My thing is that I tend to get motion sickness on them. Ask Louise how Providence to Martha’s Vineyard went about 5 years. Since then, it’s outside in fresh air for me. Luckily, crossing the Cook Straight went wonderfully. I think it’s my new favorite ferry. New Zealand has the sky we only dream of in America. After teasing CQ the night before about staring at sunsets, I realized why she does so. It’s mesmerizing. It was also freezing cold. Double jacket, hat, in desperate need of a blanket, I spent three hours braving the winds, but without a tickle in the stomach.

I ended up on the Interislander between New Zealand’s North and South Islands entirely on the recommendation of a woman I skied with in Lake Louise. It was her favorite part of her NZ trip to and said I would regret not doing the voyage. My favorite day was yet to come, but this day was pretty spectacular. How often do you get the sun shining down on clear, clean blue water where you imagine rays dancing across? I spent the whole trip in disbelief that I was actually there. Without realizing it, I had mobilized myself to take time off work, plan a trip, and end up entirely on the other side of the world. All by myself. And I was having a great time. With nature.

“Cut off from direct experience, cut off from our own feelings and sometimes our own sensations, we are only too ready to adopt a viewpoint or perspective that is handed to us, and is not our own.”

I’d started reading Michael Crichton’s Chronicles (thank you Amy) as I started my sabbatical and found his experiences resonating with me. It’s the best description of why I don’t like to plan too much or read too much before I travel. I’m afraid of not being able to make up my own mind. To know what I actually believe and think about something. Crichton’s quote is also perhaps the best justification for why I chose to take time to see the world. I felt I had erred too far in the direction of allowing my life’s natural momentum to take over rather than making conscious choices. Only with direct experience could I reawaken myself to life’s possibilities rather than acquiescing to the well-formed path beneath my feet.

My South Island adventures are entirely designed to generate direct experience. We shall see what sort of mayhem and mania I encounter. But first, get another look at this view:

I am very familiar with Cuba Street in Wellington.  Other than that, I couldn’t tell you much about Wellington’s city center.  Why spend time in the city when you can get out and see the countryside.  CQ, Stu, and I took off for a day of wine tasting in Martinborough.   The long and windy road gave my stomach a go, but it was worth it.  As it was a quiet Sunday prior to Easter holidays ending, not much was going on in town.  We had a great lunch outside on a supremely sunny day.  Then we hit three wineries that remind me of the small and intimate places in Sonoma.  I tried my first botrytis wines as well as a red that tasted like cotton candy.  On purpose.

CQ then directed us to Olivo, an olive grove and oil producer.  Turns out that it’s her favorite reason to visit Martinborough.  We had the good fortune of being treated to a tour of the olive groves and a lesson in olive oil making by Olivo’s owners.  We were lucky in that we could see the olives still on the trees turning from green to black.   Then we heard about Mrs. Percy who had recently visited Olivo with her fellow ladies from Masterton.  Olivo makes dessert olives (balsamic and pomegranate) that were so irresisitible to Mrs. Percy and her friends they called up Olivo to figure out how they could get more.  As Helen told us this story I could just imagine the little old ladies sitting around figuring out just how many more jars of pomegranate olives they needed.  After hearing a story like that, I had to buy the olives to find out for myself.  I’ve wrapped the jar up so I won’t be tempted to try them before getting home.     What I don’t know however is how I’ll get more if I find out like Mrs. Percy that I must have them.  Olivo, like many places in Martinborough can’t be found outside of Wellington, let alone New Zealand.  Let’s hope they’re only okay.

Well, I saw it on the menu at a Wellington cafe and dared CQ to ask the waiter.  She refused, so I went and did so myself.  The waiter looked at me confused then realized what I had asked.  With a smile, he informed me that a Fluffy is steamed milk for kids and a Vienna is coffee with frothed cream on top.  I was pretty disappointed with the answer.  I thought I had discovered a unique Kiwi coffee concoction.  I ordered the Vienna, but it didn’t have the appeal of the Fluffy Vienna.  If I ever open my own place, you will see a Fluffy Vienna on the menu.  There’d be some combination of whipped cream, coffee, and chocolate.  I may need to have a Fluffy Vienna creation party when I get back to DC.  Any takers?

My flight from Sydney to Wellington was perhaps the best flight ever. Friendly, orderly bordering process. No scramble to cram the overhead bins. More movies and TV shows than I could possibly every watch. As a Star Gold, I even got noise canceling headphones. There was one thing that I will suggest to any future New Zealand visitors: NZ wants you to come, spend your money, see their nature, and leave. You must have a return ticket booked and printed in hard copy or you can’t board your flight. And don’t bring any dirt with you. My hiking boots were examined for any dirt or grime that could bring more pests and vermin into the country.

Carolyn was disappointed that I didn’t stare out the window as we flew into Wellington. I desperately tried to get to the end of It’s Complicated to see if Meryl Streep and Alec Baldwin get back together. Don’t tell me; I still don’t know. I will find out when I fly back to Sydney. First impressions of Wellington, however, were that it was what I expected out of Sydney. Hilly, lush, and beautiful. Not unlike Trinidad and Tobago in some ways.

New Zealand made it on my trip itinerary for two reasons: 1) to see Carolyn (CQ) who moved here last year and 2) to confront my discomfort with outdoor activities. I don’t know how to camp, kayak, hike, etc. My plans for my two weeks in New Zealand: kayaking Abel Tasman and Milford Sound, hiking part of the Routeburn Track, climbing Franz Josef Glacier, and other assorted outdoor adventures. Kiwis excel in everything outdoor so I figured they were the ones to initiate me.

To get me started, however, I took a ride on a Flying Fox in Wellington’s Central Park. CQ and I met up on Cuba Street and headed to her flat. She graciously took me through her extra hilly walk home just to get me used to sore muscles and aching legs. We came upon a playground which had a contraption that will never be seen in an American playground:

Obviously, this is not me and Carolyn, but we did go for a ride. It was amazing. Especially after you jump on and realize there’s no way to stop except for your body slamming the tires at the end of the rope. You jump on this plunger type thing attached to a rope suspended above you. Then you launch yourself off the platform and let gravity take over. The best part is the warning sign that says “Children ages 5 and above should be appropriate for this ride.”

I wish I had more tales of fun and sun in Australia. Despite hearing about the richness of its neighborhoods, Sydney just didn’t quite do it for me. I enjoyed it, was glad I went, but wouldn’t put it top of my return list. El Gordo rightly pointed it out in his comments – Sydney was surprisingly British with a heavy does of American. And not in a flattering way. Dark clouds started to form that I had made a poor travel decision. But after talking with vacationing Australians in New Zealand who seem rather horrified by Sydney’s state, I finally allowed myself to come to terms with my ambivalence towards Sydney.

My best day in Sydney was actually the day trip out to the Blue Mountains. I don’t commune easily with nature, but I strapped on my squeaky clean (and new) hiking boots and got picked up at 8am by the side of a road (okay, the entrance to my beautiful hotel in downtown). As I tried to explain to CQ the other day, the first hour of a nature trip is generally filled with all sorts of negative thoughts streaming in my head. “It’s hot. My feet hurt. Those German girls are never going to stop talking. When is lunch? We’re walking how far?” Nature has to be pretty good to overcome my overall discomfort with it. Especially if there is climbing or descending up hill, mountains, or paths. Remember not liking skiing because of the falling? Well, I don’t love hiking because of the rocks and climbing on, up, or down. Same issue sans snow.

I couldn’t have chosen a more challenging first nature excursion. Highlight of the day: The Furber steps requiring 1,000 steps down to reach the Jamison Valley. Sure we saw beautiful waterfalls, lots of bush, and the Three Sisters rock formation, but oh the constant reminder that the van was way above. I will admit that my favorite place of the day was the Witches Leap which served as a wayfinding tool for the aboriginal people and the early explorers of the area. The tree and plant canopy is so great and you’re so far down that sky, sun, and stars can be invisible, so the rocks have to be the map.

For me, the day gave me another point on my own life map. I know this, but I forget – enjoyment comes when you’re done putting up false objections. Once you accept your own physical and mental limitations and set them aside, you can actually start to relax and enjoy. Looking back at the day’s pictures, I really did have a good time. I wish I could have realized it more at the time.

Airport immigration officers aren’t known for being chatty let alone friendly. Every time I enter the U.S., I’m convinced they’re not going to let me in.

Australia proved to be quite the opposite. Carl saw that I’d been to El Salvador within 6 days of arriving in Sydney. The first concern was whether I’m bringing any yellow fever with me (no). The second was whether I’d been to the same beach in La Union, El Salvador that he’d visited on his last holiday (no). Really? I only know one American who has been to El Salvador let alone the scores I’ve met who can’t find it on a map. To go around the world and have that encounter was surreal.

Sydney is well…expensive. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but imagine UK prices for an American. A dinner entree is $25 – $30 minimum. A can of soda $3 – $4. Ferry ride $7.00. You can get a soda in El Salvador for 50 cents maybe $1.00. Thankfully, my hotel was free (best use of SPG points ever) which included breakfast and a light dinner so I saved money while staying in luxury. I’m still scratching my head, however, as to how Sydney-siders manage. Also as to why a plane was writing this in the sky above the Opera House. Can’t answer that either.

I’m missing something, a context, an experience that reveals Sydney’s true identity. As a tourist you set out to see the Opera House, a koala/kangaroo, and Crocodile Dundee. Then you realize, Australia is almost as big as the United States in landmass. Just like all Texans don’t walk around in cowboy boots and hats, Australians don’t go around saying “G’day mate” and wrestling a crocodile. Sydney is a cosmopolitan city with a thriving business district and distinct neighborhoods. And a coffee obsession. The obsession rivals San Francisco and Seattle’s combined, but I’m happy to say we Americans would win in a blind taste test. Gordon and I did a coffee tour of San Francisco and it holds up well against the flat whites and long blacks of Sydney.

I managed to fulfill two of my three goals for Sydney. Saw the kangaroos in the wild (sorry no picture) and the Opera House (totally gorgeous). Rather than show you the building you already know, here’s what the bathroom looks like. I saw another lady stealing I shot, so I figured why not?