Diane's Visit, Part 1

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.