Due to some unforeseen circumstances — namely that I’m a lot worse at coding than I originally thought, or perhaps just lazier — the TD blog is moving on’ over to LiveJournal.
Click the link below to check out my new entries over there at:
‘http://travelingdina (dot) livejournal (dot) com’
Thanks! 
It’s June in San Francisco.
For me, “June” conjures up the true rites of summer for a native East Coaster: Long, languid evenings spent without sweaters or shawls, dancing to jazz in an evening breeze on the plaza at Lincoln Center; hours-long meals passed in sidewalk cafes, drinking wine under long, rolled-out awnings of green; clams and mussells steaming in a garlic broth, eaten on a deck overlooking the ocean, the setting sun sparkling through flutes of beer; or driving the back roads of small-town NY, sunroof open and feet propped out the window, in search of the weekend’s best Kiwanis Club chicken barbeque; and eating that bbq, sitting on a blanket by Seneca Lake from hot sun ’till balmy twilight, watching tourist schooners and private sailboats ply the quiet water, friends and relatives strolling by to say hello…
It’s the season of bright sun and long days, of sundresses and sandals, of pure escapism and good cheer.
But Summer in San Francisco? Summer in San Francisco is none of that. It’s December’s foggy freeze blanketing the city from dawn till dusk, paying no attention to the visceral needs of a Jersey girl. It’s slacks and a T for the day, jeans and a fleece at night, skin pale and hairy underneath too many layers of clothing. The occasional spate of 70+ degree weather calls for congregating in Dolores Park with wine and cheese and friends and the Sunday Times, but the fog creeps in by six and the long “summer” evenings are better spent inside.
So as to avoid the risk of becoming even more stir-crazy in a city who defies nature with its relentlessly cloying blanket of gray, I decded to head “Upstate” as we’d say in NY, to Sonoma County, for some good ol’ back-to-nature summer fun. I packed the tent, sleeping bags, Thermarests, extra blankets, swimsuit, shorts & Tevas, picked up a friend, (handed over the keys!), and headed north.
Unfortunately, one thing about living in the San Francisco Bay Area that is not that different from East Coast city living is that EVERYONE wants to get away for the weekend. Campsites at popular parks book up months in advance, especially those within an “easy” drive to the city. While all of the parks with challenging mountain hikes were already booked up, luckily Lake Sonoma, a man-made resevoir managed by the US Army Corps of Engineers, has a “first-come, first-served” campground, and our plan was to head straight there.
We arrived in time to have our pick of spots, and chose one at the top of a small incline, with views of the lake below down behind the trees and golden, grassy hills. It also featured a small slope between the tent and ridgeline that provided a modicum of privacy from the nearby sites, should we fancy a midnight blanket-sit under the stars. We set up camp, headed into town for iced coffees and essential camping provisions — sausages, sausages, more sausages, chips, fig newtons, and beer (Miller High Life!) — came back to camp, put the cooler in what shade we could find, and set off for the lake a short but steep hike away.
The sun beat down warmly, probably over 80 degrees — finally! — and the lake sparkled a deep green-gray-blue below. The flooded valley licked steep hillsides, the lake forming inlets and “fingers” of water poking into the secondary valleys between the hills. We could see the boat-in tentsites on the opposite shores, and the sounds of power boats and jet skis echoed up the hills. It was a picture-perfect postcard of lakeside summertime family fun, and we were headed right for it!
Or… so we thought. Instead of leaving camp again to drive to a trailhead, we bushwhacked a small distance from our site to an obvious trail. It seemed natural that all trails should lead down, down, down to the lake, and we headed out with easy expectations of a quick, cool trip to our dip. But after about 10 minutes we found ourselves… back out at the road! We checked the map, regrouped, back-tracked, and took the opposite fork, a trail labeled “shortcut” that for sure must’ve led downhill.
It was a beautiful walk on a narrow path cutting across the hillside through strawlike, golden grass, with the lake always beckoning to our right. However, our lack of progress down the hill became almost comical. Our xeroxed “trail map” was essentially useless. I became convinced we were going to walk around the entire lake — not the wisest choice of endevours, as the branch of the lake we were skirting was 9 miles long!
We continued to giggle (OK, maybe I giggled) and bumble along without any real noticable change in elevation until we noticed a small peninsula jutting off into the lake. We walked out on it, and finally stumbled down a steep, unmarked rocky path to the shore. We had our own private bit of shoreline, and after much hesitation on account of fear of cold water (me) and submerged objects (my friend), we summoned our courage and sank into the cool, alkaline water.
It’s been almost a year since I’ve been really swimming — New Zealand’s head-to-toe in a 10mm thick wetsuit experiences not withstanding — and I just bobbed along, relishing that feeling of almost-weightlessness, the slippery feel of the chalky water on my skin, listening to the echoes of my breath as I floated and looked up at the sky. We played around splash-style for a while (always a necessity, no?), then climbed out and sat on the crumbling shoreline to dry.
The walk home was remarkably quick compared to our casual bungling down to the lake, thanks in part to a quicker pace, part to knowing the way, and part to the strange psychology of the passage of time. We lit the coals, cooked our sausages, drank our beer, and passed a lovely, typical camping evening under the stars.
The perfect antidote to Foggy City living!
The rest of the day was almost comically typical. I had a SuperShuttle pick me up at the Fraureishaus so I didn’t have to woalk with my backpack back to the Square. The shuttle was actually early. Whoa.
It took me a while to find the proper counter in the airport, and then waited ona short but painfully slow line to check in. Air New Zealand only allows 17K (I think) for carry-on luggage, so I had to do some creative rearranging, including putting on all of my sweaters in order for my bag to ‘make weight.’ I’ve had my checked luggage lost (and luckily found, although once after my trip had ended) three times now, so now I *HATE* checking luggage. I’m willing to do anything — ANYTHING! — not to. (OK, almost anything…)
When we landed in Auckland, I noticed that the boarding time printed on my onward ticket to SF was… NOW. Reaction? “Oh, Shit!” The guy sitting next to me was also catching the same flight, and luckily he helped me navigate the small but sprawling airport to the next terminal — he’d done the walk several times before, but I doubt I would’ve found it without him, as we were supposed to “follow the blue line” which faded, disappeared, and reappeared at various intervals.
By the time I had to go through security (again!) I was nervous, rushed, and sweaty. Finally, I made it onto the cabin and was lucky enough to get some of the last storage space for my backpack.
As I walked towad my seat, however, I noticed two children in what appeared to be the seats next to mine, for the second “Oh, shit!” moment of the day. The blonde mom was across the aisle, and my window seat was empty. She stood as I approached, and I knew what was next.
As a frequent single traveler, i am asked to give up my seat ALL THE TIME so parents can sit next to their kids. i once gave up my window seat and suffered through 6 hours in the middle so a dad could sit with his 12-year-old child (he neglected to mention her age when he asked me to switch) who clearly hated him. Nice.
This time, we had 13 hours of flying time, I paid a HUGE amount of money for the ticket. There was NO WAY I was giving up my window seat. I explained this as politely as I could — I’m usually a bit of a pushover, and asserting myself in this situation was actually pretty hard. I felt bad, and offered to ask around for someone else who might be willing to take her aisle seat and give me their window, but she insisted I not do that — “I don’t want to make any more trouble.” OK, trouble for me, but no one else?
She commented several times on being “SHOCKED” that I wouldn’t switch, and made several comments to the kids that were clearly designed to get me to want to take the aisle seat. “Oh, you’ll have to keep your feet out of the lady’s lap!” “Son, will you be able to sleep with daughter in your lap?” “Now, try to be quiet…” etc. Why she couldn’t take the middle seat to be next to younger daughter, and have video-game-playing son take the aisle seat was a bit of a mystery to me.
Interestingly, after I put my ipod on and refused to fall for any of her BS, that is exactly what she did. So now I had to spend 13 hours next to someone who hated me. Great. But, once she got over being “shocked” and accepted her middle-seat fate, she was actually quite nice. The 7 or 8-year-old son was fine across the aisle, and the daughter cuddled next to her. We chatted breifly before I put my headphones back on, and the bad air seemed relatively clear. Phew!
Air NZ has comfy seats and great entertainment — hundreds of choices of TV, movies, comedy, music, etc — although the user interface is a bit klugey. I had my first shepard’s pie ever, which was actually quite delicious (and airline food no less!) By hour #3 or 4, thogh, I was still bored, despite the great selection of video entertainment, cheesy magazines, and music, and it was hard to sleep. Periodically there was bad turbulance, which had me once again praying, writing goodbye notes in my journal, and trying to calmly breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out… I hate turbulance!
Finally some sleep, a good breakfast, a long wait for the small bag I’d reluctantly checked (I was SURE it was lost, but it was just one of the last pieces out), a slow ride on the SuperShuttle, and, finally, that shell-shocked feeling of being back “home.”
A fabulous trip.
It went much too quickly.
My Air New Zealand flight back to San Francisco didn’t leave till the late afternoon, so I wanted to get in at least a little bit of tourist fun in Christchurch before I left. I stopped into a ceramics gallery (where manyof the pieces on display were also for sale.) Nothing particularly stood out — it felt more like a shop than a gallery — until I went into the second room, which had on display the works of maybe two dozen ceramic artists, all on the theme of “Tea Service.”
This was a pretty fascinating exhibit, exploring the intersection of form and usability, with pieces on both extremes, as well as in the middle. All of the services had a pot and cups, but the presentations were all unique — a bird-themed tea service, a classic porceline-style pot, a pot and cups made entirely of mesh. It was a great exhibit.
Next I went to the Christchurch Art Gallery (”Te Puna O Waiwhetu”), which is totally free! It’s in a gorgeous, modern, open metal and glass building. I’m not sure how the museum is supported, but patrons are asked to leave a donation in the box on the way out — quite an anonymous way of contributing, as opposed to the “Free” museums in NYC which have a “donation” of $20 that you have to pay at the counter to get in…
I was particularly excited to see the exhibit of Maori weaving — the “Ngai Tahu” weavers — which had previously been on display in DC and, ironically, San Francisco. There were amazing woven baskets, made from a form of New Zealand flzx and other native, natural fibers. Several utilized synthetic dyes and other more modern materials such as wire. There was even a woven backpack! There were baskets made of copper wire, paua shell
and feathers, of limited usefulness but fantastic works of art. I was blown away by the complex patterns in the baskets; they were all truly gorgeous and inspriing.
There were also quite a few impressive cloaks and capes. They were highly ornate, with a base of flax, decorated with multi-hued feathers, leaes, shells and hanging threads. The women weavers would strip the flax themselves with knives made of shells, then prep the fiber by rolling it against their legs. The less traditional ones had colored fibers hanging vertically, in the “grass-skirt” style; they were fabulous, too.
There were also weavings by young, contemporary artists, art-school trained,using traditional techniqes and modern fibers. One piece involved weavings around colored dowels and my heart broke with longing — I want to know how to do this! Some of the other materials used were plexiglass, copper and feathers made into a checkerboard square; something made with fishing line and a UV panel; and a video displaying patterns. This last one I found the least impressive — I’m simply not captivated by digital media as art the way I am by the most traditional forms.
In complete contrast to the Maori Weaving exhibit were some of the other exhibits at the gallery. “Reboot” was a modern exhibit using found objects, dime-store trinkets and every-day items relabeled as art because of the context. this is the stuff I don’t quite understand and feel unable to appreciate. It seems more ‘camp” than “art” to me, things that might be more at home somewhere out on the Playa at Burning Man. (A lamp blinking on and off, a replica of a light-switch, a bedsheet hanging on a wall, a giant inflatable bunny, a crude wooden boat painted white, for example…)
I did, however, like a few of the items in the contemporary gallery. There was a set of crocheted pigs made with different materials (crochet!) that I liked (of course!) and a GIANT cow made entirely out of flattened corned beef tins which was quite impressive.
There was a fantastic, interactive children’s gallery, with “clues” and games to play with the art, including puzzles, a slidey board, and magnets in triangular shapes to make your own minimalist art. The kids all definitely seemed to be enjoying themselves.
Definitely a worthwhile visit!
What’s the difference between a Latte and a Flat White? Not much, it seems.
According to Wikipedia, “A Flat White is a coffee beverage served in Australia and New Zealand, prepared with espresso and milk. The drink is generally made with 1/3 espresso and 2/3 steamed milk, very similar to the ingredients in a latte. The milk is prepared differently, with the volumised milk at the top folded into the lower layers. The resulting drink has only a very thin layer of froth at the top.”
“A latte is prepared since the early 1980s with approximately one third espresso and two-thirds steamed milk, with a layer of foamed milk approximately one quarter inch thick on the top. The drink is very similar to a cappuccino; the difference being that a spoon is used to separate the layers of foam and steamed milk in a latte, while the milk in a cappuccino is free-poured (lattes also typically have a far lower amount of foam).
“A latte can be differentiated between a cappuccino and a flat white by the proportion of milk to froth. A latte is recognised as having about one-third espresso, with steamed milk added, and holding about one centimetre of froth exhibiting latte art. A cappuccino is one third espresso, with one-third steamed milk added, and holding about one-third froth. A flat white is a serving fill of about one-third espresso, with steamed milk then added, and holding no froth.”
Thank you, Wikipedia!
I arrived back at Cathedral Square and headed off to the Frauenreishouse, or “Women Travelers Hostel”. It was only a ‘Seven Minute Walk From Cathedral Square!’ but with my backpack on and not quite knowing where I was going, it felt much longer, trudging through the unfamiliar streets.
I settled into my room and chatted for a while with the English girl who was hanging out there. Flatteringly, she thought I was about her age — 24 — and said that, even though she’d had a blast on the backpacker buses, she felt a bit old and understood how it wasn’t for everyone. She was taking a few days in CC to decompress and just not do anything (read: drink) before heading to Australia on the next leg of her trip.
I’d read about a new show being put on, and readied myself to go. I couldn’t convince my new roommate to come to the theater with me, so I headed off solo. I’d called the box office from Akaroa, and they said there’d be tickets available but to be sure to come on time as there was no seating after curtain.
The show was called “Bombshells”, a one-woman play that had just opened for its month-long run in CC. It had the “uniting theme of ‘women on the edge’”, about “…the madness which precipitates, inhabits or folows the point at which a woman’s private and public selves intersect.” Sounded pretty interesting!
The theater itself was in an arts coplex that I think was once part of a University. the antetheater ws small, with the box office, a candy window, and a bar with surprisingly reasonably priced beer, wine, and cocktails, (although only 3 tables and no other good congregation places.) Turns out, patrons can bring their drinks into the theater as long as they’re in the original bottles or plastic cups (as opposed to glass.) I quite fancied this idea, and thought it might make a nice addition to the American theatergoing experience, but then decided that American patrons are probably too rude and messy to make it a viable practice.
The other interesting thing was that the programs were on offer for a “gold coin donation,” meaning a $1 or $2 coin. I dropped my coin in the box and bought a program, which was pretty much a mimeographed trifold without a huge amount of information, but without advertisement, either. Very different from the Broadway-style “Playbill,” that’s for sure!
I was also lucky enough to have a front-row seat, and a great view of the stage, which was level with the first row, and tiny. The set, however, was gorgeous. There were 6 vibrantly hued panels of velour hung at varying heights from wrought iron, wooden, and other triangular-shaped rods as the backdrop for the forestage, which had 5 exquisitely crafted dress forms, 3 of them especially stunning in their artistry, combining form, function and beauty.
The most beautiful had symmetrical v-shapingon the shoulders and a shirring effect created by wrapping wire around and around from bust to hip; it was absolutely stunning. The long-torso dress form was made of copper, and another smaller one had thick coils forming spirals and leaves, a scarf thrown over one shoulder for effect.
The show itself was quite entertaining, and I thought the actress, a New Zealander named Ali Harper, was excellent. Normally, I don’t like “1-person” shows, but she portrayed all the characters as distinct and unique. (The only complaint I had was that I found it hard to understand her accent when she portrayed children, which was in a bit of a whiny, grating voice.)
The characters included a washed-up singer, a bride on her wedding day, a pre-teen in a talent show. I especially liked the portrayal of a post-middle-aged widow who’d had an unlikely romantic encounter with the (much younger) blind student she read to; the story was told interspersed with the character giving a talk about cacti at a meeting of the “Succulants Club”. It was really a great bit, and well done.
I also enjoyed her portrayal of a totally frazzled “stay-at-home” mom of three kids. the combination of watching her perform the actions of her day-to-day routinge — feed the baby, feed the kids, feed the dad, take kids to school, get the cleaning, go to soccer, do the laundry, get more food, etc. — juxtaposed with her iner monoogue and frenzied narration of her own life — “Still need coffee! What will the teacher think of me!? I’m a horrible mother! Must get coffee!” — was excellent. Being a mom of 3 kids seems like a daunting job indeed!
I enjoyed the show and the experience of going out to the theater, had a nice walk home, and got ready for my last night and day in New Zealand.
Although I’d already had breakfast and gone to the sea to spy dolphins, the day was still quite early. Even so, I’d missed the first shuttlebus back to Christchurch, and the next one wasn’t for several hours. So, I considered my options: Go back to the ocean and try to swim with the dolphins again, perhaps having better luck this time? Hang around town? Take a long hike? A short hike? Waste all afternoon on the Internet?
I decided on a nice, country lane hike in the sunshine. It was a delightful amble up a paved road, with blooming flower gardens and fragrant hedges lining every front yard. Except for the paved road and small, sided houses, the gardens reminded me of a platonic ideal of eden, the white-petaled hedges alive with snowy butterflies and tiny buzzing bees.
More amazing was slightly up the road, where a stand of tall, juniper-like trees stood, their dark branches overhanging the pavement. The trees were simply teeming with tiny little grey-headed, yellow-breasted birds, merrily snacking on the trees’ little blue berries. The birds would eat the berries in one happy gulp, preceeded with a joyous peep. In between berry-eating, the birds would sing: it was almost a charicature of birdsong, with twitters, peeps, flutters, chirps and melodies ringing out from the trees. The chorus made it seem like there were many more birds than I could actually see, hiding up in the crown among the green. I stood, entranced, for a good while, just watching them flit about, chatter, and eat.
Now, there was a time when I was really into birding — not “birdwatching”, thank you very much! — and I took a lot of pleasure in spending a few hours of my day with my binoculars, and Audebon book, and a notebook, heading down to the seashore or a meadow trail to locate and identify birds new to me. (Truth be told, I once spent a glasses-less half hour on a trail in Maine trying to indentify what type of raptor– think eagle, hawk, other taloned bird of prey — a large rock was. Oops.)
As I continued up the trail, I heard a strange flapping “whoot-whoot-whoot” of a large bird, and that birding instinct kicked back in. I took my binoculars and hunted around for the elusive creature, who I found “hiding in plain sight”, as it were, on a branch among the trees.
It was a New Zealand pigeon, easily identifiable because I had seen several of them in captivity at the various “Kiwi Houses” and such that I had visited. With its relatively large size, colorful green head, and dove-like demeanor, he was pretty much unmistakeable. A gorgeous, colorful, placid-looking bird, it was so much more impressive in the wild. I spent quite some time just watching it chill out on its perch, high above on a thin branch in the middle of the roadside thicket. It seemed odd to me that a bird of such size and markings would live so close to houses and people.
There were some more amazing — and amazingly simple — treats on my stroll, a simple stroll pretty much anyone could do, a sunny, gradual incline of low impact if taken at a slow pace. But it felt as if I was viewing the spectacular — things that, if I actually lived on the street, I would mistake for ordinary.
For example, a tree. A huge tree, atually. I backed against it, and estimated: it was a tree 15 Dinas wide, almost as if 15 trees grew and molded together to form an enormous trunk. This was one. big. tree. I could barely get it into one frame of the camera!
And then there were the cows. Shy, funny-looking black cows with white faces (and one all-brown one), they reminded me of gigantic tuxedo cats. As I approached the fence that lined the road, all of the cows, in one movement, started, then heaved their enormous bodies up and out of the muck they were sitting in or from their restful positions, clambored halfway up a small hill, and turned around to stare at me. They looked gentle and a little bit confused as to why they were up there on the hill. I hung out and watched them for a while, too.
There were other simple pleasures of the hike along with the birdsong and flowers and cows. I especially enjoyed spying a large, manicured garden hidden behind a hedgerow and fence. It reminded me of the kind of garden my father would love, with small lemon and apple trees, wooden benches and stone paths lined with lavendar and ornamental grasses. A peaceful oasis in an already peaceful town.
~~~
I took the 3:00 bus back to Christchurch, and this time, instead of a straight route, the bus driver stopped off at a few places to take picures of the scenic peninsula. He also made a quick stopover at a cheese factory, where I bought a particularly yummy New Zealand cheese called “Egmont”. I spent the ride listening to my Ipod and taking the wool yarn I had bought, unraveling the skein, and winding it into a ball — a rather time-consuming process when it comes down to it, but a decent way to spend a pleasant drive.
Thanks to the nonstop tossing and turning of my downstairs neighbor in our rickety hostel bunk, I was up bright and early, with plenty of time to wander around before my “swim with the dolphins” tour.
I scratched the backs of my hands quite intently for a while, then stopped into the one bakery in town. I got a flat white and a “bacon and egg pie,” which I ordered only after the woman assured me that it wasn’t “runny” inside like the other more typical meat pies. The bacon & egg pie was quite tasty, sort of like a quiche or an omelette surrounded by a thick crust.
Next off to the dock for my dolphin tour. I’d signed up for the early tour, and we assembled at 8:15. There were only 4 or 5 other people on the trip, so it was a nice small group — all guys (except for me), which was apparently a bit unusual.
We prepped by putting on the now-familiar somewhat smelly and ndamp ill-fitting neoprene wetsuits and booties and signed the waiver forms. On the boat, our tour guide, LeeAnn, a chipper young Canadian, talked to us about the Hector’s Dolphins that we hoped to see. Not what we think of as “typical” dolphins (a.k.a. “Flipper” or the bottlenose dolphins), the Hector’s Dolphins are among the smallest and rarest of all dolphins, and are found only in New Zealand. They have a striking grey and black coloring, and a small, rounded dorsal fin.
[Check out this site for info on Hector’s dolphins, and scroll to the bottom for some cute pics…]
Our job was to scan the waters for their little fins poking out of the surf. It was overcast and fairly chilly, but a nice ride nonetheless over the semi-rough waters. Unfortunately, we weren’t as lucky as the tours usually are, and the dolphins didn’t come flocking around as expected. we did pause to watch a mom dolphin with her baby, who did indeed look just like a little grey rugby ball with a dorsal fin — and about that size, too! He swam right next to the mom, never leaving her side. It’s not legal to swim with the babies, as they’re still developing, but the couple was great to watch.
We watched a few other small pods of dolphins come and swim around the boat, but none of them seemed to be ina frolicky mood. Our cheerful guide seemed a bit puzzled by this, but managed to convey her bummed outed-ness in a pleasant, singsong voice. Eventually, we found a pold the tour leaders deemed worthy of us jumping in for, and so in we went. Even with the thick wetsuit, the cold knocked the wind out of me. I tried to catch my breath, and began to swim toward the four others, keeping far enough away to let the dolphins (in theory) swim between us.
The guide had given me two rocks, and I tapped them together underwater, as the dolphins are attracted by “funny noises.” I tried to sing into my snorkel (a good “funny noise” source), but I wasn’t quite able to get over my inhibitions to do it with the gusto it deserves. It was so cold that it was very hard to catch my breath, even just bobbing in the waves, waiting for the dolphins to come. The water was too murky to see the dolphins underwater, even when they came close — one swam right by me, but when I ducked into the water to see him (her?), I couldn’t. So, we contented ourselves to watch the little fins circle by every now and then, usually 2 or 3 at a time. No one got super-close to the dolphins, but it was still a neat experience. By the end, I was shivering so much, and the dolphins had pretty much gone away, so I was relieved when it was time to get back on the boat.
We hunted around for some more dolphins, but by then I had decided that there was no way in hell I was getting back into that water. I was shivering pretty violently at that point, even though I was standing in front of the heat source. Watching the dolphins from the boat was actually a little more exciting, because we could see the dolphins’ whole bodies. Our guide explained that she felt we hadn’t gotten the “true” Hector’s Dolphin experience — that the dolphins are usually a lot more playful, coming right up to the swimmers and jumping out of the water, doing tricks, practically making eye contact. She usually has to warn the swimmers that it’s illegal to touch the dolphins, they usually come that close.
So, two strikes out in my attempts to “swim with the dolphins.” At least this tour outfit gave us all partial refunds — we paid only for the “see the dolphins” part of the tour, and the “swim” was refunded. Our guide knew I’d tried to swim with the dolphins in Bay of Islands, and felt doubly bad for me that I wasn’t able to see them. I debated going on another tour that day, but I was pretty exhausted from my lack of sleep, early morning, and extremely chilly swim — I wasn’t sure I’d be able to toss myself back in the water if the time came for it.
So, I took a long, hot shower, and thought about how I’d pass the rest of the day…
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.
So, after deciding I definitely did NOT want to experience the Skipper’s Road again, it was river rafting for me. I told my guide I was deathly afraid of falling in, and that I’d had some bad luck doing mellower rapids in northern California (but that had been with a friend and no guide…) He put me in a seat in front of him, “So I can catch you.” (Not that reassuring.) It was also the second rear-most seat aside from his, and supposedly the “safest” spot if one is trying to avoid ejection.
The beginning of the trip was just a gentle float down the beautiful Shotover river, which had been a great source of gold in the past. Evidence of the mining days was everywhere — big rusted pipes, twisted pieces of metal and huge things that looked like turbines and other random remnants of machinery decorated the banks here and there. We were told that under no circumstances should we stand up in the water, due to the unknown amount of wrecked mining littering the riverbed. I did not find this encouraging. But the calm water at the beginning of the trip was relaxing, so I didn’t worry too much.
Throughout the previous days of our journey, Greg had been complaining about sandflies — tiny little beasts who live in sand, but bite people everywhere, not just on the feet and ankles or other body-parts that might come in contact with sand. The welts are large and itchy, similiar to mosquito bites, but luckily, thanks to Greg attracting all of their attention, I hadn’t gotten any bites yet. My luck, however, was about to change.
Even though the 6 of us rafters (and one guide, who probably was clued in enough to use some “OFF” before the trip) were essentially covered from toe to wrist to head in neoprene and sexy bright yellow helmets, the crafy little insects had no trouble at all finding our hands and faces, pretty much the only naked flesh available. Rather than paddling through life-threatening whitewater, we were slapping the backs of our hands and our neighbors’ necks, shouting “I got the little mofo!” with triumph.
Luckily, while the pinch of the bite was unpleasant, the sandflies seemed to just leave a bunch of little red marks on my hands that didn’t really itch. (Yet.)
So aside from the discomforts of the nasty neoprene suit and the onslaught of pesky sandflies, the first half of the rafting experience was quite enjoyable — we were cruising at a nice clip down the gently but somewhat swiftly flowing river, surrounded by amazing, humbling scenery. The majority of the riverbanks weren’t “banks” at all but just hillsides and mountains that the river had carved through. If you’ve ever taken Route 80 from New Jersey to Pennsylvania (or vice versa) through the Delaware Water Gap, perhaps you’ve noted the incline of the mountains. Geologists call this incline “uplift”, terrain where first the rock is deposited in layers, then mountain-building forces push the layers up at steep angles. The mountains lining this rever reminded me of the Gap, it was that majestic.
Part of the fun of hte gentle part of the river was having our guide — another partially bearded, slightly scrawny and youthful looking kiwi — command us like a professional rafting outfit, barking stroking orders like a coxswain. “Forwards! Backwards! Forwards, left! Hold on, get down!” We practiced this last one in anticipation of the heavier rapids — basically, grab on to a rope in the middle of the boat, wedge your body between the seats, and pray. (Well, the “pray” part, perhaps only applied to me.)
The rough, class IV rapids, when they came, were definitely scary, but over pretty quickly. The first ones were crazy, but we as a raft team negotiated them pretty well. Although we got totally swamped by the chilly water (and perhaps I executed the “Hold on, get down!” slightly before it was commanded), we made it through without losing any member of the raft crew.
Some of the other rafts weren’t so lucky, and we waited over to the side at the bottom of the rapid, and pulled out of the flowing water and into our raft a shell-shocked, very small woman in her late 30’s or early 40’s. Safe in the raft but soaking wet and a little blue in the lips, she had a look on her face of utter bewilderment. Periodically, she’d look down at her hands, which appeared to have a few recently-broken fingernails, and wouldn’t stop shaking. Apparently, she’d flown out of the raft, her head had gone underwater, and she’d bumped various parts of herself on rocks, rafts and other debris as the whitewater hurled her downriver. I’d gotten a little whack on the head with a paddle as they’d hauled her in for the river, but I was glad for that whack and ever so thankful it wasn’t me who’d gotten dunked. I felt really bad for her, but wasn’t sure how to offer comfort. It had clearly been a traumatic experience for her, and we still had several more rapids to clear.
Luckily, we made it through the rest of the “scary” rapids with no more ejections. At one point, our raft got stuck between a rock and a rapid, and no matter how hard we paddled, we went nowhere — but if we stopped paddling, we would flip. “Keep forwards! Don’t stop!” our wispy guide yelled over the rushing water. Finally, another team who was parked over on the riverbank threw us a rope, and we were able to pull ourselves out of the rapid and into the quiter water.
Generally, the rapids were exhilerating, and the quiet water pleasant. But, after getting soaked by the rapids, I was decidedly COLD. Plus, I was not amused by the other rafters’ and guides’ wont to play splash games. I kept getting smacked with facefulls of cold water that shocked my system and made it hard to see. Playing the pacifist role and not splashing back made no difference except making myself an easy target. I tried to hunch down and hide during the periodic moments of splashing, but I felt it kind of ruined what could’ve otherwise been a peaceful journey. Still, it was an overall positive experience, and I’m glad I had the courage to go!
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For our last night together, Greg and I decided to splurge and went to a steakhouse. Greg got beef of some sort (which was very good) and I decided to try the cervena, or farmed deer — something that was not only on my list of things to do in NZ but that we’d seen today at the farm! It was amazingly delicious. Done medium rare, the meat was pink and melt-in-your-mouth, like-butter soft. It had a fillet-like flavor, but even richer, though not “strong” or “gamey” like we think venison might be like. Apparently, the fact that the deer is farmed and not wild accounts for its buttery texture and mild, delicious flavor. I can’t wait to see if I can find some at home!