Day 18: In Transit to Akaroa, Seaside Village
The majority of Day 18 was spent waiting for airplanes and buses, with a smaller amount of time spent in transit, as well as scratching the backs of my hands. Those sandfly bites, which had innocuous beginnings as pinpricks of pink and red on my skin, had erupted into full-fledged itchy welts. The folk wisdom goes that if you start scratching one of the bites, they will ALL start to itch, no matter where they’re located. Unfortunately, this bit of urban legend appears to be true.
And so after a rather strangely unemotional hug farewell to Greg at the Queenstown airport, I sat and waited quite a while for my 45 minute flight to Christchurch. One of the great things about NZ is that it’s actually quite easy and economical to fly from city to city. I’d bought my ticket the evening before for $69 NZ. An 8-hour bus journey would’ve cost at least $50, and wasted an entire day, so a flight seemed the way to go.
The airport was clean and quaint, with a very small number of gates. The 45 minute flight was smooth and the plane surprisingly large for such a short trip — I’m used to the mega air-sickness-inducing 16-person turboprops which go from Ithaca, NY to Philadelphia. This was a hundred-plus person jet; I was very happy.
The flight was uneventful, and unfortunately it was foggy (again) so I didn’t get to see any amazing scenery. Oh well! I arrived in Christchurch, whichhad quite a bit more commotion than Queenstown. I waited for a shuttlebus, which took me downtown to “Cathedral Square”, also known as “City Square,” a very pleasant little area with shops, restaurants, and, yes, a lovely cathedral. There was a small artisans market where I bought Maori pendants made of bone and paua shell for my friends, and looked at carvings and other crafts to pass the time. The vendors were friendly and chatty, as well, and there were some horrid street performers playing guitars, spinning hula-hoops, and putting on fairly unintelligible comedy acts.
Eventually, my shuttle to Akaroa, a seaside village out on the peninsula, arrived, and I boarded, put on my iPod, and enjjoyed the rlaxing 2 or so hour journey, filled with lovely rolling hills, ocean views and generally delightful scenery.
Akaroa itself was a very quaint, tiny ocean village. It was originally settled by the French, and a few indications of the French present still remain, with a European feel to the town’s layout and street names still labeled as “Rue,” hostels named “Chez le Mer,” and other French-like touches.
I enjoyed a pleasant walk along the bay down to the dock where my “Swim With the Dolphins” tour would be leavin gfrom the next day. The salty air, calm tide and squawking gulls, along with an absence of traffic and generally tranquil vibe reminded me a bit of a small, foreign Montauk, the seaside town out on the tip of Long Island I’d visit with my family every summer growing up.
I bought a container of marinated green-lipped mussells (one of the top NZ things I miss!!!) and sat at a seaside picnic table, eating them straight out of the container with my fingers and watching the waves. I followed that up wiht some seafood chowder on a restaurant patio, where I could watch the world go quietly by: middle aged couples strolling hand-in-hand, a grey-haired man feeding bread to the seagullys, sleek and shiny cats wandering down the streets.
I particuarly enjoyed watching those local kitties — Akaroa was the firrst place I’d really seen any cats at all, and there seemed to be quite a few well-cared for and happy-looking cats hanging out on the quay. They sat for hours, perched at the edge, staring at the seagulls and ducks bobbing in the water, waiting for their chance. I was able to pet a smart-looking cat with a nipped ear briefly, but clearly he was more interested in the avian life than in getting my love. Of course, the focus of my affection was towards a handsome black & white one who I would’ve taken home iwth me could I fit him in my suitcase.
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Although my hostel, the Chez le Mer, was run by a friendly New Yorker and had a garden and a chill vibe, I have to say, it was the most uncomfortable bed I have EVER slept on. I usually prefer the top bunk, but this night it was a most unfortunate choice (and the only option.) The mattress was resting on the typical slats of wood that make up a top bunk, but the mattress was so thin that not only could I feel the wood beneath me but my body sank into the air between the slats. It felt like my shoulder, butt and feet were hanging lower than my middle and thighs. It was horribly uncomfortable, made worse by the fact that every time the girl below me moved — which seemed to be about every 45 seconds — the whole bunk shook, and my rest was instantly disrupted. Halfway through the night I turned around and slept with my head at the foot of the bed. This was only a marginal improvement. When the girl below me had a coughing fit and position-rearranging party at 5 am, I gave up, got up, and packed up for the day.