Pretty Vacation

Rocktopus! Diane's visit part 4 (and... the end?)

2008-08-18T22:03:00.001-07:00

Hey,

How are you all? I’m fine. I just got back from a vacation (from my vacation) in Gisborne, over on the southeast coast. “What?” you say, “Why?” Well, today marks the fifth week of nearly continuous rain here on the west coast. I wanted to see the goddamn sun. I wanted Herbert to dry out (he has a bad leak; I sop up an inch or so of water from his rapidly-putrefying floor every day). And I wanted to surf.

Gisborne was lovely, everything I wanted. The YHA where I stayed was friendly and cheap. Today in Phil and Bern’s home, I woke up to hail bouncing on the trampoline. I made tea and checked the weather for the coming week- rain, natch. I checked the weather back in Gisborne- dry, sunny, with swell and offshore winds on the forecast- and made a decision. I’m going to spend the rest of my vacation (one month, today) in Gisborne. I’ll leave Raglan, my friends, and my lovely home including Tuna the tabby cat who crawls under the covers with me on cold nights, and the Transition Town meetings. I’m leaving in two days.

Gisborne has sun and surf, and a friendly hostel, but I haven’t found a wireless internet connection. That means that my blogging days may be coming to an end. That’s OK. As you can probably tell, my enthusiasm for sharing my experiences is waning (in step with my enthusiasm for my trip- I didn’t even bother taking photos in Gisborne). I have a premonition, though, that I’ll become nostalgic for the trip once I get home, and perhaps return to writing on the blog with the kind of florid description that came so easily earlier on.

So for now, while I can still get online and post pictures, here’s more of the time with Diane.

The drive from Napier to Wellington is very scenic and very long, about three to four hours. As usual, it was great to be with Diane. She told a particularly good version of her youthful cross-country hitchhiking trip to go to the Rainbow Gathering (!!!), which plays like some unholy collaboration between John Hughes and Gus Van Zant.

We sang. Diane and I are the same age, and have the same cultural reference points (i.e. we’ve seen and listened to a lot of shit). Particular favorites this day were “The Night Chicago Died” and a version of “I Am Woman” as sung by Elvis-

“U- huh-huh-a am strong (strong!)
Uh ham envencipull (invincible!)
Uh ham WOMAN!”

We also began a mean little game. It was a bit like “I Spy”, but with a twist- or rather, a pinch. The first person to spot a given item got to pinch the other person. We started off with one or two things- the Four Square market logo:

And the insipid Cookie Time logo (which really irritates me, for some reason):

Poor Diane was at a slight disadvantage because of her nearsightedness and my familiarity with the look of those signs at a distance. So we added more triggers to even the odds:

A black sheep.
A recumbent cow.
Any roadkill.

Conversation fell away as we craned our heads, squinting ahead intently. A cry of joy- “There-

A dead possum!”

Ouch! And so, the kilometers rolled by…

A final climb up the Rimutaka Range, Herbert straining, Sylvester squealing (“You make me feel…mighty real!”), and we descended to the long Wellington harbor coast, as the late afternoon light turned the city blue.

Downtown Wellington looked like New York, or San Francisco, with dark brick building facades and suited figures rushing down the shadowed sidewalks.

We were booked into the YHA, at my insistence: I wanted to show Diane how nice, fun and cheap these places could be, and the Wellington one is one of my favorites. It’s in a great location, right downtown and near the waterfront. Its big- five stories with god-knows how many rooms- and buzzy; there’s an atmosphere of fun with all those young people going in and out. As I’d written earlier, I was worried that Diane might suffer the same nighttime noise problems you sometimes run into at hostels, but I’d never been bothered at this one- I thought the rooms were pretty well insulated. But still, I felt a bit on the spot with this choice.
We found the place easily, and got a parking spot right in front. We checked in and started the sherpa-like procession of baggage relays up the elevator. The first room was pretty nice- a nice view out onto a grand deco building and some of the surrounding hills (Wellington is like San Francisco that way).

But there was only one bed… Hmm. We went down to reception and got a twin room… which turned out to be in the grottiest part of the building, a place I never even knew existed- small, dark, looking out on an airshaft and adjacent to the back of a restaurant, by the greasy smell of it. We went back to the front desk and found out that those were our choices. So we took the first room, and made do.

Not a great start… but we were here, and both of us were eager to get out and play. After we got all moved in, I took Diane to a good Indian place nearby, as a treat for being such a good sport. Wellington is an exciting city, with lots of activity in the streets, a diversity of places to eat (a bit rare in New Zealand), good bookstores and record stores and just the kind of vibrant energy that good bigger cities with a strong sense of self can have.

A tribute to a mutton-based economic heritage, I reckon:

We walked around a bit, returned to our room to relax- and- Oh No! - heard our next-door neighbors conversing clearly through the walls. Shit. We were booked for three nights here. We prayed that our neighbors were quiet, bookish types.

They weren’t. We were woken up at 2:30 in the morning by their drunken return from the pubs. They actually wrestled- I don’t mean had sex- they loudly said, “OK, two out of three, GO!” followed by laughter, grunts of exertion, and loud thumping to the floor and against the walls. We couldn’t believe it. We banged on the wall, which had no effect. I felt terrible for Diane, and awful for having insisted on a hostel. We didn’t get much sleep.

We were fried the next morning, and to top it off, it was raining hard. Wellington, at the bottommost extreme of the north island, is infamous for wild wind and extreme weather. While Diane tried to grasp at a bit more rest, I moved the car to an unmetered parking spot, running ruefully back in the rain. Diane was up, and we decided to rearrange our furniture (somewhat loudly, I’m sorry to say) so the bed was against the opposite wall.

Breakfast helped revive us, and we decided to go for a walk. Big storm fronts were alternating with cold blue sky as we set out. We were drawn to the hills adjacent to the YHA. Take a second to click on the picture below, which will enlarge it. Note the big brick monastery:

We got pretty well rained on as we made our way up the steep streets. The architecture was really pleasing- a mixture of New Zealand’s takes on wood-constructed Victorian, and Art Deco.

Now it was really raining. We were at the driveway of the palatial monastery we had seen earlier. We ran for the covered entrance, and were cowering there a bit sheepishly when a car pulled up, and a Southeast Asian fellow got out. He took stock of our situation, and invited us inside.

His name was John. He was from Malaysia originally, where he had worked as a banker. He said he had felt unfulfilled by monetary success, decided to devote his life to Catholicism and had been living in this monastery for some years.

He was a very nice guy- he never got close to proselytizing, which is of course the #1 most tedious conversation for a non-believer to get stuck in. He radiated open-heartedness, one of the nicer qualities a spiritually oriented person can have.

He gave us a wonderful tour of the grand, slightly-to-very decayed buildings (obviously this group wasn’t rolling in money), with historical commentary and information of the anti-poverty work the monks were doing. The tour culminating in the library (which, if you look on the photo is the large square window beneath the peak of the outermost wing), a stunning room with two-story bookcases and an incredible view of the entire city and harbor. I just couldn’t bring myself to ask to snap pictures, alas- it felt cheesy and slightly disrespectful.

The sun was out when we left- the rains had left. I, and I think Diane, felt the rarified sensation of having a slightly unpleasant situation flip into a special occurrence. Musings on chance, and complacency versus putting yourself out there, and “what’s behind that door?”, filled my mind.

I’m going to break chronology, and just whip through some of the fun things we did in Wellington. We went to the museums, which are world-class and free, and saw lots of good contemporary New Zealand art. Actually, the best thing I saw was a particularly striking and disturbing computer animation triptych piece that played in a special surround-screen theatre, by a Russian collective called AES+F.

Here’s their description of the piece (Last Riot):

“The virtual world generated by the real world of the past twentieth century as the organism coming from a test-tube, expands, leaving its borders and grasping new zones, absorbs its founders and mutates in something absolutely new. In this new world the real wars look like a game on www.americasarmy.com, and prison tortures appear sadistic exercises of modern valkyrias. Technologies and materials transform the artificial environment and techniques into a fantasy landscape of the new epos. This paradise also is a mutated world with frozen time where all past epoch the neighbor with the future, where inhabitants lose their sex, and become closer to angels. The world, where any most severe, vague or erotic imagination is natural in the fake unsteady 3D perspective. The heroes of new epos have only one identity, the identity of the rebel of last riot. The last riot , where all are fighting against all and against themselves, where no difference exists any more between victim and aggressor, male and female. This world celebrates the end of ideology, history and ethic.”

I’d have to second that.
And here’s a video that someone shot in the theatre:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7TbvFyabrg

The city gallery square had a nice orb:

And friendly kids, who mugged for the camera:

For some reason I have a feeling their San Francisco counterparts would have been keen for a different kind of mugging… but perhaps I’m being unfair.

We went out to see the Todd Haynes film “I’m Not There”. In one section of the theatre space, a live band was finishing a CD release gig. We caught their last two songs while we waited for our movie, and they were pretty good! Diane bought the CD- “Galloway”, a one-name rocker’s solo project.

We walked up Cuba Street, the “hip” street, and looked in shops. Diane found a “Flight of the Conchords” poster that she carried about in her backpack all day. Have you hung it up yet, Diane?

We took the cable car up to the botanical gardens (both of which were featured in the Peter Jackson film “Heavenly Creatures”):

And took in the view.

The botanical gardens had a great playground. We were joined on this crazy swing (“it’s called the Rocktopus”) by a precocious girl watched by her aunt, and later a Canadian immigrant mother and her daughter. Here’s Diane on the Rocktopus.

No civic domain is complete without a Sundial of Human Involvement:

The second night in the YHA was quiet, thank god. Even young people had their limits, apparently. But the last night was the worst- the bastards got home after three am, waking us up with their loud, drunken voices. Diane got up, walked down to their door and knocked. They didn’t answer (the pussies!) although they did pretty much clam up, but neither of us got much sleep before our six o’clock alarm to make the ferry for the south island.

All right folks- this may be it for a while. I’ll try to find a wireless station in Gisborne, but as I said, my desire to “blog” is winding down. Still, I’d love to share emails, or converse in the comments section. Don’t forget to check out the music blog too, if you haven’t seen it.

Take care- and see you soon!

Buzz! (Diane's Visit, Part 3)

2008-08-05T22:59:00.000-07:00

(This is my view from the reception desk at Solscape where I’m finishing this entry).

Hey,

How have you been? I had a few phone calls recently with some of you so I guess I know the answer, in a general sense-

East coasters: hot

Wet coasters: smoky

Parents of teens: harassed

Parents of small children: tired, busy.

Non-parents: tired, busy.

It’s been nice to hear about all the things you’ve been doing. Although I’m doing a bit of work here, and the Transition Town planning is engaging, I’m (believe it or not) getting restless to come home, and get busy myself… even though I’m all too aware that, soon enough, I’ll think back to this time and this place with longing.

Sorry it’s taken so long to write about the trip with Diane. I appear to be a perfectionist about the whole thing, to the predictable conclusion of writing nothing at all. At this rate, I’ll be writing about the events of May when I get home in September!

Diane and I loaded Herbert with what was becoming precision, and we headed off to our next stop- Napier, a short hop (just a few hours drive). Napier is known for two things: In the early 1930s the entire town was leveled by a powerful earthquake, and was rebuilt in high art-deco style, fabulously stylized and perfectly preserved today. Napier is also in prime wine-producing country, so we were poised to do one of Diane’s New Zealand goals: taste wine.

Before we left, we booked a promising sounding place listed in the Rough Guide that appealed to us because it had a “spa bath”, and was by the sea. We were discovering that this time of year it was no problem to arrange lodging on short notice.

The drive was lovely. This part of the country is very isolated and rural, hours away from anywhere. Quick glimpses of the chalk-cliff coastline were visible at unexpected intervals- tantalizingly inaccessible.

One notable town on the way to Napier was sleepy, unassuming Wairoa. I saw later in the news that there had been an anti-gang peace march that mobilized 2,000 of its 5,000 inhabitants! Apparently there was a turf war brewing between two Maori gangs. We passed through, blissfully ignorant.

High, whispy clouds portended rain as we rolled into Napier. We found our hotel, a pretty slick place. We couldn’t believe the lighting- banks of high watt incandescent recessed bulbs, perhaps 30 total, which lit the room like a movie set. There were also towel warmers, a powerful heater idiotically mounted on the ceiling, and the massive Jacuzzi. Pre-eco-consciousness splendor! We promptly trashed the place with our raggle-taggle luggage.

I’m sorry to say that the whole time we were in Napier we took not one photo of the splendid architecture all around us. We went for several enjoyable walks, me following Diane following her nose into the residential neighborhoods. We walked along the pebble beach and took a few pictures of ourselves, and the “Hokusai” waves that reared up vertically from the backwash of the steep beach profile.

It was Queen’s Birthday weekend (how did you celebrate?), and the town was buzzing with visitors, teenagers cruising the streets heckling one another (and us), and residents strolling about between the cafes and pubs. On the waterfront, the municipal skateboard park was having a gala. A chaotic mob of children was rolling about on skateboards, roller skates, bikes and scooters. Some just ran up and down the banked walls on foot. Adult supervision seemed utterly absent, save a disembodied voice on a loudspeaker commenting on the antics of one group of kids on a half-pipe. Very few children wore helmets or other safety gear. We stopped and watched the madness, which had the compelling quality of a car crash (but in this case, a slow-motion car crash in progress), and commented to one another that we were witnessing a much less litigious society at play.

The first morning in our glitzy room, I heard a scream from the bathroom. Diane threw the door open and told me to come look out the window, quick!
I looked out, then down, and gulped:

This creature had his paws on the window frame, and was staring silently up at us. He was completely, almost disquietingly, relaxed and stayed in the same position while I ran and got my camera. Diane said that when she first saw him, the frosted window was mostly closed, so her first glimpse of that werewolf face was this:

When we climbed out the window to play with him, he came to frenzied life. We later found out his name was Buzz, and he was locked in the narrow alley behind the rooms while his owners, the managers, worked. He was a manic love machine- here Diane braces herself for a barrage of unsolicited licking.

Today was a day to visit wineries. We had a glass of Trinity Hills red wine in a restaurant in Waihi beach that was wonderful; they were nearby, so that was one stop. Diane found a few more recommendations in the Rough Guide, so after washing Buzz off our faces, we set out.

A few fat raindrops began to streak our dusty windshield. “Why today?” Diane moaned. But by the time we got to Trinity Hill, the skies had cleared, and the sun spilled onto the vineyards.

We had a fun time talking with the knowledgeable French girl who helped us (the only customers). We then went across the road to Clearwater winery, and Diane sampled their wonderful white wines, which are available nowhere else. Then we drove on to the tiny seaside Te Awanga winery, after checking the surf at the well-known surf break. It was awfully tempting to surf the small, perfect waves, but I restrained myself- Diane had been so looking forward to doing what we were doing, and the afternoon shadows were lengthening… We had a fabulous lunch at Te Awanga in their beautiful restaurant, sitting by an iron fireplace, the late afternoon light pouring in honey-gold. It was my favorite meal of the trip- fruits, cheeses, breads and crackers, and wonderful wine. I fell in love with feijoas, a tart little citrus fruit a bit like kiwifruit, but- er- different. The vineyard owner later took me out to see the trees from which they grew.

Feeling mellow after the day’s activities, we headed back to the surf break. I had just enough time to catch a few waves before dark. The wave was unique, a very long ride that broke parallel to the beach, only a few feet from the sand. The sunset was dramatic and atmospheric.

It was wonderfully satisfying to each get to do what we wanted to do that day! The trip was feeling very rich that evening. What a pleasure it was to be traveling with Diane.

As I said, I’ll step it up with the blog. Actually, from here on out, the photos get a lot better, so I’ll probably up the photo content and hopefully that will push things along more quickly yet still be interesting.

I’d like to alert you to my music blog, which has recordings that I’ve made on this trip:

http://jonathanhess@wordpress.com/

Take care. Miss you all.

Diane's Visit, Part 2

2008-07-14T17:30:00.000-07:00

My Friends-

I’ve read that John McCain has been advised not to say “My Friends” so much in his speeches. That’s good news, because I’m running out of salutations and have shied away from using that one, due to him. What a ghoul.

I’m writing this from my favorite backpackers lodge in New Plymouth, the one in a big, old house. It is run by a group of women of a certain age, and their sensibilities permeate the place. Porcelain statuettes of shepherds and maidens share space with cricket trophies in cut-glass cabinets. Knit cozies cover the arms of floral-print couches. When you sit down in the sunroom on a nice afternoon, you raise a soothing cloud of dust motes. The entire setting is permeated by the ever-present music- an ancient tube console hi-fi with the bass-heavy tone of a jukebox, set to an oldies station. It always seems to be playing a song by Roy Orbison… although actually, it runs down the AM top forty from the fifties through the seventies, so the playlist is great:

Get Down (Gilbert O’Sullivan)
Angel of the Morning (Mary McCaslin)
Snowbird (Anne Murray)
Wild One (Cliff Richards)
The Lonely Bull (Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass)
Baby I Need Your Lovin” (The Four Tops)
A Single Girl (Sandy Posey)
I Only Want To Be With You (Dusty Springfield)
The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down (Joan Baez)
We’ll Sing in the Sunshine (Gale Garnett)
In The Ghetto (Elvis Presley)
The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (Gene Pitney)
Young Love (who did this? Help me out here.)

The place is literally “chintzy”, and mildly, pleasantly suffocating, like being over-dressed for the cold by your mother.

When I describe this atmosphere to my friends here, they all say, “That sounds horrible”. I dunno… I guess I see something here that I like. Like Jonathan Richmond, I’m still in love with the old world.

As tranquil as Waihi Beach had been, Diane and I were eager to move on and see more. We performed what was to become our drill- she brought the luggage to the car (an absurd amount of stuff that included two guitars, my surfboard, my box with my computer and field recorder, a box of books, two boxes of food, a cooler ("chilly bin"), her rather large sleeping bag, my smaller one, a tent, her purse and my bag and the always-front-and-central snack bag) which I made fit- a jigsaw puzzle three feet deep. We rolled back onto the highway. Something about the landscape here (the lower Coromandal range) really captivated Diane- she would later say it was the most beautiful of the trip.

Diane had come here dreaming of a few particular things- wine tasting, hot springs, and idyllic vacation cabins (with en suite bathrooms, please). We decided to go to Hawke’s Bay, on the lower east coast next, where we could find all those things. We made reservations in an obscure little place (town? hamlet?) called Morere, halfway between Gisborne and Napier, which, we read in our Rough Guide, had a hot spring. We took a chance it would be a good place, and booked two nights.

The drive was one of the longer ones we made, but fun. We talked and listened to music and ate snacks all down the highway along the placid, shimmering Bay of Plenty. We headed inland to the Raukumara Mountains, the range that separates the two coasts. The drive was beautiful and rural, the day pleasant and sunny. I recall being caught behind a huge truck that was transporting sheep. I chose not to tell Diane that the fine spray that began to obscure the windshield was agitated sheep urine.

I was proud of Herbert for getting up and over the crest of that mountain range! Heading down the far side toward Gisborne, we pulled over to take pictures. Diane took this picture. Note the left-lane driving position, and, if you click on the photo and enlarge it, the herds of sheep grazing into vanishing points…

It’s all beautiful, but the Gisborne side of the drive is particularly stunning.

We got to Gisborne, a charming city (with really good surf, too) but I’m afraid our main impression was that we were ravenously hungry, and nothing was open! We finally found a fish-and-chips place that did the trick (to a fault), and, with night falling, continued on to mysterious Morere.

“This can’t be it”, Diane fretted. We were on a bumpy gravel road, our headlights illuminating a low concrete bridge barely a foot above the black waters of a rushing stream. We had followed the directions properly, we thought, but I wasn’t too sure myself. Braving the bridge, we bumped along until we saw a house across a dark, wet field. As I got out, something low and fast ran toward me- a delightful little friendly dog, jumping up and licking my hands. Wait- Ugh! A foul-smelling, absolutely rank little friendly dog, that ran ahead of me excitedly as I made my way to the house. A note on the door said that yes, this was the place, and after getting the key from the owner, Geoff (a droll Michael Palin look-a-like), we found our cabin. It was wonderful- warm and cozy, with a gleaming kitchen and bathroom and excellent beds. Everything looked brand-new, and was perhaps the nicest place we stayed (a difficult distinction- what do you think, Diane?). Still full (permanently?)from the fish and chips, we settled in to read, and see what the morning would reveal.

The morning revealed this:

Then this:

And this:

It was just the sort of unprepossessing landscape you might speed past- a bend in the road, a café- and miss out on truly seeing.

The little dog’s name was “Socks”, probably after his markings, or his funny, splayed-out front feet- but possibly because of his nasty smell! Diane was extremely loath to pet him, and I don’t blame her. Although it was hard to resist him when he did this-

But I would immediately wash my hands afterwards. Truly a flower of evil.

It was cold! Frost glistened in the grass, and covered the cars windshield. But it was a beautiful day, and a joy to wake up to after such an uncertain arrival.

Diane was ready to use the hot springs. I just wanted a flat white (an sort of unlayered latte) from the café, which, along with our motel and the hot spring, made up the entirety of commercial Morere. She packed her things and we set out.

Morere, in the light of day, turned out to be delightful. The walkway over the stream we had crossed turned out to be a beautiful rope bridge.

The wood was slick with frost! Here Diane is concentrating on not slipping while smiling at the same time.

Pausing at the middle of the bridge we saw this view.

Diane, a bred-in-the-bone-bully, discovered she could make me stumble by bouncing on the bridge as she crossed.

I stopped in the café (which was surprisingly good, and cozy, with a fireplace in the corner) and got my coffee. We crossed the highway to the hot spring facility, where an amiable, gravel-voiced old brute sold Diane her ticket, and off she went.

She later told me the experience was lovely. Diane is an inveterate hot-bath-taker, whose opinion on such matters should be respected. She said that she was alone for the first forty-five minutes, reveling in the slanted morning sunlight in the wooden pool building, in the surrounding forest and in the birdsong. A bit later, a friendly Maori family joined her. The New Zealand accent can be hard to understand, particularly when coupled with exotic place names and slang. Diane, who had told her fellow bathers that she was traveling with a surfer, was initially baffled when told that “Blacks would be pumpin”, and that later it would be “chukka”. She came back to the cabin delighted with the entire experience, and seemed rather proud to have figured out that Blacks (a surf break) had big surf (was “pumpin”, or pumping, as in a steady procession of large swells), wasn’t crowded at the moment, but later, as the word got out, would draw a crowd (become “chukka”, chock-full). Her experience sounded really enjoyable, from the environment itself, to the friendly people.

Hearing that Blacks was pumpin’, I asked if she wouldn’t mind having a look at the surf. Morere was in the Mahia peninsula, a great surfing configuration with two distinct coastal orientations affording good wind exposure in two directions. The area is also isolated and un-crowded (that it is beautiful is a given). I loaded my surfboard and off we went.

It was a perfect sunny day. We drove around and looked at several breaks. I decided not to surf, ultimately. But it was fun to explore the peninsula with Diane, a treat in what can be a rather existentially lonely experience, as well as quintessential, for me, here- driving around looking for surf, looking, looking.

This break looks out onto the Mahia peninsula, to the south. Note the undulating land terminating in chalky-looking limestone (I think) cliffs- typical of the southeast coast. The geography reminds me of that of Point Reyes. I wonder what the earthquake situation is here?

If you want to know what I’m doing a lot of the time here in New Zealand, it’s pictured here- standing on an overlook over some surf break, wondering what to do...

This spot had a great little house next to it. That boat ain’t goin’ nowhere. Mahia is a Maori stronghold (“Whale Rider”, if you saw it, was filmed not too far away). It is very sparsely populated, and the dwellings you do see are humble. You see people doing chores looking back at you, curiously.

Here is a better look at the waves I’m considering in the above photo. There are several surfers out- if you (probably meaning “you”, Keith) click on the picture you can see them, and the wave they’re riding.

We spent another comfortable night in our little cabin. These two days blend together in my memory now, undoubtedly due to repetitious inactivity. Diane was reading a huge hardcover biography of Kate Hepburn, I, an autobiography by the poet Mary Karr (The Liar’s Club, highly recommended!). We finished our books, then switched.

Again, we awoke to frost. I was struck by the tranquil morning light on the fern-covered trail to the footbridge.

And the same soft light reflecting dew on the spider webs…

Geoff’s sheep (which he gleefully told us were raised for food) grazed right up to our cabin- our closest look at these shy animals. I remember Diane remarking that she didn’t like the back-end view of a sheep. She was developing refined criteria of the New Zealand experience.

In the late afternoon we went to the hot springs. We rented a private pool from Geoff, who it turns out, worked there too. A gentle rain started to fall as we settled in the wonderful hot water. The pool was in a beautiful wooden shelter that was open on one side to steeply sloping rainforest and an unseen creek below. The rain on the roof, the deep green forest, rich with oxygen, and the steaming hot mineral water were absolutely heavenly.

Good Choice, Diane.

Blogspot Being Bad

2008-07-14T17:22:00.001-07:00

Hell, Oh!

I've been having a devil of a time uploading pictures into Blogspot (this spot). Just want to let you know that the sad fact that there's nothing new here isn't due to lack of effort on my part. I'll keep trying.

Speaking of lack of effort- is anyone out there reading this thing? This is a symbiotic relationship we have here, folks. If no one applauds, I'm going to keep grinding out "Wonderful Tonight" until the joint closes...

One for Keith

2008-07-12T18:16:00.000-07:00

It seems to be taking forever to finish part two of Diane’s visit. In the meantime, here’s an entry 'specially for Keith (my surf pal back home), Andrew in Portland and any other surfers that might be reading.

The morning I left Raglan I checked the weather forecast, and made the choice to come back to the Taranaki. I’m so glad I did- I had perfect surfing weather with just the right wind direction and a nice-sized swell for three blissful days.

On Tuesday I made the twenty-minute hike to a magic place. The walk is so long that folks make a day of it; they bring lunches and take long breaks to rest and dry their wetsuits. Here’s a photo taken about a quarter of the way there, just before you descend from cow pastures onto the driftwood-strewn beach.

If you click on the picture, you’ll see surfers.

I walked around trying to capture the beauty of the waves from different angles.

The three shots below are a sequence, and show how the wave peels.

The times I’ve surfed it, the break has had an outside and an inside section. On the right swell, it all becomes one long wave. Not that I’m complaining. The view on this clear day was magnificent. Mt. Taranaki was three-quarters covered with snow, and looms spectacularly over everything. The air was clean and cold. The water even smelled good, like… what is it? Like “Gee, your hair smells terrific”!

Wednesday I met Craig, who took a break from caring from his three-week-old baby (a beauty!) with his partner Suzanne and working on restoring their 1920s-era farmhouse. Craig took me to a secret beach. We had to let ourselves through farm fences and bounce through pastures to reach the surf. It was a beach break (most spots here are volcanic rock reefs), and the waves were good- then as the tide dropped, got very good! It was wonderful fun to go with a friend, and the whole experience was really neat. Thank you, Craig. I didn’t take any pictures- I forgot my camera. I’ll just have to remember.

On Thursday the wind had shifted northeast. The coast wraps 180 degrees around Mt Taranaki- you have a whole range of places that will be offshore in any given wind direction. Today the place to be was around Opunake, which was great, because my Raglan friends were staying there. Maybe we would meet up! I checked the reefs around the town- one good setup after another, and not a soul out at any of them. Finally I went to a spot with a few cars parked in a cow pasture. One was my friends’. They were just getting out as I walked up. We made plans to meet the next day, and went our separate ways. The surf was great- the wave really wrapped and was exciting and steep- a very high-quality wave. Once again, I ‘d forgotten my camera, but a nice surfer was taking pictures, and took some of me! Thanks, Andy.

These three are a sequence:

These three are a sequence too:

Returning to New Plymouth in the late afternoon, the light was beautiful. The smokestack of the abandoned power plant dominates the town. I like it- it has a gothic, haunted quality, not to mention phallic.

The surf was smaller at Back Beach (the good beach break that I had sent you pictures of, Keith, and had in this blog). The waves are bigger down the coast than in town, like Santa Cruz/north county (but reversed south-for-north, as is every weather feature her in the southern hemisphere).

I often think of how fun it would be to explore this coastline with you, Keith. You’d be like a kid in a candy store. I know the environment would suit you, too. It’s a bit like north county Santa Cruz mixed with Big Sur, with Mt. Fuji overlooking it all… and everyone on niceness pills!

I hope we can travel here together someday.

Diane's Visit, Part 1

2008-07-03T06:06:00.000-07:00

My patient friends,

I’m sitting in the kitchen at Solscape, in Raglan, savoring the warmth of the woodstove, and enjoying the quiet. What a difference from two months ago! The place is nine-tenths empty. The endless waves of hard-drinking surfers are gone. There are only three other people staying here, all working in one capacity or another for Phil and Bern. The mood is wonderfully subdued. One person is reading by the fire, another is writing on his laptop.

Christ, this is nice,

The nearly perfect run of clear weather Diane and I had enjoyed finally broke on the last days of our trip together. New Zealand’s wild winter rains began in earnest the morning we left Dean and Anj’s place in Tauranga. It rained hard during our short stay in Raglan too. But Diane, I have to say, that was nuthin’ compared to the biblical downpour I experienced on the way home from dropping you off at the airport. The incandescent pearloid skies and cathedral clouds we saw on the way up lowered and became opaque black as I drove back. The rain, when it came, hit Herbert like a brick wall. The view in my headlights looked like a cheap black-and-white soundstage effect of an imperiled ship- stagehands aiming fire hoses at wind machines. But it was real. I gripped the wheel and held on.

Later, bundled in my sleeping bag, listening to the hail spatter against the metal roof of my railcar cabin, I knew I was alone again, and the last phase of my pretty vacation had begun.

But one month ago…

I was happy to leave Dunedin. I had loved it, but anywhere except right by the fireplace was deathly cold, and I was getting lonely.

I made it to the Cook Straight ferry in two days- two shitty nights of sleep interrupted by returning drunken youth. This was worrisome, because I planned to stay in hostels at least some of the time with Diane. I had hoped the party-types would be a summer problem- no dice. Again I slept during the three-hour crossing, but this ship had no passenger cabins. I slept on a bench in a busy passageway in my long wool coat, with my cap pulled over my eyes.

I stayed a few days in New Plymouth at a favorite hostel in a big old house, and surfed beautiful waves at a beach just north of town. The water was far warmer than in Dunedin.

Then at last came the day to drive to Auckland. Diane’s flight arrived at five am the next morning, one of Air New Zealand’s “quirks”. Diane had booked a room right downtown, online. The website had a photo of a charming three-story Edwardian building. After a five-hour drive, I arrived to warm, sunny Auckland- and a brand-new ten-story concrete tower with a charming three-story Edwardian façade at its base. Grubby from the drive, feeling distinctly shabby, I checked in with the uniformed receptionist, guided Herbert between a pair of BMWs in the underground garage, and took the elevator up to our room. The view outside was of a grid of high-rise apartment balconies. It looked like something that might have inspired The Clash back in ’77. A plasma TV received TV1, TV2, a Christian channel and, oddly, a Punjabi channel. After a luxurious shower, I settled in for the night.

I was thrilled to be there, and excited even when the alarm went off at four am. Got to the airport easily- no cars! Being in the arrival area was emotional. The anticipation was sweet, but I was reminded that, homesick as I was at times, I’d be leaving myself in a few months. My resolution to enjoy my remaining time here was renewed.

-And there she was! It was so great to see her. And from then on, there was a delicious incongruity: I was amazed to see my best friend juxtaposed against the places I had only seen in my deepest solitude.

Before I begin, I'd like to say this: in this blog I’ve naturally assumed a tone of the lone traveler, enthused or alienated in turn (or at the same time) as it were, and if it served my story. From this point on, I’m conscious that Diane can read this and say “Bullshit!” or “Well, I didn’t see it that way”. I’ll do my best to convey mutual experiences without too much affectation… a bit of a balancing act… and I invite you, dear Diane, to give your perspective. Anything you want to write I’ll include.

And also: this thing, this blog, has served a function- a way to stay connected with you…a tonic for loneliness. It’s still that, but for a while, it’s sharing Diane’s story too.

I got us off to a great start by getting lost on the way back, and then a bit of driving on the wrong side of the road, near the hotel. Diane, who was giddy after the eleven-hour flight, was quite gracious and forgiving. She was eager to get out and see the city, so after getting settled and re-parking Herbert, out we went.

The weather was lovely, almost balmy. Auckland, at the best of times, is (I think) only just bearable- there’s a reason I don’t have any photos of it. Have you been to San Diego? Auckland is a bit like that. Utilitarian. But Diane was wide open. The very first thing we did was pop into a corner store for a phone card. I was charmed to see her eyeing a rack of meat pies with an expression of intense interest. Everything was new to her, and her enthusiasm renewed mine.

We were in Auckland for two days, and had a great time (we hadn’t started our rampant photo-taking yet, so unfortunately this section doesn’t have any). We walked and bussed around Auckland’s varied neighborhoods- Ponsonby and Karangahape roads (the “hip” streets), Parnell (the “yuppie” one) and Queen Street (the "downtown" one, a bit like an idealized version of Market Street in San Francisco). We began our addiction to kumara chips- sweet-potato-like, pseudo-healthy French fries. Diane liked to get off the shopping streets and into the residential neighborhoods, something she made a point to do in other cities we visited as well. We went to a fairly lame art exhibit (a drab ecologically-themed show), in what was the only open gallery of the closed-for-renovation civic gallery- then lucked into a talk on early Maori abstract-expressionism by Marilyn Webb, an artist who had been in on the scene in the 1950s. She was a delightful, charismatic speaker. Several people in the small, attentive audience were her contemporaries, and she frequently turned to them for their anecdotes.

We also got into watching that plasma TV. Favorite shows included:

“Moneyman”. A bald, mustachioed drill-sergeant arrives at a young couple’s house and pitches his pup tent in their yard. He then harangues them about how to keep a budget and live within their means.

“Mucking In”. Selfless community worker gets nominated by friends to have their garden redone. Said friends do the work (hence the title), in a great flurry of activity, ultimately causing the recipient to cry. Transformations consistently featured an outdoor kitchen. A giant outdoor chess-set was given to a non-chess-player.

“Cambell Live”. News pundit, with a winning chimp-like physiognomy. Impalpable appeal- for me, it might have been the absurdity that lived in the gap between his egotistical delivery and my utter ignorance of his celebrity. Or something.

I should also mention the farting twins (Diane’s favorite), but I don’t know the title of the show they were on.

And because it was all new, all vaguely or overtly absurd, we even got a kick out of the commercials. Our favorite was for a livestock product called “Calf Boost”.

We took a lovely walk along the waterfront one warm evening- the lights of the city reflected in the water of the harbor. People in wharf side cafes were eating and drinking and having fun in that Kiwi way that seems, to me, to be lighter and less maniacal than their American counterparts might be on a Saturday night in, say, North Beach. I had a nice feeling showing Diane around- almost like pride. Diane, maybe you felt that way the first time you showed me around Brookmont, and Bethesda, and D.C.

It began to rain the morning we left Auckland.- “Uh oh”, I thought. I had worried that there might be rain- a lot of rain- maybe the whole time- for Diane’s stay. It was that time of year. But it was nice to see Auckland’s suburbs give was to pastures. “I see sheep!” cried Diane. I smiled. How soon that thrill would wear off!

We left the main highway and rolled through undulating green farmland. Most of New Zealand’s highways are pleasant two-lane roads (though made less so by the way in which people drive- I liked to go the speed limit, about 60 mph, and was hounded by tailgaters who wanted to go faster). We were bound for Waihi Beach, on the east coast, over the Coromandal Mountains. We stopped in Thames, the last “big” town before the drive over the mountains, where I introduced Diane to the joys of Pak-And-Save, a sort of N.Z. Costco. It’s the cheapest place to buy food here.

The Coromandal Mountains are stunning, but a misty rain diminished the effect. But we were in high spirits, listening to Look Blue Go Purple (a jangly Flying Nun band), rolling along. It’s a revelation to leave Auckland, especially the first time. However cool that mediocre city seems, the real magic of New Zealand is revealed in the countryside. Like England, the greens seem extra vibrant, the brush saturated before being applied. Unlike England, the land is young, jagged, and volcanic. We raced around bends, descending to the coast.

Since we were driving past it, we stopped to see Opoutere, the wonderful place I wrote about a few months ago. When we got there, I again felt, acutely, the strange merging of my friend, here and now, with a place of such deeply felt solitude in the past (I won’t bring it up again). The YHA was closed for the winter (if it had been open, I surely would have booked us in there). We parked at the chained entrance to the driveway and hopped the fence. It felt sad to walk around the empty grounds and peek through the windows. We didn’t linger. We walked across the bridge, through the silent pine forest (which was full of bright orange mushrooms), and eventually reached the long, lonely beach. We took a few photos in the rain, and walked back, started Herbert and kept on going.

Thank goodness, the skies started to clear as we continued south! It wasn’t long before we reached the Waihi beach turnoff. On the way we saw this sign:

Something about it reminds me of Deb’s dog, Laika.

Diane had found our wonderful house at Waihi Beach back in San Francisco, after searching online. We were greeted by Alistair, the owner who lived next door. He was a friendly, hulking, sixty-ish gent who wore the same blue wool Pendleton shirt every day. Every day we would see him riding his old-style ten-speed bicycle around the streets of the town. One morning we saw his wife and children peddling behind him, like a family of ducks.

The place was great. I chose one of the three downstairs bedrooms. My guitars had another. Diane had the upstairs loft, which was bathed in light when the sun rose over the sea. There were two couches, perfect for mutual moral support while reading or napping. There was a TV to watch Cambell Live.

We spent four lazy, delicious days taking walks on the beach, cooking or eating out in the tiny town. We did a lot of lying around, reading. We could see that we made good travel partners- we were both on the same page in our lack of ambition- what we called “luffing”.

Waihi beach had a sleepy, off-season feeling. The streets were quiet. A bossy little white terrier patrolled ours. Once we saw him asleep in the middle of the road. Other times he fretted and barked at nothing, his voice echoing off the empty houses.

The beach was empty.

The weather was very mild- the warmest of our whole trip. There still seemed to be a bit of summer holding on, at Waihi beach.

Our most strenuous act was to walk around the headland to Orokawa beach. Climbing the first rise and looking south, we saw this:

In the distance is Matakana island- fairly close to where Dean and Anj live.

The coastline here reminded me of Big Sur. Same clean blue water sparkling, same forested cliffs. In the photo below, I’m getting my first glimpse of Orokawa Beach- one of the most beautiful beaches I’ve ever seen.

The pathway ascended to sunny lookout points, then dipped into cool, fern-canopied valleys.

After a twenty-minute walk, we reached the beach. It was just lovely.

Pohutakawa trees overhung the white sand. Sitting in the cool shade looking out at the ocean, listening to the murmur of the waves was deeply relaxing.

Out to sea were, I think, the same group of islands I showed you in the Opoutere entry a while back- but from a different angle.

The boughs of the pohutakawa tree hung right down to the sand, inviting one to climb. I did, and took a photo of Diane:

And she took one of me:

I was inspired to climb the rocks on the north end of the shallow crescent bay. Diane impressed me by following along. The pohutakawa roots acted like a ladder.

Around the corner were sheer cliffs and magnificent pohutakawa-covered rock formations rising from the sea. Click on the photo to see the trees in detail.

This beach, like so many in New Zealand, was healthy, full of life. We stopped and watched these red-billed oystercatchers:

And I lay down to capture these fellows. They seemed to all be talking at once.

Gregory said this photo was nice, but evoked negative connotations of Scientology. Do any of you know what the hell he’s talking about? Tell us in the “comments” feature- and I’ll bring you a special souvenir.

In some ways, our time at Waihi Beach was the nicest time of the trip- the most time in one place, the warmest, the laziest… the most relaxing. What do you think, Diane?

We also met our first animal host- Alistair’s fifteen-year old tabby, Xena. She was a battle-scarred old beast with a bobtail and no ears- just two barely-covered holes. Despite or because of that, she was beautiful. She came to see what we were about when we first arrived, walking around sniffing our baggage and taking a bath on the living room floor. Then she teased us for days by sitting on a pillow in the sun by a window in her house, visible but aloof. We called to her as loudly as we dared, beckoning. After a few days, finally, she visited again, to lie in the sun, with the house as her pillow, while we hung the laundry on outside lines- like they do in New Zealand, in the summer.

I’m leaving Raglan tomorrow. Against all odds, I got Herbert through his mandatory six-month Warranty Of Fitness inspection, and am ready to hit the road again. I had planned to head back to New Plymouth, to surf and spend more time at the excellent free public gallery, and explore its massive film archive, but the west coast winter rains have me thinking of sunny, remote Gisborne, on the southeast coast. It’s one in the morning, and I still don’t know which road I’ll choose…

But I promise to pick up the story again soon- and sooner this time.

Hope you all are well.

Still Here...

2008-06-27T21:20:00.000-07:00

...bear with me. I'm writing my account of the month travelling with Diane.

Two islands, 1500-plus photos. It's a big job.

All will be explained. Hope you all are well.

Intermission

2008-06-02T01:49:00.000-07:00

Hello Fellow Occupants,

Diane is here, and I’m enjoyably occupied playing The Experienced N.Z. Guide (and discovering cool new things to do here, thanks to her interests, like wine tasting and visiting hot springs). We’re seeing both islands in one month, a whirlwind trip, so I’m going to (probably) take a break from blogging and catch up with you after she leaves.

In the mean time, here are some photos from the trip so far with Diane.

Back soon. Hope you all are well.

Dunedin, City of the Rat King

2008-05-12T21:58:00.000-07:00

Fellers,

How are you? Well, I hope. World news seems more harrowing all the time: the cyclone in Myanmar; the tornados in the central U.S., and today- a huge earthquake in China! I think of you wherever you are and check your cities off one by one: New York City- safe. San Francisco- safe. And so on… New Zealand takes comfort in being far removed from the world’s madness, far removed and self-contained (at least this sentiment is expressed on talk radio, what do you think, Anj and Dean?). Nevertheless, I hear more from media and people in conversation about the precarious state of global resources and economy than I ever heard in the U.S. It’s relentless and depressing. Are these topics assuming primacy where you are?

I also want to mention that the U.S. presidential race is getting daily coverage here, and is a topic of immense interest. Obama is favored, for the same reason that he is appealing to people there. I have faith that he will win (though I haven’t forgotten the disappointment of 2004). The question is how far he can go in mending the damage done, and how decisively he can prepare for the future?

RIGHT, a-HEM. The present. Dunedin. I must apologize for taking so long to write. Besides cooking in a real kitchen and playing with Garageband I’m not sure where the time went. But I’m paying the price. I’ve accumulated so many photographs that I want to share, and some sort of text should go with each… I’ve set myself up for a lot of work!

I formed dreamy impressions about Dunedin long before I came here, back in the 1980s, when I first heard The Clean and The Chills. This music managed to be pastoral and punk at the same time. It had an under-produced sound, the opposite of the bloated synthetic production of the day (which has dated so badly) that added to its strong sense of personality.

The music was powerfully evocative of a place- rolling hills, clouds, rain (The Chills), of music preformed live in a small room, right in your face (The Clean). These bands from Dunedin (and there were others, all with varying degrees of the same virtues) re-aligned my tastes and, along with images of green waves glimpsed through pine trees, made me want to come here.

Dunedin is satisfying. It’s a rare instance where the reality matched my fantasy. You’ve seen endless photos of the scenic beauty here. This is particularly striking here on the south island, with a fraction of the population of the north. Rolling hills, clouds, and rain- all here, and glorious. Rolling through these landscapes with “Rolling Moon” by The Chills on the CD player is perfect, like milk with chocolate; complete.

The above photos are taken in the Otago peninsula, an unspeakably beautiful, lonely place- and only about 20 minutes from downtown Dunedin. The whole area is a nature preserve, home to fragile colonies of penguins and albatross. I haven’t done any of the eco-tours that take you to the restricted-access places to view these creatures, but I did see penguins while surfing this place:

This is Aramoana, which is across the harbor entrance from the peninsula, on the mainland. I saw the penguins swimming through the surf, and toddling up the beach- magical and charming. Does it look cold? I assure you, it was.

There’s something about Dunedin… something about the vivid light, the hilly streets and Victorian buildings, the eccentric octagonal downtown layout. The city matches the moods of the music I’ve loved. It’s easy to sense how it was created here.

I’ve labored to capture the look of Dunedin. I’ve labored, and mostly failed! Of all the attempts, this one comes the closest:

Although the reality is many days are overcast and rainy, I think of the fleeting moments of brilliance, and that cold, clear, yet soft light. This picture caught it (and yes, that’s a Starbucks on the corner, and an SUV in the intersection).

Note also the clothing- some people bundled up. It hasn’t gotten much over 50 degrees since I’ve been here, and has often been around 30-40 degrees. The out-of-town students of the University of Otago are wrapped in down jackets. The locals are less dressed. Either way, you can see your own breath. A great deal of my time in the evenings is spent buying wood and keeping it burning in the fireplace. By the way- Gregory sent me a CDR full of vintage horror and detective “noir” radio shows. I’ve spent several blissful evenings listening to these by firelight. Thanks Gregory.

Above is a photo of Princess Street, heading toward The Octagon. Note the covered sidewalks, a feature of many larger N.Z. downtowns, testifying to the amount of rain the country receives.

The octagonal city plan, and its conformity to the steep hills make for unusual juxtapositions of buildings, and a warren of back alleys and unexpected passageways. I ducked into a driveway tunnel, along which, halfway through, was a hidden art gallery. The driveway led to this cluster of backdoors:

A friend once pointed out that San Francisco has a visually pale, washed-out quality. She said, “it disappears”, and I saw just what she meant. The buildings are painted in light shades, the California sun shimmers- the boundaries of roof and sky become vague. She compared it to New York City, with its preponderance of brick buildings, and remarked how it seemed grounded to the earth in comparison- how she felt alert there. In San Francisco, she said, she felt half-asleep.

Dunedin is similar in visual tone to NYC. I noticed as I walked around, trying to capture the feeling, that I was taking picture after picture of old brick buildings. These won’t seem novel to Evan and Janet, or Gregory or Kate, but they will to my San Francisco friends.

So, once again, in attempting to capture the essence or big picture of these environments that are so striking in person, my photographic skills let me down (still, I’m pretty happy with that one image that did).

Dunedin is buzzing with artistic energy. The public galleries and museums are of a high caliber, and all are free. I saw a fantastic exhibition of German post-war fashion photography, with a fascinating and well-attended lecture by one of the photographers, Ute Mahler, who had begun her work in East Berlin in the 1970s.

I also discovered the fourth floor of the Otago museum, accessed by a discreet stairway, which houses the most extraordinary gallery I’ve ever seen- a recreation of the original 19th century natural history museum.

The museum light is very dimly lit; photography was difficult without a tripod. But I just had to share with you what I saw there, in the gloom…

The museum is laid out in a Darwinian timeline, from protozoa to the Pinnacle of Evolution (man, natch). Much of what is exhibited is labeled with the original handwriting of the second curator and naturalist, one hundred-plus years ago.

No affectation of morbidity is needed to convey the gruesomeness of this place. The sights on display in the half-lit gloom sent most of the (few) people quickly on their way out, shuddering.

Some were almost too much for me.

Holy Christ.

Look back at the Rat King. It’s not hard to feel sorry for that bunny, having to see that apparition in the corner of its eye, for all eternity…

The floors of the contemporary museum had their charms too.

I’d like the preceding two images to serve as an official welcome to Diane, who will be flying out to join me here soon, for the better part of a month. Hooray!

What else to say? The graffiti is wonderful here. There’s very little tagging (the ugly scrawled spray paint or marker’d signature). It’s much more arty:

This little fellow is all over:

I’ve also had the chance to see Robert Scott, from The Bats (one of the seminal Dunedin bands) play live, free, in the city library. And the day I leave (this Friday), I’m going to go to see Martin Phillips, from The Chills, in the same place.

Well, that’s all for now. Tonight I’m going to go to an “open mic” in one of the downtown clubs and play a few songs with Jakob, my flat mate (Jon & Diane- I taught him “Ice Cream” and “Straight Talk”). I hope the attendees will be as generous as they were the other time I went there (as a non-participant). But that’s not important. Such is my love of the original Dunedin music scene that, more than anything, I feel excited to play for people here simply because this is where it happened.

Diggins!

2008-04-25T00:41:00.000-07:00

Hi Folks,

I’ve realized that I’ve left out a chunk of my trip- the drive from New Plymouth/Taranaki to Wellington, the capitol, then the ferry from there to the south island, several days and nights in Kaikoura, a special place near the top of the east coast, and on down to Christchurch, where I spent a few more days, until I finally drove from there to Dunedin.

Well, there you go. Done.

In New Plymouth, driving down the coast to surf, I really clued in on the radio. The lowbrow art of cheaply produced advertising jingles and skits is alive and well in New Zealand. Back in the U.S.A. I’m pretty sure this sort of small-business advertising has disappeared, evolving into something slicker and more subliminal. But anyone over 40 remembers the formula- a catchy phrase, often a weak pun on the advertiser’s name, sung to a snippet of disposable music, with a spoken pitch in the middle. I’m happy to report that, regarding its jingle aesthetic, New Zealand is attractively back in time. My all time favorite was for a construction company in Christchurch- Diggins. No music, just a “Bo Diddley” drum beat with a hilarious group male vocal chanting:

DIGA dig dig dig DIGA dig dig dig… DIGGINS!

A bit of attentive listening suggests that most of these jingles were created by the same production company- one starts to recognize the same vocalists, instrument and reverb sounds. I love the corniness, and also that as much as these wacky spots are advertising whatever, they’re also evidencing a healthy small-business economy. DIGGINS!

As I set out south from New Plymouth on my way to Wellington, I heard a trio of great radio shows, one after the other. The first was a phone-in garden advice show. There’s something soothing about rolling down the road, listening to questions about ailing plants posed by elderly women on a sunny fall morning, being considered by a pragmatic can-do kiwi gent. But the woman on the show that followed knocked this man’s expertise to the floor. She was an expert at removing stains. No- I haven’t put that powerfully enough. She was a terrifying idiot savant that had total recall over every possible unwanted chemical fusion issue and the exact method to rectify it. She also did not work from the confines of the radio station- she spoke, in an emotionless monotone, by phone from her home, somewhere where the birds sang loudly. Any problem with staining- ANYTHING- she knew the solution for, asking questions and giving directions in a flat, rapid-fire voice.

Caller: Hello Shannon! I’m so thrilled to talk to you!

Hello.

I just want to say you’re a marvel. I never miss your show.

(silence)

Ah, I have a problem with a shawl that was given to me as a present. It’s muslin…

(Interrupting) What colour?

Oh it’s a lovely dark purple. My youngest spilled to-mah-to sauce all over it. It was her birthday…

(Interrupting) What did you do then?

I put it to soak right off.

Tap water or fizzy water?

In regular water.

Cold water?

Oh yes!

Have you washed since it then?

Yes, in cold water. But it’s still stained.

So the red stain is gone, but the dark stain is still there.

Yes! How did-

The tomato pigment washed away but the olive oil base remained. With the cloth dry, scrub the stain with a bit of tea tree oil on panty hose.

Oh thank you, Shannon! You are a walking encyclopedia!

It will take the stain right out.

Epsom salts, steaming with a kettle, drying in the UV. After succinct questioning, her remedies came with the rapidity of a computer. They were almost always folksy- a bit of tea tree oil on pantyhose was offered over and over (try it!). But she was nothing if not pragmatic. One caller had spilled White Out. Without hesitation, her suggestion: White Out remover.

This frightening display of neurological surfeit was followed by a show with a lexicological theme. I’ve now forgotten the word I learned for dyslexia within a word; e.g. “aks” for “ask” (Evan?), but I learned the world “raillery”, which doesn’t mean the same as “to rail”. It means to engage in consensual negative banter, something I love to do with a very, very select few. So how about a call, Gregory? I could do with a bit of raillery.

Then the station began to fade, and my thoughts came back with me. Sometimes when I’m on a long drive, I feel like I’m my father. Hands gripping the wheel, jaw set in a grimace; eyes light blue and watery, squinting at the road ahead. A feeling of disengagement. It’s not a happy analogy, as family members reading this will understand. Those are the times when I feel most lonely on my Pretty Vacation, and truth be told, I prefer to avoid long solitary drives for that reason.

It took about four hours to reach Wellington. Since I plan to come back through there and spend more time (it’s a great city, full of art, and set on hills like S.F.), I only booked one night at the hotel-like YHA. It was Saturday night, and the city was buzzing with people out on the town. I went book shopping. Using my Rough Guide’s reading list, I picked up two books by New Zealand authors- Nights in the Gardens of Spain by Witi Ihimaera and Fifty Ways of Saying Fabulous by Graeme Aitken. Both are gay-themed, so go figure. I also blew twenty bucks on Colin Wilson’s Spider World trilogy, which I read twenty years ago, and gobbled for the next few days. Pure escapism- I wonder if my father did the same thing?

Woke up early to find groups of very drunk people still splashing around, and the same street musicians playing that had been at it the night before, guitar echoing queasily against the bricks. I warmed up Herbert and made my way to the ferry. I’ve done the ferry trip before, so I found an empty cabin and fell asleep on a coverless bunk, in my clothes. I slept as we passed through Wellington’s harbors, and the short, bumpy trip across narrow Cook’s Straight that separates the north and south islands. I slept through the slow, beautiful passage through the Marlborough Sounds, only waking as the ferry made a long, slow circle, backing into the dock. I staggered out into the bright sunshine and was confronted with this sight:

The next part of the trip was well known to me, and I was looking forward to it. Leaving Picton, I drove south through the dry grass hills of Marlborough, toward the east coast. Marlborough is the famous wine-producing region of N.Z. Although I saw grapevines everywhere, more than anything the countryside reminded me of the desolate topography just north of Los Angeles, around the Grapevine. A drought was in effect, as there had been two years ago when I was last there.

Drive, drive, drive. Anticipation kept the dad-like feeling at bay. After about half an hour, I reached the coast.

Kaikoura is one of my favorite places. The Kaikoura range is breathtakingly dramatic. Layers of mountains ascend one behind another, ridges delineated by shimmering, dreamlike mists. A train runs next to the highway, frequently passing through tunnels cut into the bare rock of the coastal cliffs. The ocean was an opaque, milky greenish-grey, with whitecaps but no wind. Between rock reefs were steep beaches, where oncoming waves met backwash, gathered and stood for an instant, boiling in place five feet tall, before smashing violently on gritty sand. Hokusai waves.

I surfed this place, with a mind-boggling view of snow in the mountains. The air at sea level wasn’t nearly as cold as that, but I was back in a full wetsuit and “footies” (Hi Diane!). It's definately winter in the south island.

Kaikoura town is picturesque, but I didn’t take any photos, not this time. I rented a cabin at a little place south of the town proper, and read Spider World ‘till I couldn’t keep my eyes open. It had been a long day.

The next morning I got up and walked to the beach by the campground. This is what I saw:

Note the train tunnels. Good waves were breaking nearby, there was a small pack of surfers and I could see they were being competitive with one another. I went back to the place I had surfed the other afternoon and had fun with just a few others. I’m still feeling crowd-shy after my bad experience at Raglan.

I finished surfing and was on the road for Christchurch by noon.
The drive was- brace yourselves- picturesque, with the exception of the last hour or so, well into the flat agricultural landscape of the Canterbury Plain. Christchurch is flat and a bit “blah” also (although it’s on a river and that area is pretty). However, it’s a big city and, perhaps to compensate for it’s lack of personality, there are some great restaurants. I stayed an extra day, just to explore them. The only pictures I took there, by the way, were those signs (top of last entry) in the windows of stores near the hostel.

Well, you’re just about caught up. Another day of driving, more minor déjà vu’s from two years ago (hey, there’s the row of trees where I pulled over and peed and put on that Katey Red and Dem Hoes CD…). Lots of music (thanks Jon and Gregory), stops for Magnum Classic ice cream bars, rest stops with the predictable Abandoned Roosters, finally swooping down the big hill to Dunedin. I’m still trying to capture, if possible, the feel of this wonderful city in photographs. Next blog. Miss you all- comment if you feel like it, it always makes me happy. Don’t be afraid to have nothing to say. I’m not.

Update: I found a podcast for the stain lady. I haven't listened to it, but perhaps you can. It's a bit down the list of shows, and it's Stain removal with Shannon Lush. Judge for yourself if I'm being hyperbolic:

http://www.radiolive.co.nz/AudioPodcasts/tabid/109/Default.aspx

Some Sort of Sign

2008-04-19T20:34:00.000-07:00

Hello Idlers and Procrastinators,

I’m in Dunedin, where I’ll be for four more weeks. I feel really blessed- this flat is wonderful, with a stunning view and a really nice housemate (Jakob, a grad student at the University of Otago). Huge thanks to Nic, a Dunedin surf photographer (and phenomenon), who was kind enough to put a mention on her popular blog that I was looking for a room for rent… and to Rafael, who responded with an offer of a room in his lovely home, and was trusting enough to do our business by email and a phone call to Sweden, where he’s currently vacationing with his family.

Dunedin is about my favorite city in New Zealand- so much so that I’m impatient to get out there and explore, on this beautiful day. I’m afraid getting you caught up will have to wait a little while, but fear not- the evenings are getting longer as we slide into winter’s chill here in the lower hemisphere, giving me plenty of time to write to you. Until the next installment of P.V., I’ll leave you with a few pictures of what I see when I look out the window.

Love to all…

Oh, by the way- I retouched Florian's surf photos (corrected exposure and straightened horizons) back in the ever-unpopular "Glory!" entry. Maybe this will inspire a torrent of comments (currently lacking) in that posting.

Warning: Surf Content

2008-04-15T05:07:00.001-07:00

Hi,

Hope you all are doing well. I wish I knew- I miss you all.

But I will say our troubles are all relative. Have you been hearing the news about food shortages in Haiti, and about immanent food shortages in many other countries? I don’t know where it’s all headed (god, November/January can’t come soon enough), but I’m glad we at least have one another, to be kind to and care for.

I’ve been fine. I’ve been lax about keeping up with this blog because I’ve been sick, and haven’t had the moxie, verve or pep. But I’m better now, and hope to be a bit more on top of things, including Pretty Vacation.

(By the way, thanks Janet and Jon for your sinus voiding tips, which I tried and it helped. If ever you should meet at a cocktail party, you now know you have at least one thing in common).

At this moment, I’m sitting in a dimly lit lounge of a hostel in Christchurch, listening to The Scissor Sisters at low volume on headphones, in an effort to tune out the movements of my fellow lodgers I’m feeling anti-social, and would be in my room writing, but the socket doesn’t work. So- hi everyone! Today I am a geek.

I made my way from Opoutere back to Raglan, driving from the east coast to the west, which took about two hours, and spent the night. I’m sad to say that I went surfing in the late afternoon at Indicator, and got verbally harassed by local surfers, defending their territory, essentially. This has happened to me there in the past. The effect is very dispiriting.

I’ve had plenty of fun at Raglan, but with countless other places to try, why bother?
I decided to make it a priority to seek out more obscure, uncrowded surf spots.

The next morning I made the beautiful drive down to the Taranaki region, about three hours south of Raglan, also on the west coast. The first third of the drive is through gently rolling green hills, farmland, and the occasional small town. Then the landscape becomes rugged, twisting through rocky gorges and the wonderful, unique N.Z. mix of pine trees and tree-size ferns that cling to the steep, volcanic hills, descending to twisting rivers and creeks. The final third of the trip is along the coast, and reminds me a lot of the drive from San Francisco to Santa Cruz, but longer, more rugged and less developed (and the houses that
are there are either on farms or just more funky and humble).

I didn’t take too many photos during the drive. For road one thing- I was driving! But mostly, I just wasn’t feeling very good. Recently, with you and this blog in mind, I’ve made a bit more of an effort to pull over and try to capture the beautiful vistas one sees routinely while whizzing along. But I’ve found that most of the time, the “scenic roadside” pictures don’t quite communicate. In the next installment, I’ll include a few, so you can judge for yourself.

One funny thing I’ve been experiencing throughout this trip has been tricks of memory and déjà vu. Because I was last in New Zealand only two and a half years ago, I still remember details and half-remembered things about- oh, just about everything. City layouts, hostel layouts, particular cups and saucers (the octagonal plates at Opoutere!). I remembered to turn off Cameron to Lemon Street, and found the hostel I liked in New Plymouth without looking at a map.

After the experience in Raglan the night before, I was keen to catch a wave by myself. The afternoon was beautiful and clear, with strong offshore winds that scrubbed the sky blue and are perfect for surfing. After a short search (within city limits, no less!), I found what I was looking for:

The next morning the sky was brilliant blue, with the offshore wind still blowing strong.
I followed a little one-lane farm road to its end, and then clambered over fences, crossing cow pastures to discover this place:

Turning 180 degrees from the surf, we see this:

This part of the country takes its name from Mt Taranaki, which dominates the landscape. Usually the top of the mountain is hidden by cloud. This morning, this whole week in fact, it was entirely clear- and a thrill to behold while surfing.

Although I didn’t capture them here, squares of cultivated land run up the gentle curve of mountain’s lower region. The effect is of looking up to look down on their patterns.

The countless perfect surfing reefs that ring the shore of Taranaki are the product of lava flow from the volcano. Here at this spot, two surfers were making their way out over the rocks. I took a close-up to illustrate the process one has to go through to get in (and out). Remember my Indicator story?

Looking north, I saw spray from perfect waves spinning along other reefs. I decided to leave these two to themselves, and find another spot.

For the next two days I surfed this place. You parked at the terminus of another farm road, and then walked for half an hour (some surfers drove little farm vehicles) along a driftwood-covered beach to a headland where a beautiful left-breaking wave peeled along for ages.

The beach was a long, long crescent. A broken wave would reach the shore, then it’s whitewash would sweep away from where I sat watching, rushing along the curve of the bay at twenty or thirty miles and hour, for several kilometers. I wish I could’ve filmed it, or could describe it better. It had a motion of symmetry that I’d never seen before- it was hypnotic, like a bird flying in one spot, or a yo-yo- Oh I can’t describe it.

But it was profoundly relaxing.

I’ll be in Dunedin tomorrow, where I’ve rented a room in a house for a month. I want to put this up, raw and a bit boring, just to offer something new, but I’ll have more time soon to communicate a bit more thoughtfully. Oh Blog! As hideous as your moniker! “Word” does not even recognize you, and scratches an angry red welt under your homely name…

Opoutere

2008-04-04T01:41:00.000-07:00

Hello Bloglodytes,

How have you been?

I’m sitting at a table in the barn-like twelve-bed dorm at Opoutere YHA, drinking a cup of tea and attempting to distract myself from a sinus infection. Note to self: be sure to drain all seawater from snout upon exiting ocean. Also might be a good idea to dump drinking water that’s been sitting in a hot car for days. A butterscotch taste probably isn’t wholesome…

I hadn’t been sleeping well in my tent (am I getting too old for such larks?), so I moved into the dorm, and I’m glad I did. This wonderful room was originally a bunkhouse for a goldmine that predates the circa-1909 schoolhouse. It has a twenty-five foot ceiling, big old plate glass windows and joy of joys- it’s all mine. The busy season seems to have passed. You’ll see it the photos of the YHA grounds. No people.

The only negative was a faint musty smell; a few sticks of Nag Champa (courtesy of Gregory, thanks!) fixed that.

So I’m happy to say I’ve been sleeping like a log. Days have been spent cooking and snacking, exploring the walks around Opoutere and looking for surf (I found a bit. I won’t bore you with the details- I’ll bore Keith privately, by email). Evenings I’ve been reading, eating and playing/fighting with Garageband, the Mac music-writing program. I’ll be here until Monday, and then begin to make my way down to the south island.

I’ll be sad to leave. The estuary, forests and beach at Opoutere are my favorite places in New Zealand, and this YHA is my favorite place to stay.

I’ve taken a few photos that only begin to suggest how lovely it is. Like most photos, what they can’t communicate is how the vistas connect together; what you experiences as you turn around, look up and down. Also missing are the sounds. A whole jungle of exotic birds call and sing to one another, particularly in the morning. Behind and beyond them is a gentle wash of wind in the trees, mixed with the sound of the surf. It all has a bewitching effect on the people staying here- they’re mellow and respectful. You see lots of reading.

To start off, here’s the kitchen. Note the gas stove. It’s the only budget hostel I’ve been to that offers one. This can be seen as a gage of the maturity of the guests here- I’m not sure I’d trust some of Solscape’s cooks, boiled and stewed themselves, not to blow the place up.

(Please remember I had to clean the Solscape kitchen every morning, hence the attitude. It was like the-morning-after-the-party…every morning for 45 days. And I wasn’t even at the party)!

The men’s bathroom. It’s lavender- you know I like it. Really nice showers, too, with extra bathmats… I dunno. Just really nice touches here and there. Purple flowers are poking their way in through frosted glass. When you’re traveling you notice these things, and really appreciate them.

Here’s the little living room. No TV, no radio. Nice book and map collection, a good reading light. And look at the view:

Above, a section of the outside grounds. These are little double and triple bed cabins.

Let’s walk to the beach. We head down the driveway, past the mailbox, and turn left on Opoutere road. Looking back, this is what we see:

A lot of these outdoor photos are really nice if you click on them, which blows them up to fill the screen. Do try it.

Opoutere road runs right up along the edge of the estuary (which is a protected nature reserve, as is the forest and the beach). These magnificent trees are called Pohutakawas. I think they’re just magical, surreal, like two or three different trees grafted together, something out of Dr. Seuss.

The patterns their meandering branches create against a horizon are like those we see when craning our heads and looking straight up into a “normal” forest canopy- do you see what I mean? In the high summer they produce dazzling red flowers. I’m utterly taken by these massive trees, and took a lot of photos.

See how they hang over the water. Further out are mangroves, which are slowly but surely filling the estuary.

Sprays of flax-like fronds sprout at the cruxes of the bows of the trees.
The dock for kayaks (which are available for free at the YHA is near this spot.

Just a bit further down the road is this pastoral view. There’s an adorable Shetland pony in the yard of one of the small farms on the inland side that runs up to you when you beckon, and enjoys being pet and scratched. Sorry I didn’t get a photo. Also, in one of these little farms lives a fellow who, completely out of character with the image I’m trying to portray, occasionally lets blast some of the most disturbing karaoke singing you’ll ever hear. The YHA receptionist tells me that he’s perfoming “death metal”.

Just past the place pictured last, we turn right, and head down a short road to the grass parking lot for the beach. We then reach the wood bridge that crosses the estuary.

Crossing the bridge you really start to go under a spell…you hear your slow footsteps on wood over the water. Sunlight shimmers and fractures in the mangroves.

At the end of the bridge, the forest begins. Here I try to show (in vain) the totality of what surrounds us. Looking into the forest-

And back toward the path to the bridge, and the steep, half-domed hill looming up directly behind the YHA. There’s a fun footpath to the summit.

And here, again, I must remind you of the qualities of sound I mentioned earlier. As you step into the forest, the sound changes. The deep layer of fallen pine needles has an anechoic quality; sounds at ground level hush. Yet at the same time, from above, the wash of wind and creak of swaying branches flares up, like cool flames. If it had been a month earlier, high summer, a huge oscillating buzz of cicadas would dominate. But now it’s fall. Birdsong blends with the remaining cicadas. And as we drift along, the sound of the surf starts to grow.

And grow. The path slowly changes from pine needles to blue white sand.

And you reach the beach. The cool dark of the woods give way to brilliant white light.

If it was hard before to portray a sweeping sense of space, it’s impossible now. Looking south we see this:

The spit of sand at the mouth of the estuary- a sanctuary for the endangered Dotterel. The rock formation in the foreshore is Opoutere’s icon. Sheep (natch!) graze on the hillside. The distance to the hill is perhaps a kilometer.

Turning and looking north, our eyes are drawn to a group of islands. The largest (or nearest) island has visible stands of timber-forest and what were (or still are, I can’t tell) cultivated fields. Imagine living out there. .

Beyond this island are more islands. The closer we look-

The more fantastic and dramatic they appear. What an exhilarating landscape! Look at that conical island.

Back to the beach, looking north. Once, I decided to walk to a big tree-covered rock formation at the far end (a small island, really). The distance is deceiving. The far hillside never seemed to get any closer. My guess is it’s about four kilometers. Here, using my camera’s zoom, and later creating a close-up on my computer, I noticed two figures walking that I hadn’t been able to see at the time. I think this close-up photo begins to give an idea of the sense of massive scale in this place.

The first time I saw this place, it took my breath away. Finally, I sat down on the sand. Above the water line it was fine white powder. At the waterline it was tan, and lined with shells. I looked more closely...

How beautiful! You could fall further and further inward into detail, just as you wanted to soar further and further outward, to the magic islands, to the farthest hills.

How do you keep a hold of this sense of perspective? How do you hold it, and not let it go?

Herbert & The News

2008-03-29T17:04:00.000-07:00

Hello Old Folks at Home,

How are you? I'm sitting, once again, at the kitchen table at the Opoutere YHA, waiting for the tide to drop and the wind to turn. The surf should get good (knock knock) toward sunset.

I surfed yesterday at Hot Water Beach, about an hour north. Hot Water Beach is so named because there's an area of beach that has thermal outlets just under the sand. Dig a little hole, and it fills with... hot water. I've never done this, but plenty of tourists do. The ocean water is pleasant enough, about 70 degrees. It's nice to be back in warm water again- the west coast was starting to cool down, just a little bit. Here on the east, summer is lingering just a bit longer. Anyway, it all feels lovely to a year 'round wetsuit wearer from chill San Francisco.

I mentioned that I bought a car. In one of my few plans that have gone right, I decided to be patient and wait until the right one came to me. It was just a matter of time, during an extended stay in a place like Raglan, with such a constant turnover of travellers.

One day while hitchiking I was picked up by a friendly German woman. Her car ( a 1989 Subaru wagon) grabbed my attention immmediately: she had a bleached sheep skull, surrounded by a blood-red flower lei, on her dashboard. We struck up a conversation, which is the modest price you pay for such trips, and I discovered she was just about to finish her six-month vacation.

I made what I thought were subtle inquiries about the condition of her car. She answered with what might have been an equally subtle sales pitch.

It turns out the car had recently recieved it's "warrenty of fitness" and also been recently registred, both attractive selling points. But the most compelling aspect of the car was the sincerity of the seller. She seemed trustworthy.

I had the car checked out by the local garage, and they said it was a pretty good car. We made the deal. Price: 1,000 dollars N.Z.

So for the forseeable future, the Hitchiker Chronicles are over. Herbert (so named by Carmen, the seller) is mine. I had him (er...) serviced in Hamilton, just for safety's sake, and so far Herbert is running fine.

While we wait for the surf to improve, let's leaf through this week's Hauraki Herald, shall we? As usual, click on the image for Big Yuks.

In place of The Hitchiker's Chronicles, I'll make a point of regularly sharing The News from here with you, there. Take care.

Sandy

2008-03-26T00:50:00.000-07:00

Hello Homebodies,

I’m writing this from the hamlet of Opoutere, in the Coromandal Peninsula, on the east coast of the north island. To be more specific, I’m sitting in the kitchen of Opoutere’s beautiful YHA (Youth Hostel Association) facility, which is a hundred-year-old schoolhouse, on the banks of an estuary, over which an arched wooden bridge meets a pine forest, through which a sandy path leads to a five-kilometer long beach where the sand is as white as sugar.

The contrast in atmosphere between this place and Solscape is profound. Let’s just say it’s quiet and peaceful, and leave it at that. When my camera arrives. I’ll devote a separate essay to photographs of this special place.

Before I catch you up with my doings, I’d like to acknowledge a certain proclivity for focusing on the “dark side” of things. The truth of the matter is, reading about one man’s pleasure is boring (as evidenced in the tepid response to my last entry, “Glory”). I do not perceive nor pander to cruelty in the hearts of my readers; I know that we both would like nothing better than to hear that the other one is happy and doing well. But something different is at play with the written word. I don’t know why and don’t care to ponder it here. I just know that it is so.

And let’s face it. I’m a whiner and a complainer. It’s bread in the bone. I find it cathartic to write about, oh, let’s say, “Bugs”, and I just bet you’d love to hear about them. And if I managed to do so in an original or entertaining way, then we would both benefit.

But the thing of it is, finally, that I see the positive in the negative, and vice-verse. “The sweetest kittens have the sharpest claws”, as the old saying goes- which brings me to the tale of Sandy.

Soon after I arrived at Solscape, I encountered a “ginger”-and-cream colored cat begging loudly for food scraps. He was sleek and full-bodied, friendly and confident- obviously not a feral. I assumed that, like the bunnies, he had migrated over from the folks next door, who were exceedingly casual about their animal stewardship (to put it one way).

Concerned for his welfare, I bought him a box of Whiskas, and began to think about what to do with him. Bernadette, the co-owner of Solscape, expressed her concern too. She offered the office number as a contact point, and re-asserted the necessity of finding him a home.

Meanwhile the little fellow was making himself more and more at home with us. Most mornings I would open the station house (kitchen) door to find him stretching awake on his favorite chair. He would snake between my legs in that irritating feline way, yowling to be fed. He would eat so ferociously that sometimes he threw up the un-chewed food.

I soon came to understand the elements of his personality. At this stage, he was fixated on food. He would purr and rub against your legs, submit to strokes, even allow himself to be picked up and cuddled- before he had eaten. After feeding, he might bath, or trot off and do whatever it was he did between meals. If he did stick around, he might loll in the sun on the deck of the station house, or move to the shade, as the day grew hot.

But he didn’t really like being touched. Short of allowing a few glancing cheek rubs, he pretty much isolated himself after being fed. People that tried to do more were scratched. Would-be lovers glared, sucking the top of their hand or the tip of a finger.

He came alive when a toy (dried flax fronds were a favorite) was dangled. It was apparent, then, that he was a young cat. He pounced with a vengeance. He leaped and twisted his body in the air. You would tire before he did.

I refused to give him a name. I didn’t want to get attached. A nice Australian couple suggested Sandy.

After about a week of feeding him, I discovered a golf-ball sized lump on his neck. I called over the fence to the house next door until I got the attention of one of the residents, who disavowed him. “Drown ‘im!” her companion added.

I phoned the vet and made sure someone could attend to him. I emptied a box of toilet paper, poked holes in the ends, put a towel in the bottom, and went looking for someone who was going to Raglan.

The cat was lounging in the sun, tail flicking. I scruffed him and put him in the box. Hugging it shut, I got into the car and off we drove. He was fairly quiet, and to my gratification, didn’t empty his bladder.

We decided to get him castrated, along with having the abscess lanced. He spent the weekend at the vet's, to ensure that he got his medications.

In the meantime, I had bought Herbert (my 1989 Subaru), so when the time came to pick him up, I didn’t need to wangle a ride. I didn’t try to stop him when he squeezed out of his new cardboard carrier on the way home. He sat upright on the passenger seat and looked out the (closed) window, as nonplussed as any dog.

As a treat, he got canned food for a week. I composed and printed a poster that read “Save Sandy”, with this photo, which I chose for its plaintive quality-

Can you tell that he is begging?

I described him as a “purring love machine” I did not say that he didn’t like to be pet, or that he was somewhat… vicious!

I put up a flyer at the library, and at the newsstand where the owner likes to talk about U.S. politics. I hung one at the laundromat. The hippy-ish health and beauty store had a bulletin board, but it was full. I left, then thought the better of it and asked the proprietor if I could hang it somewhere else. She glanced at the poster and said sure, then went to help a customer. I found an open bit of wall, but it was nice wood, and I wasn’t sure if it was OK. Feeling a bit of a pest, I waited until the clerk was free, then asked again about the spot on the wall. She took a better look at the poster, and stopped and stared.

She said she wanted the cat. She and her 13 year old daughter wanted a ginger and cream cat, and she wanted a young male.

Feeling more than a bit aware of the soft-sell description on the flyer, I told her that Sandy was a diamond in the rough, and needed an experienced cat person. She insisted she was.

Well, after several false starts and mix-ups, I brought Sandy to Keiren’s stunning home on an isolated, wooded street overlooking Raglan Harbour. I left the next day, so I don’t know how it’s worked out. I hope all of them, especially Sandy, are patient with one another.

Glory!

2008-03-18T21:46:00.001-07:00

Hi All,

Sometimes one good wave can make a whole session of surf worthwhile. And sometimes, a good day of surf can make a whole month of waiting worthwhile too.

After a disappointing week when an internet-forecast swell failed to materialize (and right after a weekend hostel-load of surfers left), the points came up with the kind of perfect waves that make Raglan famous. My estimate of the size was six to ten feet… some perhaps a bit bigger. I got in the water about 7:30 and surfed for a few hours (safely!). It was heavenly. There were only a handful of surfers (whereas the mediocre waves of the previous days had been mobbed), and the sets just didn’t stop. Waves rolled through in sets of eight or ten (why? California waves usually come in groups of three). The winds were perfect all day. The waves were formed as long walls, as you can see. Looking at the top photo, the ride starts in the extreme left, by the furthest rocky point, and continues well out of the frame to the right. A typical ride would last perhaps thirty to forty-five seconds (counting slowly). The speed you would generate was incredible.

Sitting on the warm black rocks afterward, the repetitious effect of the nearly identical waves spiraling towards us was surreal, hypnotic.

These photos were taken by a friendly German surfer named Florian (and slightly "corrected" for exposure and level-ness by me). Thank you! Special note to Keith- clicking on the image will blow the photo up to full screen plus.

The next day the crowds came back. The surf had dropped- nearly flat! In typical New Zealand style, an extreme change.

I have made my own change. I've decided to leave Raglan. I'll make one more blog entry while I'm here- a story with a happy ending, hopefully. I'll find out tomorrow night...

An Interesting Day, Part Two: The Art of Dying

2008-03-08T14:00:00.000-08:00

After ten days of watching from the sidelines, to say I was eager (“keen”) to get into the ocean was an understatement. I hitchhiked back to the hostel, where I ran into Phil, the owner, who was putting his surfboard in his car. He invited me to surf Indicators- he was leaving now. Was I up for it?

Yes!

There are a few things I must convey to put this story over properly. First, one of the striking things about New Zealand’s geography compared to the U.S. is how quickly the weather changes. A typical day might alternate between bright sun and pouring rain many times. A familiar sight is someone rushing to the clothesline to rescue half-dried laundry- or philosophically re-hanging it. The clouds at times race across the sky like time-lapse photography. It’s quite striking, and sometimes off-putting. It’s a foreign place.

I also need to give you an idea of the shoreline at the famous surf breaks. Raglan has three point breaks- three rocky headlands that shape the surf. You enter and exit not on beaches, but over rocks. Black, volcanic, razor sharp, pitted, barnacle encrusted, supremely abrasive, man-sized rocks. Until one develops calluses, they hurt to walk on barefoot.

When we arrived, the surf looked to be head-high or a bit bigger, and fun. It was also a bit intimidating. The tide was high, and the waves were sweeping in and smashing hard against the rocks.

Stepping from stone to stone, we made our way to “the keyhole”. The keyhole is a tiny nook, perhaps twenty feet wide, where a pile of cobblestones has accumulated between lava outcroppings. The water is a bit deeper there, just enough to soften the impact of the shore break. This is the entrance point, and at certain tides, in surf under a certain size, the exit point.

Past the southern spur of the keyhole is a shallow bay, which would be a marvelous exit, but is bordered by a twenty-foot vertical cliff on the north end. Beyond the Keyhole’s northern spur are submerged rocks that extend to form the next break up, Whale Bay.

We were both eager to get in. Phil and I commented to one another that we thought the tide was at full flow. This information was important. If the tide were now receding, our eventual exit at the keyhole would be safer; the friction of the rocks under shallower water would diminish the force of the waves.

We jumped off the rocks and paddled like mad through the inner surf zone toward the safety of deeper water.

The waves were exciting- but spooky! Each set seemed bigger than the last. Several times, our small pack was confronted by rogue waves that crested a hundred feet further out than where we sat. Sets of three or four waves became sets of seven, of eight, of ten! Like the swirling clouds, the personality of the ocean felt wild…extreme… different than back home.

After a time, weary and tense from the growing surf, I made the decision to ride one in. I caught a wave, zoomed down the line, straightened out into the broken whitewater, and dropped to my belly, prone.

Now several things happened very quickly.

As I raced toward the shore, I saw to my dismay that the fury along the rocks had increased; the tide was in fact much higher, the surf much bigger; the keyhole was a cauldron of foam; six-foot waves were breaking on bare rock.

And then I made a terrible mistake.

I aimed for the keyhole, but frightened of hitting the rocks on the south spur of the cove, veered toward the section of shore just to the north. I maneuvered and let the wave I was riding pass me by, then turned and paddled hard to the mouth of the tiny cove.

It was then that I realized my mistake, and again, several things happened at once. A powerful current, a TERRYFINGLY powerful current, was rushing north, away from the keyhole. With a sinking feeling that fizzed with adrenaline, I realized I couldn’t make headway toward my only safe exit. A six-foot wave was bearing down on me. I turned to face it; as I dove beneath it I felt it pulling me violently toward the shore. I lost my board, and scrambled back on. I was twenty feet closer to the rocks. My throat tightened. A second wave was advancing. I dug in to meet it, my arm muscles suddenly feeble. Glancing northward - Oh god! - the rocks now actually protruded further out to sea than where I was! I dove under the second wave, and felt the same sickeningly powerful pull shoreward. Another wave was approaching. There seemed to be no end to them. I had done everything exactly wrong!

It sounds asinine to speak of luck in a situation like this. But I suppose the events up until then hadn’t been bad luck; they had been the results of exceptionally poor judgment and ignorance. What happened next was luck. I was thrown onto the rocks, but the wave was more of a surge- one moment I was paddling in swirling foam, the next clambering, grasping jagged lava rock with one hand while cradling my board under the other arm- all during a blessed interval between waves. I felt my foot being cut, but I was on dry rock, moving higher, higher and then, safe. Adrenaline pulsed in my temples. Blood began to stream from cuts on my hands, legs and feet, especially my right foot, which had white strips gouged in it.

Incredibly, my surfboard was barely scratched

I hobbled back the next day and took photos. The first shows the keyhole (with people standing on top of the southern spur):

This photo shows the dimension of the keyhole, but because the waves are in fact bigger this day, they’re breaking further out. They’ve had a chance to roll and dissipate more than those of the day before, when they were actually cresting and landing on the rocks.

And here are waves rolling in toward the place where I made it in, taken from the same vantage point as the last photo:

Nobody was out- it was too wild! For what it’s worth, if a figure were riding the wave in the foreground, the wave would be about three to four feet taller than the surfer’s height.

I got a queer, very physical feeling as I sat there and took these photos. I KNEW I could have easily died- I’m very serious, folks. It really hit home, and I think I know why. My other mishaps were close calls with drowning- losing my board and having to swim against riptides. Drowning- as close as I’ve been to it, at least- is a “slow” event. The event at Indicator was potentially much more violent, the danger more abrupt. The memory of fear was particularly physical.

Anyway, I now know how NOT to get out of the water at Indicator- a lesson I’ll never forget. And as occasionally happens while surfing, the reality of my fragility and mortality, which I usually take for granted, is made apparent. It’s not a bad thing to meditate on.

What a contrast from the experience earlier that day with the loopy eye doctor.

It was an interesting day.

An Interesting Day (Part 1)

2008-03-04T21:53:00.001-08:00

Dear Friends,

It’s been awhile. How have you been?

As I said, I’ve been discouraged by my lack of a camera, and the inability to do what I really want to do with this blog. The insult to the injury of my camera’s croaking was that the one shot that would have really given this entry “teeth “ didn’t transfer from the camera to my computer – lost forever- after a special trip just to capture that image. Pfft.

At any rate, I’ve purchased a new camera (a Canon Powershot a570, my nephew’s recommendation). Soon this blog be up and powering along at full speed, cleaving a crisp wake of binary bytes through virtual cyber-seas, the captain grinning at the helm, squinting through a spray of pixels... Until then, I will do my best to describe, mostly in words, An Interesting Day.

Part One

Monday morning of last week was the day I was medically sanctioned to go into the ocean again. This was great, because the surf was forecast to come up- way up. I got up early, completed my job, and thumbed a ride to town, to see the monthly visiting optometrist.

I should back up a moment and tell you that I underwent lasik eye surgery in January. The surgeon suggested several follow-up visits, to monitor my healing. The doctor who removed my surfing-wound stitches referred me to the man I was to see that morning.

The ladies in the charity shop of the Raglan Community Center (one of whom wore a striking necklace -“ELVIS” in large gold letters) directed me to the doctor’s office in the basement. I made my way down a set of outdoor stairs to an unmarked door. I was early.

Oh, I wish I had been carrying a camera! I opened the door. The room’s blinds were drawn. In the dim light I could see an antiquated version of the standard optometric tool on a rolling stand. Also present was a pair of glasses with heavy octagonal rims- a prop from a vintage 1930’s Dr. Orloff horror film. Ancient flyspecked letter and hue charts were tacked to the walls. Most enigmatically, a golf ball dangled from a string looped around a hook in the ceiling, which then led to a hand mirror tacked to the wall.

Sitting at a small desk, writing with his back to me, was a pear-shaped, balding man in his late fifties.

I took off my hat, clearing my throat to get his attention. He wheeled around and sprung to his feet. His eyes, behind glasses, flickered with a curious, off-kilter, fanatic expression. Immediately, intuitively, I sensed madness.

I introduced myself as his eleven-fifteen patient.

He said, “Do you know why people wear glasses?"

What? “To… see better?”

“No! Guess again! Think!”

“I… " I didn’t want to do this. I’m too old to play games. I just needed to get an exam. But I’m also too old to say something rude, or walk out when I needed to get the damn thing over with. Oh hell.

A friendly smile. “I give up. Why do people wear glasses?”

Triumphantly: “Because they THINK they need to see better. Their ENVIRONMENT suggests that they have a deficiency. But they don’t, you see. They see as well as they need to see. For instance, I have a patient- in fact, the one who was supposed to be here now. She had a car accident fifteen years ago, and got a head injury. She developed curious optometric symptoms. But she’s fine. She functions perfectly. Why?”

“Because… her environment accommodates… “

“No! Because, you see, nothing she does- and she likes to knit, and to cook, and to take care of her grandchildren- nothing she does- she doesn’t drive anymore, you see, nor does she work at a job that demands precise vision- in fact, this woman, and I do hope she shows up for her appointment today- what we’re doing is unorthodox, I have to say, quite at odds the suggestions of her other optometrists- what is happening with this woman is that her environment- and she was told by other doctors that she would have to live with the halos and the peripheral distortions all her life- her environment does NOT accommodate her, she is accommodating IT- that is to say- “

And on, and on and on he went, including more Socratic questioning at unpredictable intervals. It was one of the most excruciatingly “trapped” experiences I’ve ever had.

After a time (ten minutes?), feeling physically parched, I simply had to interrupt him and ask for my eye exam.

He seemed to snap out of something. Apologizing, he gave me a terse, nearly silent exam for close to an hour, using every outdated optometric device in the place (I wore Orloff’s spectacles). Everything but the dangling golf ball and hand mirror. I never found out what they were for.

My eyes were fine.

Jonathan, Hardly Blogging

2008-02-28T18:42:00.000-08:00

(unretouched photo showing actual lattitude orientation)

Dear Friends,

Sorry to leave you wandering blindly in the dark, troubled by noxious odors and frightened by faint sounds of- what are those, crying babies? Overblown clarinets?). Three things have happened that have cut deeply into my bloggin' time:

1) I got better, and have been surfing everyday.
2) I've begun working- I clean the large communal kitchen... at six am.
3) My camera broke.

The first two developments sap my energy and wit; my will to blog is mashed, blunted. The third has hamstrung the fleet appeal of sharing images and text together; the very heart and soul of blogging, if you ask me. It's frustrating and I don't feel inspired to simply yak at you.

So until I buy a new camera, Pretty Vacation will be on vacation. If you want to read prose-only entries, just let me know. I'd just die without comments (and *cowboys*, that's an in-joke for Gregory, hi pal!), so feel free to do so.

By the way, I'm having a good time and it's been very pretty here.

Where am I?

2008-02-20T18:44:00.001-08:00

Here. The hostel consists of period railroad cars that have been dragged up onto a hillside overlooking the Tasman sea, about six kilometers south of the tiny town- village I suppose- of Raglan. Here is a view of the “carriage house”(the common room and largest kitchen), with Mt Karaoi in the background. Once again, it’s a beautiful day, and everybody is off surfing (everybody but me. I’m still fusing).

Pictured above is the secondary kitchen- the “dining car” The other kitchen is in the “carriage house” I prefer this one, which is smaller and frequently quieter. The carriage house is “party central”. No thanks.

Here’s the sliding hatch door of my room in “The Lady Eleanor”- the employee lodging. A grand name for the location of countless tawdry episodes, no doubt. Sitting on the step to the compartment, I feel like I’m in a Dorothea Lange photograph.

And this is as much of my living space that I was able to fit in a frame. It’s tiny, and smells musty. I bought some “white sage” incense from the local video store/internet café/incense store, and lit one stick before I decided it made it smell worse. Home for the next seven months?

This is a short entry, just to share the pictures. Diane asked me to take a camera video of the nurse as she removes my stitches. I don’t think I can upload video, but I’ll see what I can do, Diane. By the way, clicking on these pictures blows them up to a huge size on your screen, which Janet said worked to great effect on the “gaping wound” photo.

Hope all are well. Miss you.

Dreams of the Antibiotic Fiend

2008-02-18T22:04:00.000-08:00

Hello Whomever,

The last few days I’ve been feeling the effects of the antibiotics I was given when I cut my leg- the infection appears to be gone, but I’ve been tired and woozy, feeling like I had the ‘flu. Too tired even to blog. Screw blogging. Just wanted to lie in my little train room, and read the Tom Clancy novel I bought at the charity shop.

Actually, the Tom Clancy book was so aggressively awful, I decided I had to go find a decent used bookstore. That would be in Hamilton, the nearest city to Raglan, about an hour away by bus. Got there, found a bookstore, did a few more errands, and really started to feel rotten. Sorry, no pictures of Hamilton. I wasn’t in the mood.

That was yesterday. Today I woke up to more of the same feeling- bleah. Slept most of the day, just waking up long enough to take more of the pills that were both healing and ailing me, and eat a little. It was very warm, and quiet. Eventually I woke up, and realized why no one was around- the hot, still weather was perfect for surfing. Everyone was at the beach.

Eventually woke up (this is kind of a “gears and cogs story”, sorry!), and decided to hitchhike to town to get food. The view from the top of the driveway shows both the harbor and the Tasman Sea. Can you tell from the photo how warm it is? Also, please try to imagine the rolling buzz of cicadas.

Here’s the view from the turn out just up the road from the place where I’m staying (you can see the switchbacks of the driveway). This is what I see when I’m hitchhiking.

If I turn 30 degrees to my right, I see this:

That’s the first of the three surf spots that make Raglan famous- Manu bay. The waves are small, but the conditions are perfect. No wind, water about 75 degrees. After Friday, when I get my stitches out, I promise you I won’t be standing here taking photos when it’s like this.

Hitchhiker Chronicles: Ride back was nothing interesting, but the ride to town was exciting- the folks that picked me up were a Swedish couple in their sixties, freshly arrived in a rental car. The ride was exciting because they didn’t pull over when they picked me up- they stopped right in the middle of road. For some reason, the fellow, the driver, got out and helped to opened the door for me- unnecessarily and very, very slowly. I kept waiting to get rear-ended.

When I arrived in town, I discovered it was in the midst of an electrical blackout, and had been for hours. The market was open. People shopped and workers stocked shelves in the dim half-light like nothing was wrong. There wasn’t the usual excited tension I associate with blackouts. It was slightly surreal. Here’s two-thirds of downtown Raglan- actually, this is looking back from my hitchhike spot as I try to leave town; it’s what I see when I wait for a ride out.

Halfway home I got dropped off at the local surfboard maker’s shop. He fixed my broken fin. His name is Ray, and he allowed a photo of the view from one of his workspaces. I’ve never seen such a picturesque surfboard factory.

Well, my board is fixed, I had some yogurt, fruit and antibiotic, and it’s still hot, windless and daylight at seven pm. I’d hoped that writing this would lift me out of this muzzy thickheaded antibiotic haze, but apparently not. Hope all of you are well.

Hold Your Nose and Say "Pardon?"

2008-02-15T20:16:00.000-08:00

Hello Non-Vacationers,

I’ve been having a lot (or “heaps” as they say here) of literal down time, as I follow the doctor’s orders to keep my leg elevated. Well, I suppose, theoretically I could continue to sightsee and do errands, if I possessed extraordinary agility and could hold my leg far above my head while hopping on one foot en pointe, but sadly, that is but a wistful dream... But I like to think every gaping wound has a silver lining, and in this case it’s a fine time to catch up on Pretty Vacation.

Where to start? Now that I’ve (somewhat) figured out how to upload photos (pick a smaller size and retry over and over), and can show you the sights, I’d love to figure out how to share the sounds I’m hearing- rain squalls hammering on the roof of the railroad car at night…the nagging continual “chk-chk” of reggae music from the festival over the hills/the coach house stereo/passing car radios/the spheres (New Zealand is absolutely mad about reggae)…the pulsing narcotic buzz of cicadas (“the sound of summer”), and, so difficult to describe- the sound of a New Zealand accent.

I’m still trying to nail down just what it is. Like U.S. and British accents, it has regional variations-perhaps this accounts for why I’ve never heard “Opoutere” pronounced the same way twice (though every time I’ve said it to a New Zealander they’ve guffawed and “corrected” me to their particular way). However, with time, I’ve been able to note several consistencies of pronunciation. “I”s can become “e”s and vice-verse: “Ever” becomes “ihvah”, with a soft “i” (as “with”). “Pen” sounds like “pin”, or more accurately “peen” “Weather” is “witheir”, or sometimes "withuh", and so on. You'll also note a kind of drawl in the previous examples (often punctuated by a questioning “Ay?” at the end of a sentence, though this trait seems to be shared by Australians and Canadians as well). There’s also a certain nasality: "Myarrrrcus! C’yumyeere!" (Marcus! Come here!" ) that eludes mimicry and transcription, as well as a lilting softness- occasionally and unpredictably combined. I sometimes hear “Pardon?” when I speak too quickly, and my own accent becomes unintelligible to a New Zealander, which comes out- how can I render this- “Pahrd'n?” O.K. Jonathan, that’s not quite it, but oh! how much more charming than the doltish American ascending “Whuuuut?”

At this time I’d like to inaugurate a blog-within-a-blog: The Hitchhiker Chronicles. In this friendly country, hitchhiking is still practiced and as I have no car, I do it several time a day. Today was unremarkable- Out: a Maori family of three with his n' hers fluorescent street construction worker vests slung over their car seats…very friendly and in good humor- they explained that they’d just sold their house in town that they’d bought twenty years ago- with Raglan’s trendiness and the rise in home prices- well, nuf said. Back: an unremarkable new age hippy couple who didn’t talk much. Utilitarian today, but their kindness got me to the doctor and back.

But from time to time, the rides are much more interesting, and telling too- and when they are, I’ll add to the Hitchhiker Chronicles.

Miss you all.

Gaping Wound! Down to the Bone!!

2008-02-13T15:36:00.000-08:00

Hullo friends,

Sorry for the problem uploading photos. I'm connected via a wireless connection at the office of this hostel, and I reckon (as they say here) the signal is as laid-back as Raglan is in general. Speed up, goddamit! I'm from 'Frisco.

But I vow to you, with all my heart, that I will publish a photo of my (formerly, it's been stitched) gaping leg wound.

**UPDATE** Managed to slip in a small photo. Enjoy.

On my first day surfing, in beautiful, perfect waves, ocean warm as bathwater, a full-arching rainbow, fer chrisssakes, I wiped out, and was struck by one of my fins. The force was enough to bash the fin clean off the board, and open a wound (through sheer force- my wetsuit was uncut!) all the way down to the BONE, that's B*O*N*E, right about where the shin meets the calf muscle, or shank in butcher's terms. My wetsuit, which had been utterly superfluous, became useful as a compress for the copious amounts of blood that wanted to gush, and later did.

I was lucky that I recieved a ride back to the hostel (about 2k away), and again, when a vacationing nurse had the supplies and skill to dress the wound. The next day, I hopped a ride to Hamilton, and got the entire thing sewn up and antibiotics for about sixty dollars N.Z. What would it have cost in the US? The doctor descibed the wound, in technical terms, as "gaping". Horrible, I know, but at least it wasn't "sucking", as in "sucking chest wound". Actually, I don't know what a "sucking" wound is, but it sounds awful, and I don't want to know.

So... I have to stay out of the water for ten days. Lots of time to make music, look into the volunteering I want to do in Raglan, and write to you in this blog... and figure out a faster way to do photos.

"Bone" appetit!

Process of Stratification (Now! With Photos!)

2008-02-10T22:43:00.000-08:00

Hello Everybody,

First off, thanks for sharing comments on the last entry. I’ve disabled the silly google account thingy, so you can now leave comments as an “anonymous” person (though I hope you sign your name somewhere), and I sincerely hope you do.
Secondly, sorry for letting this blog rot on the shelf like a forgotten bun. I’ve been busy- picking up things like a NZ voltage adaptor, for instance, for powering my mac. Forgot my Thom's toothpaste too, and discovered an apparent antipathy from New Zealand's makers of "natural" toothpaste toward fluoride.

Just to run it down: the flight was fine. About 11 hours. Didn’t sleep, really… just sort of… abided. Too excited! Watched The Simpsons movie. Landed pre-dawn. Suffered the mild indignity of having to have my tent inspected by a pest control agency. Took a shuttle to the city, and got dropped off at The Brown Kiwi Backpackers in the Ponsonby district of Auckland, which is my favorite part of town. Ponsonby is a combination of what would be separate ghettos in S.F.- gay, Asian and “hipster”(a la The Haight). I’m sorry to say I didn’t take the time to take any photos of the Elizabethan business architecture this time around- at this point it’s too familiar to remember to document- the only picture I took was of the fire escape plan in my room, which I thought expressed a certain Kiwi practicality -note alternate escape route suggestion:

One full day of errands in Auckland was plenty. The air was soft and warm, a gentle breeze made me yearn to get out into the beautiful countryside. I rented a car, took a deep breath, pulled out into traffic (stay on the left!), got on the motorway onramp, and off I went- south on route 1- toward the east coast and the city of Tauranga, where Dean and Anj, my dear friends, lived. My first glimpse of the beach was this place- Waihi. This was what I came here for.

It was wonderful to see the Ellery’s again. All of them (including Asher and Zaphia, their children) are artists, and their house is a mad gallery of original art, with a heavy emphasis on the work of Anj, who is a professional, and truly gifted. I was too busy reveling in the heady brilliance of this family to take pictures of their pictures, but promise I will when I see them again, and share them with you all.

I did get a picture of their new kitten, Pepper. Here she is feeding, with Anj’s legs in frame on request, for scale.

After that brief visit (see you in March for the Jazz Festival!), I drove across the island from the east coast to the west coast (about two hours), to Raglan, where I'm writing this now. I'm planning to stay here for a while... months... so more on Raglan soon. It's a small town, full of eccentrics, and I hope to relay some of the stories I've been hearing about the people here.

Thanks for the calls and comments. It really feels good to stay in touch, and makes the eight thousand miles feel insignificant.

Hope all of you are doing well.

11:40...

2008-02-03T23:33:00.000-08:00

Hi!

It's 11:40 pm on Sunday night. I just got back from the last The Five Found Outers get-together for a while. This photo was from our show at the Li Po Lounge a few weeks ago. Tonight we (Jon Arnold, Diane Wallis and myself) recorded a few stray songs in our rehearsal space (goodbye Fern Alley!), which the other Found Outers will be obliged to finish in my absence. What great people!! How I'll miss them.

This post is just to get in the swim of "blogging" (thanks Diane for helping me set it up). With it, I'll be able to keep in touch, and show you photos of what I'm experiencing. Tomorrow: flying away. Day after that: New Zealand...

Goodbye, San Francisco!