Off to New Zealand (or Mordor as Aim says in her creepy Gollum voice). Land of the Kiwi, cousin to the Tasmanian devil, and fifth uncle to Paul Hogan. Our flights were unremarkable, though I’ll warn you now that spilling half of your wife’s bottle of Chardonnay on her seat is only funny if you’ve already had your bottle (and they were really little bottles). We landed in Auckland in the late afternoon. I was accosted at Customs, apparently because they suspected me of illegally importing tiny Australians in the treads of my hiking boots. A really big guy in his 70s led me into a neon lit X-files type room where he ordered me to march in place on a sopping and foaming black mat. I looked around to see if anyone was laughing at me or filming me.
We arrived at our hotel and were dismayed to see that it was last remodeled in the early 1800s. We arrived at the same time as a group of unruly teenagers who were clearly part of a gang or “team,” as they were all dressed in their colors or “uniforms.” We capped the night off with an insulting front desk staff who managed to convey disdain through subtle intonations in her conjunctions (“and?!!!?!?”).
Day 2
I woke early enough that I was able to peruse the fine art in the hotel lobby.
I saw that our hotel decided to screw the art to the wall – a telltale sign that it must be worth holding on to. Despite the fact that I’m no art historian, it occurred to me that screw holes probably don’t improve the value of a painting.
We drove south and passed through Thames on our way up the Cormandel peninsula on a very cool drive along the ocean, finally making our way back south to the Karangahake Gorge. Amazing hiking.
Then the four of us headed south to Maketu to our B&B.
There’s no delicate way to put this; the B&B was run by a woman I’ll just refer to here as Norma Bates. She was what we psychologists call “prickly” or “independent minded” when we are talking to volatile parents of aggressive children. The B&B had a stunning view of the ocean.
It also had two cats. My favorite quote of the night was Norma telling us that if the cat (I’ll refer to this cat as Mother) gets an attitude when we try to pet it “just leave your hand there. Don’t take it away.” I assured her that I would not be petting the cat.
We were shown our room and I noticed that the door to our room had been open for our arrival. I mentioned that I was allergic to cats. Norma looked offended and assured me that the cats never get on the beds. Right. There was enough cat hair on the comforter to create a third cat.
Around midnight, we experienced our first earthquake (though I confess I initially thought it was the sound of a body hitting the floor) that gave the whole house a shake. That seems to be the point when my insomnia really took hold. I ended up sitting on the porch staring at Mother. We agreed that we had a mutual dislike of one another. She expressed this by rubbing repeatedly against my leg. Cats just know when someone is allergic.
