing me up for ballet lessons.
Chris had to head home to London the next day to be back in time for work, but I got to stay a little longer—it was my “reading week” and I had no classes. After hanging out in downtown Newcastle, Adele and I flung ourselves about the room as we perfected every Wii challenge. The Wii is the first video game thing since Tetris to claim my attention for more than fourteen seconds. The next day we wandered along the coast, to the end of a nearly endless pier, through the mud to a Collingwood monument, and had a perfect cup of tea before going to the cinema.
If you haven't seen "True Grit" you should, unless you don't like movies. In that case, I'm sorry, there's nothing we can do for you. Then watch it again, because it is beautiful and extremely re-watchable. On Wednesdays Chris and I can go to the cinema--that's what we call it here in Engerland--for half price (a mobile phone deal), and a couple of weeks ago we saw "Black Swan". The music swirled around my head for the next ninety-nine hours. I'd like to thank my brother for shattering my be-a-ballerina dreams, and my parents for never signing me up for ballet lessons.
Friday, February 4, 2011
This is a test
Not the sort of test that comes with a grade and disappointed red comments (those will be in May), rather it’s to test the brokenness of a system. I’m not sure if a website can break. Does a website even exits, really? But if the stock market can crash, like a train or a truck, then a website could crack. Has my blog given up its bloggy ghost, or will it exist, forever, somewhere…And does it exist if nobody reads it? Well, you’ll read it right, dad? Hi.
We live in Queen’s Park. Not in the actual park, that closes at sunset and would be a daily annoyance, but in a “studio” across the street. We have a wall of rattley windows that look out over the peaceful, green park to the brick houses beyond. Our studio is one room posing as three rooms. Under the windows we have a bed and a nightstand, and across from the bed slumps a slack-jawed wardrobe. This is the bedroom. At the foot of the bed we have a table with two chairs and across from them a very impressive fireplace. Three times a day this is the dining room; the other (infinite?) times of the day it is a study. A foot-wide strip of wavy linoleum delineates the third room, the kitchen, from the living areas. Our cupboards are hideous, but our oven is hilarious, and the fridge makes a gentle snoring noise. It has a little cold. Ha Ha. The bathroom is down the hall, it barely warrants a mention.
Chris makes sandwiches for a massive café in Leicester Square. He also gets to eat these sandwiches every day for lunch. I read seven thousand books a day and don’t get to eat any yummy sandwiches. Peanut butter does not compare to smoked salmon and cream cheese, or a hummus salad wrap. The museums in London are free, so Chris and I have visited quite a few. Maybe we will see them all by the end of our year. We have already learned about dinosaurs, the history of medicine and space travel, we’ve admired statues, paintings and someone’s bust made from his own blood. I hear the London Transport Museum is quite good.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Auto Shop
Our car has oil in the cooling system. From what I've learned a greasy, brown sludge is not supposed to appear alongside the water in the radiator. In fact, it is a very bad sign. Some phantom "head gasket", with a crown and scepter, is leaking. He lays on the his deathbed, surrounded by underling gaskets and leaks his lifeblood into our radiator.
We hoped to sell the car for a cool $1700(NZ), but after a few test drives and impartial examinations under the hood we know that our Mazda's head gasket is porous. This happens with Mazdas. It explains the exponential increase in over-heating incidents. Eleven months ago it took four hours of reckless hill driving and day time temperatures of 80+ to get the engine to over heat. Now it takes nothing more than a fifteen minute drive at a reasonable speed on a flat road in a chilly drizzle.
I suspect this is not a new problem, you may remember a post many months ago about our first overheating, it is just a worse problem. Chris and I are naive and trusting, this is something else I've learned, and thought the seller was honest and helpful. We did not wonder at his impatience to sign the papers and be rid of the car. I thought maybe he was late for Church, or his volunteering session at the Red Cross. It turns out he wanted to get out of sight before our car burst into flames.
On Sunday we took Hank to a Car Fair. This is where we learned his dirty secret. After a couple of people diagnosed the leaky head gasket and explained, sympathetically, that the fix costs more than the car is worth, I did not have the stomach to sell it. Should we lie to some poor unsuspecting backpackers, a couple guilty only of car-ignorance? We had sunk a substantial portion of our NZ savings into the car, and cursed the name (whatever it was) of the schmuck who sold us the car. Could we want to just turn around and swindle another group. No. We have saved lots of money by living in the car, not to count the bus-fares saved, and even budgeted our living expenses with the assumption that the car would be sold for scrap.
I felt a knot in my stomach when customers wandered over to our shiny red car. He'd had a wash and a vacuum and, together with the bed made up and all of our stuff piled on the ground outside, Hank looked sharp. Roomy. Cosy. Conveniently equipped with a Road Atlas and crockery. Go Away, don't buy this car!! It will only cost you thousands of dollars in repairs! He won't get you out of Christchurch! Run!
A nice, older gentleman, who moved slowly and smoothly like a ship in a calm, came up to the car. He asked me how many Kms on the odometer. I replied, "157,000, but you don't want to buy it it has a leaky head gasket". Hmmm, "can I take it for a test drive?". What? Chris looks at me and says, "sure". The gentleman climbs into the driver's seat and carefully, with years of experience, eases the car out of the parking lot. I stayed behind to watch our piles of stuff and chat with an 11 year old Kurd about WWE (wrestling). When they returned Chris and he are laughing. Chris has told him all about the car's problems but John (that is his name) wants to buy it for his grandson who's coming in a few weeks for three months. We agree on a very low price (but one that we both feel good about) and he is happy to let us carry on living in it till we hand it over when he'll take us to the airport.
So many times strangers have been kind to us, in this faraway land and it's nice to leave the country without screwing some new arrivals.
We hoped to sell the car for a cool $1700(NZ), but after a few test drives and impartial examinations under the hood we know that our Mazda's head gasket is porous. This happens with Mazdas. It explains the exponential increase in over-heating incidents. Eleven months ago it took four hours of reckless hill driving and day time temperatures of 80+ to get the engine to over heat. Now it takes nothing more than a fifteen minute drive at a reasonable speed on a flat road in a chilly drizzle.
I suspect this is not a new problem, you may remember a post many months ago about our first overheating, it is just a worse problem. Chris and I are naive and trusting, this is something else I've learned, and thought the seller was honest and helpful. We did not wonder at his impatience to sign the papers and be rid of the car. I thought maybe he was late for Church, or his volunteering session at the Red Cross. It turns out he wanted to get out of sight before our car burst into flames.
On Sunday we took Hank to a Car Fair. This is where we learned his dirty secret. After a couple of people diagnosed the leaky head gasket and explained, sympathetically, that the fix costs more than the car is worth, I did not have the stomach to sell it. Should we lie to some poor unsuspecting backpackers, a couple guilty only of car-ignorance? We had sunk a substantial portion of our NZ savings into the car, and cursed the name (whatever it was) of the schmuck who sold us the car. Could we want to just turn around and swindle another group. No. We have saved lots of money by living in the car, not to count the bus-fares saved, and even budgeted our living expenses with the assumption that the car would be sold for scrap.
I felt a knot in my stomach when customers wandered over to our shiny red car. He'd had a wash and a vacuum and, together with the bed made up and all of our stuff piled on the ground outside, Hank looked sharp. Roomy. Cosy. Conveniently equipped with a Road Atlas and crockery. Go Away, don't buy this car!! It will only cost you thousands of dollars in repairs! He won't get you out of Christchurch! Run!
A nice, older gentleman, who moved slowly and smoothly like a ship in a calm, came up to the car. He asked me how many Kms on the odometer. I replied, "157,000, but you don't want to buy it it has a leaky head gasket". Hmmm, "can I take it for a test drive?". What? Chris looks at me and says, "sure". The gentleman climbs into the driver's seat and carefully, with years of experience, eases the car out of the parking lot. I stayed behind to watch our piles of stuff and chat with an 11 year old Kurd about WWE (wrestling). When they returned Chris and he are laughing. Chris has told him all about the car's problems but John (that is his name) wants to buy it for his grandson who's coming in a few weeks for three months. We agree on a very low price (but one that we both feel good about) and he is happy to let us carry on living in it till we hand it over when he'll take us to the airport.
So many times strangers have been kind to us, in this faraway land and it's nice to leave the country without screwing some new arrivals.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
St. James, the Protector of Cows
We got back yesterday from another hike--the St. James Walkway--it was beautiful, calm, easy and in a bowl of good weather, whilst rain continued to fall in Christchurch. We met another couple in the first hut, and since we were the only two couples walking on that day in that direction we were together in each hut, every night for five days. They are an interesting pair; Dominik from Scotland is a researcher at Edinburgh University who examines FMRI scans of autistic, bi-polar and schizophrenic patients' brains; Shelley is a kiwi currently employed as a "professional traveller", who funds her explorations with nanny jobs and ski instruction.
The St. James Walkway starts at Lewis Pass, in the middle of the Southern Alps, and wanders through scenic reserves and private farm land for 67 km. We had one of four rushing, winding rivers as a companion the whole time, and herds of cattle to watch over us. Beef cattle are large, and when worried they stand still and stare down the danger. We are little, but apparently unnerving, and a couple times a day we approached a line of fierce, immovable cows. I whisper to Chris, "they're right in the way, I can see the next marker, should we edge around?". Gulp, what if they trample us. We'd carry on, timidly, and suddenly the ranks would break apart and gigantic cows would stumble over each other in their desperation to flee. Every time this happened, and every time I was sure they'd hold fast and kill us. The only brave cows, it turns out, are the mothers with their calves. These cows we would avoid, not because they seemed more aggressive, just more determined, but because you have to respect the cow-calf bond.
We saw wild horses too. I'm suspicious of the "wild" label, but this is the term we were handed, and it certainly sounds more romantic than mere "horses". Horses are cooler than cows, they hold themselves with poise and dignity, toss their hair and move with grace. The herds of horses usually kept to themselves, off on the side away from the clumsy cows. But sometimes they'd all feed in the same area, the horses absentmindedly swishing their tails against the ubiquitous sandflies, and the cows rigid with terror at our approach.
Before that hike we enjoyed my dad's company for two weeks! We saw it all: cities, tiny towns, farms, mountains, beaches, glaciers and a rainforest. We traveled by train, plane, car and dinghy (Chris and I were in a kayak). We walked through Botanic Gardens, along city streets, around the French town of Akaroa, through rain and fog to the silent face of Franz Josef glacier, up and over the "pancake rocks" of Punakaiki, across dark sand and past the pounding ground swells of the Southern Ocean.
Our diet was even more varied than the sites! After months of car-food (nothing too perishable, nothing too colourful or interesting) and tramping our little stomachs had shrunk, but we stretched them back out to post-Christmas levels in two weeks.
Now is the final month. We've got more tramps planned, and a general route south. We've also got the fidgety departure details to work out--sell the car, cancel the phone, get to Auckland, buy Christmas gifts, get some luggage from the Salvation Army to carry all of our Christmas gifts ...
The St. James Walkway starts at Lewis Pass, in the middle of the Southern Alps, and wanders through scenic reserves and private farm land for 67 km. We had one of four rushing, winding rivers as a companion the whole time, and herds of cattle to watch over us. Beef cattle are large, and when worried they stand still and stare down the danger. We are little, but apparently unnerving, and a couple times a day we approached a line of fierce, immovable cows. I whisper to Chris, "they're right in the way, I can see the next marker, should we edge around?". Gulp, what if they trample us. We'd carry on, timidly, and suddenly the ranks would break apart and gigantic cows would stumble over each other in their desperation to flee. Every time this happened, and every time I was sure they'd hold fast and kill us. The only brave cows, it turns out, are the mothers with their calves. These cows we would avoid, not because they seemed more aggressive, just more determined, but because you have to respect the cow-calf bond.
We saw wild horses too. I'm suspicious of the "wild" label, but this is the term we were handed, and it certainly sounds more romantic than mere "horses". Horses are cooler than cows, they hold themselves with poise and dignity, toss their hair and move with grace. The herds of horses usually kept to themselves, off on the side away from the clumsy cows. But sometimes they'd all feed in the same area, the horses absentmindedly swishing their tails against the ubiquitous sandflies, and the cows rigid with terror at our approach.
Before that hike we enjoyed my dad's company for two weeks! We saw it all: cities, tiny towns, farms, mountains, beaches, glaciers and a rainforest. We traveled by train, plane, car and dinghy (Chris and I were in a kayak). We walked through Botanic Gardens, along city streets, around the French town of Akaroa, through rain and fog to the silent face of Franz Josef glacier, up and over the "pancake rocks" of Punakaiki, across dark sand and past the pounding ground swells of the Southern Ocean.
Our diet was even more varied than the sites! After months of car-food (nothing too perishable, nothing too colourful or interesting) and tramping our little stomachs had shrunk, but we stretched them back out to post-Christmas levels in two weeks.
Now is the final month. We've got more tramps planned, and a general route south. We've also got the fidgety departure details to work out--sell the car, cancel the phone, get to Auckland, buy Christmas gifts, get some luggage from the Salvation Army to carry all of our Christmas gifts ...
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Time Travel
Here are some photos from the start of our post-Papamoa travels (including the famous first Great Walk). There are a few duplicates, sorry we're new to Flickr, and technology as a whole.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/37421672@N02/sets/72157622545459432/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/37421672@N02/sets/72157622545459432/
Friday, October 9, 2009
Queen Charlotte Track
We took to the hills once again last week. The Queen Charlotte Track from start to finish covers 71 km, but our version did not quite take us to the end, nor did we start at the very beginning. All in we still walked 76 km, but instead of strolling along the gentle slopes of the start, or the coastal flats of the end we spent six days walking up and along and over a ridge and then back again. Though the most arduous portion of the tramp is on these 600 m. heights, the views are also definitely the best. Instead of paying for the water-taxi (like everyone else does) which would drop us at the road-inaccessible start and then carry our packs to each campground each evening, we parked at the second campsite, made that our start and finish, and we carried our packs ourselves. Each of our hikes has had a flavour, and this hike tasted heavy! My backpack has straps for carrying a tent, Chris' does not. So I carried the 5kg tent, and he carried all of the heaviest food. I feared my straps would rip off of the pack it was so heavy. To complete the look I had a rolled up bright-blue mat strapped to the top of my pack, so that the whole mess stretched up from my knees and towered over my hat.
Have I mentioned the birds in New Zealand? If not my blog-rights should be revoked. The soundtrack to our life is like a Discovery Chanel special on birds. They fill the morning air with their cheerful chatter. The variety of sounds combine in such a way that it sounds like we're in a forest of wind chimes. In the afternoon the sounds thin out a bit, and you can hear the distinct pure notes. I wish I knew the names of the birds. I wish I could whistle.
We had two days of blustery winds, horizontal rain and see-your-breath cold. Other than that the weather was gorgeous, and if we had done the trip only one way, we would not have seen the turquiose waters and the green hills in all of their beauty. The hills claw directly into the water like tree covered fingers, and beyond each hill is another hill and another and then a mountain, and then further in the distance are more mountains covered in snow.
We rewarded ourselves with a hot, hearty meal at the local RSA (Returned and Services' Assoc.--the NZ version of the VFW). Armed with a full shaker of salt we enjoyed some stunning roast veg, roast beef and unlimited salad bar. Chris was particularly pleased...but he'll probably give you his perspective in his blog. On his blog. At his blog. What sort of preposition sticks to "blog"?
Have I mentioned the birds in New Zealand? If not my blog-rights should be revoked. The soundtrack to our life is like a Discovery Chanel special on birds. They fill the morning air with their cheerful chatter. The variety of sounds combine in such a way that it sounds like we're in a forest of wind chimes. In the afternoon the sounds thin out a bit, and you can hear the distinct pure notes. I wish I knew the names of the birds. I wish I could whistle.
We had two days of blustery winds, horizontal rain and see-your-breath cold. Other than that the weather was gorgeous, and if we had done the trip only one way, we would not have seen the turquiose waters and the green hills in all of their beauty. The hills claw directly into the water like tree covered fingers, and beyond each hill is another hill and another and then a mountain, and then further in the distance are more mountains covered in snow.
We rewarded ourselves with a hot, hearty meal at the local RSA (Returned and Services' Assoc.--the NZ version of the VFW). Armed with a full shaker of salt we enjoyed some stunning roast veg, roast beef and unlimited salad bar. Chris was particularly pleased...but he'll probably give you his perspective in his blog. On his blog. At his blog. What sort of preposition sticks to "blog"?
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Emeralds, Sapphires and Gold
We have just returned from our epic version of the Abel Tasman Coast Track. I power-washed off nine days worth of sweat and grit in the ridiculously strong and gloriously hot showers here at Old MacDonald’s Farm, and now I want to sleep. But I’ll play on the laptop for a bit and maybe write something that makes sense. Chris is up at reception paying for our site. (I see now, this blog is long, to give you a sense of how long we lived this glorious tramp…)
We awoke this morning from dreams of hot showers, bubbly shampoo, food and clean clothes. (Really, last night felt like Christmas eve, I was so excited to get clean!). Our food had been carefully, desperately rationed since the first day, and we were thrilled to have an extra packet of Barbeque Rice Crackers (when do rice crackers count as food, except when you’re very, very hungry) to chomp on all morning—thanks Andrew. We plodded along at a reasonable pace, had great conversation and gorgeous last views of the park, our temporary home. At last we emerged from the bush—that’s what they call it here, like in Oz, which is what they call Australia—and made the final push across a boardwalk over the Marahau estuary. We exited the park. High Five! And turned toward our old campsite, where our sweet little car patiently awaited our return in a locked carpark. As we turned up the road we saw the campground owner driving towards, and then past us. A few minutes later we reached the empty, dark reception and read; “Office will re-open at 3pm”. Over the road we could see Hank, but our shampoo and bread and laptop may just as well have been in Taiwan. No worries, the slow, calm pace of life on a hike carried over and kept us chill and happy. We sat in the sun with drowsy heads and happy hearts.
So, but the hike! That’s the thing. We loved it. We never went more than an hour without rounding a bend and seeing seas of emerald green and sapphire blue gently lapping golden-sand beaches. Truly the sand is golden, Chris called it “Ground-Up-Golden-Retriever-Fur-Sand” (Not, “Ground-up-Golden-Retriever”, which I accidently heard). The water so dazzled and enchanted us, I wonder why gems aren’t named after Seas. We had gorgeous weather every day but two, and so we spent many hours on secluded little beaches along the way. Most of the time we’d be in paradise, with no one else but birds and seals. Seals are very adorable.
No single day was exceptionally tiring, the huts are set about 4.5 hours walk apart, so we enjoyed the flexibility to stop anywhere we wanted, with no need to rush. The cumulative effect was quite tiring, however, and the meager rations added an extra will-power component to an already exhausting pursuit. Few other people we met would walk for more than three nights, they were all racing to the end, or near end to be picked up in a water taxi and whisked back to civilization. Jaws dropped when they heard not only were we headed for Wainui, the official end, but we would then turn around and walk back! This fact, and our charm, prompted people to take pity on us and supplement our Spartan diet with some much-needed calories. These trampers also gave us much-needed levity and joy. We ended up seeing the same people a few nights in a row and forming some genuine bonds with these strangers.
One day we tramped with the fast-talking, fast-walking Canadian, Sandy. She tells fabulous stories with great wit and enthusiasm, so we were entertained enough to not realize just how quickly she walks up those hills! Chris and I are used to a leisurely pace, Sandy, however, was determined to lose her miniscule “Tui-Tummy” (a.k.a. beer belly) and thunders up and down every saddle and hill. We spent a couple of evenings with Simon, a gentle and cheerful Taiwanese boy, and gleaned lots of information from his sometimes-limited vocabulary. Simon went against the wishes of his family and culture, quit his respectable and desirable government position (at a govt. operated power plant) and came to NZ to travel. All in he would walk as far as we did, but his second half was along a road to Kahurangi National Park where he starts another Great Walk. Simon lumbers steadily along under a teetering backpack that towers above his head, its orange bulk bulging past his narrow hips. One day he sat with us at a small beach and we all chatted while we rested. Chris and I sat at small beaches and rested at least twice a day, but not Simon, who remarked; “Sitting is nice. Not always walking, walking”.
We shared bunk-shelves with Brits, Germans, Kiwis, Taiwanese, Canadians, Austrians, Chinese and more. We passed people on the track and imparted important news, “the heater at Bark Bay is broken” or “the stream is real low right now, you won’t have to take off your shoes”. We were all friends in this common endeavour. We spent one sun-drenched afternoon with a German couple, Robert and Diana, who had us in stitches most of the day. Diana did not trust her perfectly-fine English, but gained confidence as we talked, and I think if we’d had one more day together we would’ve been fast friends. As it is Chris and I will have to think back on their home-brewed Manuka tea (which just tasted like the red plastic bowls we drank from, but smelled like perfume). Robert boldly snipped some rosemary-like twigs from a tree and boiled it up for us; like pioneers, we lived off the land!
Chris and I both have bow-shaped smooth walking sticks, from this same Manuka tree, I believe. We look official. We look like Prophets.
I carried one book, “Franny and Zooey”, Chris brought “The Bourne Identity”. We didn’t bring my journal—nine days of food weigh a lot, even if you don’t bring enough—so every evening we’d flip through our books and tear out a mostly blank page. Gasp! Don’t worry, they were 50 cent books, and “Franny and Zooey” had already led such a tough life it split in two at page 86. At the last two huts, Awaroa and Whariwharangi, we had beautiful wood-burning stoves. These stoves give off much more heat than the standard gas stoves in the more popular huts, and get hot enough to cook on. Buried in the old newspapers in the Wood Box we found a few sudoku puzzles and broke our heads trying to solve the hard ones.
Now for the worriers among you it's time to worry. We did have two days of foul weather. The first of which was quite grim. We were on our way back to the start of the track from the last hut at Whariwharangi. Between this hut and the next at Awaroa lay a massive estuary which can be traversed 1.5 hours before or after dead-low tide. Low tide that day was at 6:30pm, so we planned to leave at 12:30, walk the 4.5 hours and arrive exactly on time to cross. A win-win plan, no waiting and no wading in the dark. However, the driving winds and rains pushed us along at such an incredible, never before seen from Chris and Betsy, rate that we arrived at the 1-hour-to-go point at Totaranui campsite one hour early! What to do? We were drenched with rain and sweat. I suggested we hang out in the largish bathroom and unpack our sleeping bags—no hypothermia for us! Instead we found a group of stranded Germans whose water taxi refused to pick them up and was instead organizing, slowly, some land transport. They’d been sitting in the camp office since 9am. I peeled off my wet clothes and changed into my one dry change—no hypothermia for me! Chris decided to do push-ups and jiggle for the hour instead. As a result he chomped at the bit a mite more fervently than I did, and we set off to the crossing a quarter of an hour earlier than we should have. Once we got there we could see the hut across the estuary. But we could also see the bay was full of water. What can you do in cold, wet weather, when you can see your accommodation glimmering on a bank only 25 minutes away. Why, you hold hands and plunge through waist deep water for 15 minutes. The water wasn’t at our waists the whole 15 minutes, but it swirled around our thighs the rest of the time. I remember racing John at the pool at grandma’s, we didn’t swim, but we ran, as if in slow-motion along the shallow end. This crossing was a 15 minute, slow-motion, cold race. Then we were there, we chopped wood in our dripping clothes and built a roaring fire in no time. Ah. Bliss. As Chris said, it was as if this hut were a 5-star hotel we’d been waiting our whole lives to visit.
My camera stopped focusing on the second day, but Sandy has promised to send us some pictures she took with us, and I pressed my floozy of a memory chip into a couple different cameras along the way. Maybe some day we will patiently sit for hours and download all of our photos.
We awoke this morning from dreams of hot showers, bubbly shampoo, food and clean clothes. (Really, last night felt like Christmas eve, I was so excited to get clean!). Our food had been carefully, desperately rationed since the first day, and we were thrilled to have an extra packet of Barbeque Rice Crackers (when do rice crackers count as food, except when you’re very, very hungry) to chomp on all morning—thanks Andrew. We plodded along at a reasonable pace, had great conversation and gorgeous last views of the park, our temporary home. At last we emerged from the bush—that’s what they call it here, like in Oz, which is what they call Australia—and made the final push across a boardwalk over the Marahau estuary. We exited the park. High Five! And turned toward our old campsite, where our sweet little car patiently awaited our return in a locked carpark. As we turned up the road we saw the campground owner driving towards, and then past us. A few minutes later we reached the empty, dark reception and read; “Office will re-open at 3pm”. Over the road we could see Hank, but our shampoo and bread and laptop may just as well have been in Taiwan. No worries, the slow, calm pace of life on a hike carried over and kept us chill and happy. We sat in the sun with drowsy heads and happy hearts.
So, but the hike! That’s the thing. We loved it. We never went more than an hour without rounding a bend and seeing seas of emerald green and sapphire blue gently lapping golden-sand beaches. Truly the sand is golden, Chris called it “Ground-Up-Golden-Retriever-Fur-Sand” (Not, “Ground-up-Golden-Retriever”, which I accidently heard). The water so dazzled and enchanted us, I wonder why gems aren’t named after Seas. We had gorgeous weather every day but two, and so we spent many hours on secluded little beaches along the way. Most of the time we’d be in paradise, with no one else but birds and seals. Seals are very adorable.
No single day was exceptionally tiring, the huts are set about 4.5 hours walk apart, so we enjoyed the flexibility to stop anywhere we wanted, with no need to rush. The cumulative effect was quite tiring, however, and the meager rations added an extra will-power component to an already exhausting pursuit. Few other people we met would walk for more than three nights, they were all racing to the end, or near end to be picked up in a water taxi and whisked back to civilization. Jaws dropped when they heard not only were we headed for Wainui, the official end, but we would then turn around and walk back! This fact, and our charm, prompted people to take pity on us and supplement our Spartan diet with some much-needed calories. These trampers also gave us much-needed levity and joy. We ended up seeing the same people a few nights in a row and forming some genuine bonds with these strangers.
One day we tramped with the fast-talking, fast-walking Canadian, Sandy. She tells fabulous stories with great wit and enthusiasm, so we were entertained enough to not realize just how quickly she walks up those hills! Chris and I are used to a leisurely pace, Sandy, however, was determined to lose her miniscule “Tui-Tummy” (a.k.a. beer belly) and thunders up and down every saddle and hill. We spent a couple of evenings with Simon, a gentle and cheerful Taiwanese boy, and gleaned lots of information from his sometimes-limited vocabulary. Simon went against the wishes of his family and culture, quit his respectable and desirable government position (at a govt. operated power plant) and came to NZ to travel. All in he would walk as far as we did, but his second half was along a road to Kahurangi National Park where he starts another Great Walk. Simon lumbers steadily along under a teetering backpack that towers above his head, its orange bulk bulging past his narrow hips. One day he sat with us at a small beach and we all chatted while we rested. Chris and I sat at small beaches and rested at least twice a day, but not Simon, who remarked; “Sitting is nice. Not always walking, walking”.
We shared bunk-shelves with Brits, Germans, Kiwis, Taiwanese, Canadians, Austrians, Chinese and more. We passed people on the track and imparted important news, “the heater at Bark Bay is broken” or “the stream is real low right now, you won’t have to take off your shoes”. We were all friends in this common endeavour. We spent one sun-drenched afternoon with a German couple, Robert and Diana, who had us in stitches most of the day. Diana did not trust her perfectly-fine English, but gained confidence as we talked, and I think if we’d had one more day together we would’ve been fast friends. As it is Chris and I will have to think back on their home-brewed Manuka tea (which just tasted like the red plastic bowls we drank from, but smelled like perfume). Robert boldly snipped some rosemary-like twigs from a tree and boiled it up for us; like pioneers, we lived off the land!
Chris and I both have bow-shaped smooth walking sticks, from this same Manuka tree, I believe. We look official. We look like Prophets.
I carried one book, “Franny and Zooey”, Chris brought “The Bourne Identity”. We didn’t bring my journal—nine days of food weigh a lot, even if you don’t bring enough—so every evening we’d flip through our books and tear out a mostly blank page. Gasp! Don’t worry, they were 50 cent books, and “Franny and Zooey” had already led such a tough life it split in two at page 86. At the last two huts, Awaroa and Whariwharangi, we had beautiful wood-burning stoves. These stoves give off much more heat than the standard gas stoves in the more popular huts, and get hot enough to cook on. Buried in the old newspapers in the Wood Box we found a few sudoku puzzles and broke our heads trying to solve the hard ones.
Now for the worriers among you it's time to worry. We did have two days of foul weather. The first of which was quite grim. We were on our way back to the start of the track from the last hut at Whariwharangi. Between this hut and the next at Awaroa lay a massive estuary which can be traversed 1.5 hours before or after dead-low tide. Low tide that day was at 6:30pm, so we planned to leave at 12:30, walk the 4.5 hours and arrive exactly on time to cross. A win-win plan, no waiting and no wading in the dark. However, the driving winds and rains pushed us along at such an incredible, never before seen from Chris and Betsy, rate that we arrived at the 1-hour-to-go point at Totaranui campsite one hour early! What to do? We were drenched with rain and sweat. I suggested we hang out in the largish bathroom and unpack our sleeping bags—no hypothermia for us! Instead we found a group of stranded Germans whose water taxi refused to pick them up and was instead organizing, slowly, some land transport. They’d been sitting in the camp office since 9am. I peeled off my wet clothes and changed into my one dry change—no hypothermia for me! Chris decided to do push-ups and jiggle for the hour instead. As a result he chomped at the bit a mite more fervently than I did, and we set off to the crossing a quarter of an hour earlier than we should have. Once we got there we could see the hut across the estuary. But we could also see the bay was full of water. What can you do in cold, wet weather, when you can see your accommodation glimmering on a bank only 25 minutes away. Why, you hold hands and plunge through waist deep water for 15 minutes. The water wasn’t at our waists the whole 15 minutes, but it swirled around our thighs the rest of the time. I remember racing John at the pool at grandma’s, we didn’t swim, but we ran, as if in slow-motion along the shallow end. This crossing was a 15 minute, slow-motion, cold race. Then we were there, we chopped wood in our dripping clothes and built a roaring fire in no time. Ah. Bliss. As Chris said, it was as if this hut were a 5-star hotel we’d been waiting our whole lives to visit.
My camera stopped focusing on the second day, but Sandy has promised to send us some pictures she took with us, and I pressed my floozy of a memory chip into a couple different cameras along the way. Maybe some day we will patiently sit for hours and download all of our photos.
Friday, September 11, 2009
The 70 Dollar Mistake
Last I wrote we were waiting for the clouds to part in New Plymouth. New Plymouth is a pretty big NZ city with shopping malls, tall buildings, a haze of smog and a fancy, but not very helpful i-site (information center). It is also a free-camping void. I had noticed the absence of little blue tents—the Atlas’ symbol for “informal campgrounds”—for about a hundred km in any direction from New Plymouth. But, I thought, surely we can just park on the road, or ask at the i-site about informal informal-campsites. Either way we wouldn’t spend too much time near the city, New Plymouth existed merely as a gateway to Egmont National Park. We would spend the days hiking in the shadow of Mt. Egmont. Ha! Forget it! We were cursed with rain and a 5-day forecast of dripping clouds.
The 5 days could not be borne for we had nowhere to live in the meantime. Our first, and last night, in New Plymouth left both of us law-abiding fools freaked out. It started out promising enough, when we landed on the outskirts of a small suburb at a town park looking out over the ocean. Families wandered past with their dogs, workers stopped in their cars to watch the sun set before heading home and we even had a picnic table to eat at. A friendly American couple (a doctor and a school teacher here with their four kids for at least five years, but maybe forever) eased our conscience. Sure we could camp out here, there’s no one who monitors the area and everyone breaks the rules on the board all the time—those families with dogs on the path for a start. At about 8:30pm as we watched the end of our movie, some guy pulled up in a truck, his headlights beaming into our car, he parked and we heard a knock on the glass. Move along, this is private land…Eep.
We moved to a row of parking spots across from the beach under the watchful eye of up-scale houses on a hill. Streetlights bathed us in orange light, I lay with my complimentary JetBlue eyemask squishing my eyelashes and flinched every time someone walked past. We survived the night. In fact I think we were incredibly safe in this quiet, upper-class suburb but we were rattled from our brush with the law.
The next morning I took my freezing shower and we walked along New Plymouth’s coastal walkway…
Once the rains came we hid out in the library and used their free internet, or tried to, so patchy was the signal. After about 4 hours of reading and dilly-dallying we faced a decision. Where will we stay the night and do we want to stay in this un-captivating city for five nights on the chance the weather icons of the future will show blazing suns? At 6pm that night we decided to flee New Plymouth, accept it as a waste of gas (a lot to swallow at 70$ a tank) and move along.
We came full circle back to Wanganui and spent a couple nights in a lovely, but windy, free campsite on the beach. Ahhhh.
The 5 days could not be borne for we had nowhere to live in the meantime. Our first, and last night, in New Plymouth left both of us law-abiding fools freaked out. It started out promising enough, when we landed on the outskirts of a small suburb at a town park looking out over the ocean. Families wandered past with their dogs, workers stopped in their cars to watch the sun set before heading home and we even had a picnic table to eat at. A friendly American couple (a doctor and a school teacher here with their four kids for at least five years, but maybe forever) eased our conscience. Sure we could camp out here, there’s no one who monitors the area and everyone breaks the rules on the board all the time—those families with dogs on the path for a start. At about 8:30pm as we watched the end of our movie, some guy pulled up in a truck, his headlights beaming into our car, he parked and we heard a knock on the glass. Move along, this is private land…Eep.
We moved to a row of parking spots across from the beach under the watchful eye of up-scale houses on a hill. Streetlights bathed us in orange light, I lay with my complimentary JetBlue eyemask squishing my eyelashes and flinched every time someone walked past. We survived the night. In fact I think we were incredibly safe in this quiet, upper-class suburb but we were rattled from our brush with the law.
The next morning I took my freezing shower and we walked along New Plymouth’s coastal walkway…
Once the rains came we hid out in the library and used their free internet, or tried to, so patchy was the signal. After about 4 hours of reading and dilly-dallying we faced a decision. Where will we stay the night and do we want to stay in this un-captivating city for five nights on the chance the weather icons of the future will show blazing suns? At 6pm that night we decided to flee New Plymouth, accept it as a waste of gas (a lot to swallow at 70$ a tank) and move along.
We came full circle back to Wanganui and spent a couple nights in a lovely, but windy, free campsite on the beach. Ahhhh.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Slips, showers and earthquakes
We've been on the road for two weeks now, although it feels more like two months. Our Great Walk in Waikaremoana was brilliant. Describing the experience tries my abilities; so to help you must go on a four-day "moderate" hike in beautiful weather through a stunning, tranquil National Park. Good. Now that we're on the same page...you must be filled with peace and a solid sense of accomplishment.
We all fell down during the hike. Wendy slid down a rained-out ditch and got the messiest, as her pants scraped along the miniature gorge. Chris caught his fall at the expense of his shoulder, and I took the prize with not one but 4 spectacular falls. I slipped on rocks three times and shuddered down one muddy bluff. Wendy led the way most of the time, and periodically called out "mud!"--we were trying to keep our feet dry. ha! After a while her voice would ring out, "mud! slippery rock!" and I'd come to a standstill. Muddy, wet feet or bruised bottom? By the end we recklessly splodged through the mud and then rinsed our shoes in the numerous crystal clear, cold streams only to muddy ourselves again minutes later.
The oddest day, and the best day, was our oasis of civilization in the middle of the bush. Our second hut is a popular destination for hunters and fishermen. Or at least this is the backstory they give their wives, it seems more like a hearty man-food and crates of beer sort of trip. We were given freshly caught and smoked trout, chips, oceans of hot water and the option of a full dinner with wine. We slept peacefully in a room with guns hung up next to our raincoats, as the air vibrated with a hundred thundering snores. In the morning they gave us oranges and hot coffee and we were rested and ready to carry on.
Our hike feels so long ago.
Now we're back in the car. This morning I took an invigorating, but much-needed, cold shower in a facility by the beach. Chris is holding out for something warmer. We both had delightful showers for 2 dollars in Napier in a public shower block, but since then the options have been free and cold.
A few nights ago we survived an earthquake. It felt like someone shook our car, or bounced the bumper, but Chris recognised the feel from his time in San Diego. Sure enough, the next morning we asked at one of the ubiquitous i-sites (standard information centers in every city and town) and they confirmed the earthquake! A 3.6 on the Richter scale.
We are hanging out in New Plymouth right now. It's a big city on the western thumb of the North Island with the only deep-water port on the west coast of the country. The internet is free, the library is spacious and nice (but nothing in comparison to "the living room of the city" in Palmerston North. Now that is a library!), and there's a beautiful coastal walkway spanning 7 km from the port across the town center and into the classy suburbs. We walked about 7 km this morning, while the clouds seemed disinterested, and it was lovely.
We're giving the car a break--and the driver--so we'll spend a few nights here and hope for an unlikely clear spell of gorgeous weather so we can hike. If the clouds and fogs left us alone we would be stunned with a view of the tall and perfectly symmetrical slopes of Mt. Taranaki (a.k.a. Mt. Egmont) a not-quite-defunct volcano. It was used as the backdrop in "The Last Samurai". Who needs to visit NZ, just rent a load of movies. One hike in particular would keep us below the tree-line (warmer) and far enough away from the Mt. to see it without breaking our necks.
We all fell down during the hike. Wendy slid down a rained-out ditch and got the messiest, as her pants scraped along the miniature gorge. Chris caught his fall at the expense of his shoulder, and I took the prize with not one but 4 spectacular falls. I slipped on rocks three times and shuddered down one muddy bluff. Wendy led the way most of the time, and periodically called out "mud!"--we were trying to keep our feet dry. ha! After a while her voice would ring out, "mud! slippery rock!" and I'd come to a standstill. Muddy, wet feet or bruised bottom? By the end we recklessly splodged through the mud and then rinsed our shoes in the numerous crystal clear, cold streams only to muddy ourselves again minutes later.
The oddest day, and the best day, was our oasis of civilization in the middle of the bush. Our second hut is a popular destination for hunters and fishermen. Or at least this is the backstory they give their wives, it seems more like a hearty man-food and crates of beer sort of trip. We were given freshly caught and smoked trout, chips, oceans of hot water and the option of a full dinner with wine. We slept peacefully in a room with guns hung up next to our raincoats, as the air vibrated with a hundred thundering snores. In the morning they gave us oranges and hot coffee and we were rested and ready to carry on.
Our hike feels so long ago.
Now we're back in the car. This morning I took an invigorating, but much-needed, cold shower in a facility by the beach. Chris is holding out for something warmer. We both had delightful showers for 2 dollars in Napier in a public shower block, but since then the options have been free and cold.
A few nights ago we survived an earthquake. It felt like someone shook our car, or bounced the bumper, but Chris recognised the feel from his time in San Diego. Sure enough, the next morning we asked at one of the ubiquitous i-sites (standard information centers in every city and town) and they confirmed the earthquake! A 3.6 on the Richter scale.
We are hanging out in New Plymouth right now. It's a big city on the western thumb of the North Island with the only deep-water port on the west coast of the country. The internet is free, the library is spacious and nice (but nothing in comparison to "the living room of the city" in Palmerston North. Now that is a library!), and there's a beautiful coastal walkway spanning 7 km from the port across the town center and into the classy suburbs. We walked about 7 km this morning, while the clouds seemed disinterested, and it was lovely.
We're giving the car a break--and the driver--so we'll spend a few nights here and hope for an unlikely clear spell of gorgeous weather so we can hike. If the clouds and fogs left us alone we would be stunned with a view of the tall and perfectly symmetrical slopes of Mt. Taranaki (a.k.a. Mt. Egmont) a not-quite-defunct volcano. It was used as the backdrop in "The Last Samurai". Who needs to visit NZ, just rent a load of movies. One hike in particular would keep us below the tree-line (warmer) and far enough away from the Mt. to see it without breaking our necks.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
East Cape
We left the "Sunshine Paradise" of Papamoa on a rainy, windy day and set off on our four-month tour of New Zealand. First stop: a luxury hotel down the street. Chris' parents generously and very thoughtfully bought us a night in the hotel they stayed at during their visit for Chris' birthday. We had until the end of August to book our room, and we decided one last night of clean sheets, kitchen appliances and hot running water would be the perfect start to our epic journey. The rain bleared our windows, but beyond the fog and streaks the beautiful, constant ocean pounded and sprayed amongst the rocks. The lady who showed us our room may have been confused, we came with no luggage, just a plastic bag with the essentials, and a huge teetering stack of library books. The first part of the day was spent on the couch going through all of our guidebooks and finishing off our "wish lists". We ate up the last of our refrigerated foods and enjoyed one last episode of our favourite-show-ever, "Grand Designs".
Since then, we have been driving east, down the coast to Whakatane (White Island departure point) and on to the East Cape, where the pace of life is slow. There are no real towns on the East Cape. Some little villages appear on the map, but their business district encompass a post shop or a motor lodge or maybe a small shop. These towns are few and far between. Most of the time we drove with no one behind us, no one approaching us, no one anywhere. The bulk of animal-life is clothed in leather and dragging a full udder, or showing off a wool jumpsuit. Spring has fully arrived: little wobbly lambs and leggy calves stumble around the hillside, never straying very far from mom.
Last night we slept in a very bare-bones beach-side campsite alongside a herd of cows, calves and horses. During the day we hiked a steep, unexpected, muddy track up into the hills to a lookout over the bay. The area must have suffered some heavy rains because much of the trail was washed out, the stream seemed to have meandered to uncharted territory and we found more than one sign post floating down stream. We persevered and made it to the lookout, breathed a sigh of relief that the track formed a loop, and skidded down the other side to our campsite.
Now I must hand the computer over to Chris. We're like greedy vultures when we come across free internet (Go Gisborne Library!), and this will be the last taste of civilization before we start our "Great Walk" on Friday.
Since then, we have been driving east, down the coast to Whakatane (White Island departure point) and on to the East Cape, where the pace of life is slow. There are no real towns on the East Cape. Some little villages appear on the map, but their business district encompass a post shop or a motor lodge or maybe a small shop. These towns are few and far between. Most of the time we drove with no one behind us, no one approaching us, no one anywhere. The bulk of animal-life is clothed in leather and dragging a full udder, or showing off a wool jumpsuit. Spring has fully arrived: little wobbly lambs and leggy calves stumble around the hillside, never straying very far from mom.
Last night we slept in a very bare-bones beach-side campsite alongside a herd of cows, calves and horses. During the day we hiked a steep, unexpected, muddy track up into the hills to a lookout over the bay. The area must have suffered some heavy rains because much of the trail was washed out, the stream seemed to have meandered to uncharted territory and we found more than one sign post floating down stream. We persevered and made it to the lookout, breathed a sigh of relief that the track formed a loop, and skidded down the other side to our campsite.
Now I must hand the computer over to Chris. We're like greedy vultures when we come across free internet (Go Gisborne Library!), and this will be the last taste of civilization before we start our "Great Walk" on Friday.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Snapshots
Chris and I are the new proud parents of a Papamoa library card. Before, we went to the library without a card, lured by the ring of computers and rack of glossy magazines. The books tempted us, but we knew our relationship would never be more than casual, we couldn’t invite the books home. Now we can check out ninety-nine books and keep them on our bedside table for three whole weeks. Libraries, like ballet and music, make me proud of our species.
Over the weeks, in preparation for the Holiday portion of our trip, we’ve brought home dozens of books on New Zealand. Some of the books focus on the extensive National Parks, others describe urban highlights and regional quirks, and many provide little written information but dazzle us with hundreds of photos; sweeping landscapes, fiery sunsets, stormy coasts, majestic mountains rising out of lakes. These last books are my (ingenious!) attempt to draw Chris into the planning phase. We sit in the sun on our bed strewn with bookmark-riddled books, pens, lists and notebooks. Chris pores over the pictures, seeking out the most stunning locations or haunting sights, and exclaims, “Tolaga Bay, lets go there”. And I’ll shuffle through the wordy-books’ indexes until I can locate the bay, the wharf, the town, the mountain and we’ll work it into the route.
I have a cold. Bridgette has had a rib-cracking cough for weeks while Chris and Wendy dabble with the flu off and on. We pump our frail bodies full of Echinacea, vitamin C, multi-vitamins and Ibuprofen. In the morning a chorus of coughs and throat clearing overpowers the delicate birdsongs outside.
Wendy’s parents’ church had a car-boot sale (i.e. garage sale) and I purchased a 500-piece puzzle of a Tall Ship. It only has about 200 pieces. The sea is half blue and half carpet, the ship itself will certainly sink with all of its holes and I can’t imagine ever setting the sails properly. The only complete section is the sky. It came with 150 identical blue pieces which I have carefully piled in teetering hill to be dealt with later.
It’s spring at last. The nights are still chilly, but we barely light the fire any more and during the day we can wander around the house in a reasonable amount of clothing. 5 layers are finally too many. One tree outside is shyly blooming, each day the pink and white flowers spread higher and higher. Today looks and smells like a perfect day for a walk on the beach. Talk of spring must be so last season for you Northern Hemispherians.
Over the weeks, in preparation for the Holiday portion of our trip, we’ve brought home dozens of books on New Zealand. Some of the books focus on the extensive National Parks, others describe urban highlights and regional quirks, and many provide little written information but dazzle us with hundreds of photos; sweeping landscapes, fiery sunsets, stormy coasts, majestic mountains rising out of lakes. These last books are my (ingenious!) attempt to draw Chris into the planning phase. We sit in the sun on our bed strewn with bookmark-riddled books, pens, lists and notebooks. Chris pores over the pictures, seeking out the most stunning locations or haunting sights, and exclaims, “Tolaga Bay, lets go there”. And I’ll shuffle through the wordy-books’ indexes until I can locate the bay, the wharf, the town, the mountain and we’ll work it into the route.
I have a cold. Bridgette has had a rib-cracking cough for weeks while Chris and Wendy dabble with the flu off and on. We pump our frail bodies full of Echinacea, vitamin C, multi-vitamins and Ibuprofen. In the morning a chorus of coughs and throat clearing overpowers the delicate birdsongs outside.
Wendy’s parents’ church had a car-boot sale (i.e. garage sale) and I purchased a 500-piece puzzle of a Tall Ship. It only has about 200 pieces. The sea is half blue and half carpet, the ship itself will certainly sink with all of its holes and I can’t imagine ever setting the sails properly. The only complete section is the sky. It came with 150 identical blue pieces which I have carefully piled in teetering hill to be dealt with later.
It’s spring at last. The nights are still chilly, but we barely light the fire any more and during the day we can wander around the house in a reasonable amount of clothing. 5 layers are finally too many. One tree outside is shyly blooming, each day the pink and white flowers spread higher and higher. Today looks and smells like a perfect day for a walk on the beach. Talk of spring must be so last season for you Northern Hemispherians.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Visitors
My computer is dying. It may, in fact, already be dead. It’s on life-support for sure, but can it still hear...? If anyone out there knows a thing or two about PowerBook G4 batteries (That’s right, I mean you!), do let me know what to do. The little guy only works when plugged in to the wall, and the battery won’t charge at all. This happened one day, no slow decline of power.
We’ve been busy. Chris got a job as a stacker at the packhouse, so we work together much of the time. I also go in without him for “re-pack”, which is as exciting and productive as it sounds. On top of that, we’ve had a string of delightful American visitors. These are the concrete reasons I haven’t kept up the blog, or maybe like B.F. Skinner, I am using irregularity to keep my followers hooked. (assuming I still have followers).
Lee and I hiked the Karangahake Gorge. We stumbled through old mining tunnels by the light of our cell phone, forded streams, hiked up mountains and over rickety swing bridges. I don’t think we would have been surprised to discover an ancient civilisation. It was brilliant. We came back with muddy pants and a sense of accomplishment. We were so distracted by the beauty and our chatting to realise just how far the hike would take us.
When Eric and Elena visited we had many fun family-style meals; the four of us and Wendy. I think the calm, regular routine of our evenings-in were my favourite part of their visit. The kitchen was full of the sweet sound of sizzling onions and the even rhythm of vegetables being chopped, while around the corner our charming pot-belly stove roared with a healthy fire. After dinner Elena, Wendy and I enjoyed “Shortland Street”, the local soap. Eric and Chris played chess—but I’m sure they watched in secret.
Ok. All caught up.
We’ve been busy. Chris got a job as a stacker at the packhouse, so we work together much of the time. I also go in without him for “re-pack”, which is as exciting and productive as it sounds. On top of that, we’ve had a string of delightful American visitors. These are the concrete reasons I haven’t kept up the blog, or maybe like B.F. Skinner, I am using irregularity to keep my followers hooked. (assuming I still have followers).
Lee and I hiked the Karangahake Gorge. We stumbled through old mining tunnels by the light of our cell phone, forded streams, hiked up mountains and over rickety swing bridges. I don’t think we would have been surprised to discover an ancient civilisation. It was brilliant. We came back with muddy pants and a sense of accomplishment. We were so distracted by the beauty and our chatting to realise just how far the hike would take us.
When Eric and Elena visited we had many fun family-style meals; the four of us and Wendy. I think the calm, regular routine of our evenings-in were my favourite part of their visit. The kitchen was full of the sweet sound of sizzling onions and the even rhythm of vegetables being chopped, while around the corner our charming pot-belly stove roared with a healthy fire. After dinner Elena, Wendy and I enjoyed “Shortland Street”, the local soap. Eric and Chris played chess—but I’m sure they watched in secret.
Ok. All caught up.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
New Flat, Take Two.
This paragraph has time traveled. I’ve written the rest of the blog, and see it’s another long one. I recommend you get a cup of tea and settle in for the long haul…
The day of my last blog was our last day living in the squalid “pee pee-soaked-heck-hole” of 14 Links Ave. Chris and I are naïve, too trusting and afraid of confrontation (this is what I’ve learned). At first, we suspected that no one else ever cleaned up. Not just dishes and music gear, but rubbish littered the floors. Chris found a carrot in the bathroom. I stopped cleaning the kitchen, resisted the urge to round up empty bottles and dirty dishes from every relatively-horizontal surface in the lounge and left the vacuum alone. The house quickly turned revolting. I bought slippers and Chris wore his shoes inside, otherwise our socks turned brown when we left the sanctuary of our room. The smell of kitty and litter box permeated every room but ours, no matter how many windows were opened. The vile state of the house was only exceeded by the vile state of Justin’s soul. Too cruel? Perhaps. I might be even angrier with him than he deserves, because I feel foolish for falling for his initial manipulative charm...
Now we live in at .evA skniL 41. The house and the people are opposite in every way! It’s glorious. Even though Chris and I came in clutching our newly hatched suspicion of first-impressions, we quickly saw what a good situation we had landed in. Right now I’m sitting at the beautiful, uncluttered dining room table (it has a table cloth!). The dining room melts into a clean, sunny kitchen and the wide-open lounge. Here dishes are rinsed and put in the dishwasher, real meals are cooked and shared, every Thursday one of us vacuums, tea towels (dish towels) are routinely washed and replaced. In short, this is a real home with mature people like us. I write “people”, but in fact our numbers have already dwindled. I first learned of this house from one of my friends at work. Ruth knew I was unhappy where we were, and here, some roommates were moving out. She offered to show us the room, which is a spacious, en-suite palace upstairs all on its own—we even have our own little balcony with a table and chairs. Obviously the gorgeous room was a draw, but bigger still was the draw of living with Ruth. She and I got along at work from word “go”, and I looked forward to living with good, solid people.
Ruth and her 10 year old daughter, Sky, are both South African. Chris and I are also huge fans of Sky’s, she’s a really neat kid. An animated bean-pole comes to mind when you see Sky skipping around the house. She plays the guitar and sings (well) and Chris and I both looked forward to her return from school each afternoon. Sky is a testament to the power of dedicated parenting. Unfortunately, Ruth’s former job was one of the victims of this global recession, and tied up in the job was her visa. The two of them have moved out to stay with Ruth’s mum in the neighbouring town, while they save up money and prepare for the next phase, now that the kiwifruit season is winding down.
So our final flatmate is Wendy. Wendy owns the house, and she’s also South African, there are lots of South Africans in this beautiful country. I have found another genuine friend in Wendy. She’s smart and sweet, she plays soccer, leads a home group for her church, and shakes lemon-pepper spice on everything savory. On Saturdays we hang out and watch DVDs, or read in companionable silence. Today we walked along the beach to the shopping plaza a few K away and indulged in girly activities that would’ve forced Chris into a coma of boredom. (Meanwhile he slaved away in the dish pit at work).
We don’t have internet access here, and that’s ok. It’s nice to entertain ourselves with conversation, two TV channels and walks on the beach. To get to the beach we climb over a little gate at the back of our garden, stroll past our neighbor’s house, cross the street and we’re at the dunes. We’re back in Papamoa Beach (which is where our old campground is) so the beach here is more rugged and beautiful than closer to the Mount. We have to walk along a path that snakes through the grassy, scrubby dunes, which have been set aside as a preserve, and are therefore quite expansive and wild. The path climbs up and down before opening up to that first stunning view of the ocean, spread out like a blanket as far as the eye can see.
I’ll have to post another blog soon. In fact I might write it right now (English: you are so funny) and post it with this one when we get to an internet café. I must tell you about my life in Class II. Ooh, doesn’t that sound mysterious?
The day of my last blog was our last day living in the squalid “pee pee-soaked-heck-hole” of 14 Links Ave. Chris and I are naïve, too trusting and afraid of confrontation (this is what I’ve learned). At first, we suspected that no one else ever cleaned up. Not just dishes and music gear, but rubbish littered the floors. Chris found a carrot in the bathroom. I stopped cleaning the kitchen, resisted the urge to round up empty bottles and dirty dishes from every relatively-horizontal surface in the lounge and left the vacuum alone. The house quickly turned revolting. I bought slippers and Chris wore his shoes inside, otherwise our socks turned brown when we left the sanctuary of our room. The smell of kitty and litter box permeated every room but ours, no matter how many windows were opened. The vile state of the house was only exceeded by the vile state of Justin’s soul. Too cruel? Perhaps. I might be even angrier with him than he deserves, because I feel foolish for falling for his initial manipulative charm...
Now we live in at .evA skniL 41. The house and the people are opposite in every way! It’s glorious. Even though Chris and I came in clutching our newly hatched suspicion of first-impressions, we quickly saw what a good situation we had landed in. Right now I’m sitting at the beautiful, uncluttered dining room table (it has a table cloth!). The dining room melts into a clean, sunny kitchen and the wide-open lounge. Here dishes are rinsed and put in the dishwasher, real meals are cooked and shared, every Thursday one of us vacuums, tea towels (dish towels) are routinely washed and replaced. In short, this is a real home with mature people like us. I write “people”, but in fact our numbers have already dwindled. I first learned of this house from one of my friends at work. Ruth knew I was unhappy where we were, and here, some roommates were moving out. She offered to show us the room, which is a spacious, en-suite palace upstairs all on its own—we even have our own little balcony with a table and chairs. Obviously the gorgeous room was a draw, but bigger still was the draw of living with Ruth. She and I got along at work from word “go”, and I looked forward to living with good, solid people.
Ruth and her 10 year old daughter, Sky, are both South African. Chris and I are also huge fans of Sky’s, she’s a really neat kid. An animated bean-pole comes to mind when you see Sky skipping around the house. She plays the guitar and sings (well) and Chris and I both looked forward to her return from school each afternoon. Sky is a testament to the power of dedicated parenting. Unfortunately, Ruth’s former job was one of the victims of this global recession, and tied up in the job was her visa. The two of them have moved out to stay with Ruth’s mum in the neighbouring town, while they save up money and prepare for the next phase, now that the kiwifruit season is winding down.
So our final flatmate is Wendy. Wendy owns the house, and she’s also South African, there are lots of South Africans in this beautiful country. I have found another genuine friend in Wendy. She’s smart and sweet, she plays soccer, leads a home group for her church, and shakes lemon-pepper spice on everything savory. On Saturdays we hang out and watch DVDs, or read in companionable silence. Today we walked along the beach to the shopping plaza a few K away and indulged in girly activities that would’ve forced Chris into a coma of boredom. (Meanwhile he slaved away in the dish pit at work).
We don’t have internet access here, and that’s ok. It’s nice to entertain ourselves with conversation, two TV channels and walks on the beach. To get to the beach we climb over a little gate at the back of our garden, stroll past our neighbor’s house, cross the street and we’re at the dunes. We’re back in Papamoa Beach (which is where our old campground is) so the beach here is more rugged and beautiful than closer to the Mount. We have to walk along a path that snakes through the grassy, scrubby dunes, which have been set aside as a preserve, and are therefore quite expansive and wild. The path climbs up and down before opening up to that first stunning view of the ocean, spread out like a blanket as far as the eye can see.
I’ll have to post another blog soon. In fact I might write it right now (English: you are so funny) and post it with this one when we get to an internet café. I must tell you about my life in Class II. Ooh, doesn’t that sound mysterious?
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Visitors from afar
This is going to be a long blog so if you have eye-strain or ADD, consider yourself warned...
For a few weeks our usual party of two was doubled to include Frank and Vicki (a.k.a Chris' parents). Our regular work schedule hemmed us in somewhat--though I was freer than I cared to be when it rained for days and days--but we made the most of our mornings, evenings and weekends. My favourite part of the day was the daily walk. We clambered all over and around the Mt., we walked along the beach, we walked fast and purposefully, we walked slowly and took photos at every bend, we walked to explore, we walked home to take the laundry off the line. We walked when it would've been a sin to stay indoors, and we walked in the pouring rain (but that was accidental, we're not crazy)
A close second for "favourite activity" were our evenings in; we'd make dinner together and then play cards till bed-time. "Sevens", an old family game, involves lots of bidding and then lots of anxiety about making, but not exceeding that stupid bid, which was clearly wrong and gosh darn it why didn't I just bid three to begin with, I never bid correctly. Apparently the card game has a different, ruder name, and was referred to as "sevens" to spare the children's tender ears. Each person starts out with seven cards, and then with each hand the number dealt goes down, till everyone has one card, and then it goes back up to seven. So, thirteen stomach-wrenching hands per game. Chris had a great idea one night: why not deal out all of the cards and start with thirteen. Twenty-five ulcer-oozing hands.
We tried to spend our days off productively (weather permitting). One day we went to Rotorua and visited a geothermal village. We met the tour guide and practiced pronouncing the town's full name: Te Whakarewarewatangaoteopetauaawahiao. Inside the village, which sits on a very active geothermal site, we saw bubbling pools, steamy clouds, pits of boiling mud. Only about 25 families live there now, but these lucky few have very small electric bills. Most of the cooking is done underground in a Hangi (steamed by the heat of the hot earth) or by dipping a sack full of food into one of the boiling pools of water. Water for washing is similarly easy to come by.
The other major outing was to the White Island off the coast of Whakatane (pronounced Fa-ka-ta-ne). It's not white so much as it's yellow, red, orange; the White Island is an active marine volcano. I loved it! We spent most of the day on a 75-foot motor boat, cruising to the island. The views were gorgeous, the sparkling Pacific ocean spread out all around us. The sun shone with gusto, and we soaked up the rays. Until Vicki got up to go to the toilet--there are no facilities on the island, and they recommend going before the two hour tour. She stood up, she walked, she sat in a tiny cramped bathroom, and her inner ear said, "what is going on????". She emerged green and wobbly. Fortunately we were close to the landing site, and stable land stood just minutes away. Unfortunately to get from the yacht to the smoking wasteland we had to board and disembark from a tiny wee zodiac. The sort of rubber boat we used on Sea Cloud for tendering to and from the beach. The same sort of rubber boat that will flip in rough seas. Again, I loved it! I felt like a Marine or a Navy Seal, but without the weapon.
Before embarking on the zodiac we were equipped with a yellow hard hat and a gas mask. The sea was quite rough, probably as rough as it'll get before the company turns back and refunds everyone their money. The zodiac rose up to meet your eager foot, and then dipped away like a naughty child. We hustled Vicki to the front of the queue, to get her on the first trip. She held one hand to her mouth and the other outstretched for support, and slowly carefully, tiptoed to the front, afraid to look anywhere but straight ahead. Apparently the men in the boat, and her husband from behind, got her onto the boat and then off the boat at the landing. The landing is a rusty, rocky outcropping with some old ladders running the length of it. The skipper carefully waited, and watched for a lull in the waves, and then raced towards the landing where everyone scurried up the ladders at once.
Chris and I watched from the yacht as the ragged group drunkenly stumbled across the rocky dock, their legs now used to the lurching deck. Then we watched as a large wave broke and sprayed them all. Chris and I enjoyed our adventure to the shore, and jumped off smiling, ran across the pier before we got drenched and met Frank and Vicki for the tour. The volcano is "active" and though it wasn't spewing ash and rocks, "active" struck me as the perfect word to describe the place. Every few feet were steaming vents, a faint whistling sound could be heard over the roaring winds. Steam and smoke blew all over the place. Water bubbled and boiled, mud splattered up from some vents. This was not an inert pile of dirt, but an excited display of energy. The gas masks were optional, to combat the smell and the tickle it can cause in your throat. Better than that we were given lollies (sweeties) to suck on for the same purpose.
The island shows some life--none human, despite our early efforts at mining--mostly ice plants and some birds. Mostly it's just a rugged, Marsian landscape, surrounded by the beautiful blue ocean.
The trip back home was memorable. Vicki braced herself for a miserable two hours, but in the end we were all fine. Chris sat on the floor in front of us, and I tried to distract Vicki from her own spiraling thoughts of dizziness. After a few minutes a snag in the plan staggered over to our area. A nauseas girl slid down the wall and sat, clutching her puke bag. I looked away in terror. Seas don't make me sick, but sick people make me sick. This is a nightmare. So Vicki and I spent the two hours talking and laughing with each other, from behind another (unused) puke-bag. Chris would tell us when it was safe to look. After he fell asleep there were a few close calls. I'd sneak a glance, just in time to see her lurch and raise the bag. Eek.
Now our buddies have left, they're back home in Denver, and we're on our way to a new house. (That's another long story.)
For a few weeks our usual party of two was doubled to include Frank and Vicki (a.k.a Chris' parents). Our regular work schedule hemmed us in somewhat--though I was freer than I cared to be when it rained for days and days--but we made the most of our mornings, evenings and weekends. My favourite part of the day was the daily walk. We clambered all over and around the Mt., we walked along the beach, we walked fast and purposefully, we walked slowly and took photos at every bend, we walked to explore, we walked home to take the laundry off the line. We walked when it would've been a sin to stay indoors, and we walked in the pouring rain (but that was accidental, we're not crazy)
A close second for "favourite activity" were our evenings in; we'd make dinner together and then play cards till bed-time. "Sevens", an old family game, involves lots of bidding and then lots of anxiety about making, but not exceeding that stupid bid, which was clearly wrong and gosh darn it why didn't I just bid three to begin with, I never bid correctly. Apparently the card game has a different, ruder name, and was referred to as "sevens" to spare the children's tender ears. Each person starts out with seven cards, and then with each hand the number dealt goes down, till everyone has one card, and then it goes back up to seven. So, thirteen stomach-wrenching hands per game. Chris had a great idea one night: why not deal out all of the cards and start with thirteen. Twenty-five ulcer-oozing hands.
We tried to spend our days off productively (weather permitting). One day we went to Rotorua and visited a geothermal village. We met the tour guide and practiced pronouncing the town's full name: Te Whakarewarewatangaoteopetauaawahiao. Inside the village, which sits on a very active geothermal site, we saw bubbling pools, steamy clouds, pits of boiling mud. Only about 25 families live there now, but these lucky few have very small electric bills. Most of the cooking is done underground in a Hangi (steamed by the heat of the hot earth) or by dipping a sack full of food into one of the boiling pools of water. Water for washing is similarly easy to come by.
The other major outing was to the White Island off the coast of Whakatane (pronounced Fa-ka-ta-ne). It's not white so much as it's yellow, red, orange; the White Island is an active marine volcano. I loved it! We spent most of the day on a 75-foot motor boat, cruising to the island. The views were gorgeous, the sparkling Pacific ocean spread out all around us. The sun shone with gusto, and we soaked up the rays. Until Vicki got up to go to the toilet--there are no facilities on the island, and they recommend going before the two hour tour. She stood up, she walked, she sat in a tiny cramped bathroom, and her inner ear said, "what is going on????". She emerged green and wobbly. Fortunately we were close to the landing site, and stable land stood just minutes away. Unfortunately to get from the yacht to the smoking wasteland we had to board and disembark from a tiny wee zodiac. The sort of rubber boat we used on Sea Cloud for tendering to and from the beach. The same sort of rubber boat that will flip in rough seas. Again, I loved it! I felt like a Marine or a Navy Seal, but without the weapon.
Before embarking on the zodiac we were equipped with a yellow hard hat and a gas mask. The sea was quite rough, probably as rough as it'll get before the company turns back and refunds everyone their money. The zodiac rose up to meet your eager foot, and then dipped away like a naughty child. We hustled Vicki to the front of the queue, to get her on the first trip. She held one hand to her mouth and the other outstretched for support, and slowly carefully, tiptoed to the front, afraid to look anywhere but straight ahead. Apparently the men in the boat, and her husband from behind, got her onto the boat and then off the boat at the landing. The landing is a rusty, rocky outcropping with some old ladders running the length of it. The skipper carefully waited, and watched for a lull in the waves, and then raced towards the landing where everyone scurried up the ladders at once.
Chris and I watched from the yacht as the ragged group drunkenly stumbled across the rocky dock, their legs now used to the lurching deck. Then we watched as a large wave broke and sprayed them all. Chris and I enjoyed our adventure to the shore, and jumped off smiling, ran across the pier before we got drenched and met Frank and Vicki for the tour. The volcano is "active" and though it wasn't spewing ash and rocks, "active" struck me as the perfect word to describe the place. Every few feet were steaming vents, a faint whistling sound could be heard over the roaring winds. Steam and smoke blew all over the place. Water bubbled and boiled, mud splattered up from some vents. This was not an inert pile of dirt, but an excited display of energy. The gas masks were optional, to combat the smell and the tickle it can cause in your throat. Better than that we were given lollies (sweeties) to suck on for the same purpose.
The island shows some life--none human, despite our early efforts at mining--mostly ice plants and some birds. Mostly it's just a rugged, Marsian landscape, surrounded by the beautiful blue ocean.
The trip back home was memorable. Vicki braced herself for a miserable two hours, but in the end we were all fine. Chris sat on the floor in front of us, and I tried to distract Vicki from her own spiraling thoughts of dizziness. After a few minutes a snag in the plan staggered over to our area. A nauseas girl slid down the wall and sat, clutching her puke bag. I looked away in terror. Seas don't make me sick, but sick people make me sick. This is a nightmare. So Vicki and I spent the two hours talking and laughing with each other, from behind another (unused) puke-bag. Chris would tell us when it was safe to look. After he fell asleep there were a few close calls. I'd sneak a glance, just in time to see her lurch and raise the bag. Eek.
Now our buddies have left, they're back home in Denver, and we're on our way to a new house. (That's another long story.)
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