celtic_writer

Pineapple Lumps, The Troubadour and Two Internet Ladies

New Zealand is a land of interesting sights, sounds and connections.

As you motor along, you discover things like this:

And also like this:

To this day, I do not know why I am so fascinated by this product, which is a very popular confection with NZ children, and available in most stores. Believe you me, it doesn't taste like any pineapples died for the manufacturing of this candy. It's just that the name is so strange: "Pineapple Lumps." One must make special emphasis on the "L" in "Lumps" when its title is pronounced. It makes even a Yank feel terribly British. On my death bed, my last words will probably be "pineapple lumps."

On the day I found the Pineapple Lumps, we also discovered The Troubadour. We stopped at the equivalent of a state park, and, alongside a beautiful lake, joined many others who were taking advantage of the nice day by picnicing at a group of tables near the water's edge. This gathering included a young man who, sitting on the hood of his car, seemed quite smitten by a pretty young woman who sat quietly reading a book a couple of tables away, ignoring him completely.

So this fellah decided he had the perfect weapon available to win this lovely girl's affection: a guitar. He pulled it out of the back seat of his auto, hopped back up on the hood, and made a big deal out of tuning each guitar string. Then he started to play.

As Shakespeare wrote, "The course of true love never did run smooth." The only singer in this guy's family is the sewing machine.

He proceeded to caterwaul some song I did not recognize. I think it was "Killing Me Softly" by Roberta Flack, but I am not sure. He should have be arrested for disturbing the peace.

The young woman closed her book, stood up, gathered her belongings, walked calmly to her car, got in, closed the door, turned the key, and gunned it out of the parking lot, gravel spewing in all directions in her wake.

"Guess we're not going to that wedding," Doug said, as we quickly finished our sandwiches and left The Troubadour to entertain everyone else.

Near the end of This Day to Remember, we arrived at the hotel where a reserved room and hot showers awaited us. This establishment was run by two older ladies. The registration office was filled with crocheted cats, a myriad of them, multi-colored, in all sorts of feline poses, pinned to the walls, sitting on tables, meowing silently, craftily, and all for sale.

"Weird" is not the word that describes these two, nor does the word "daffy." "Dotty" is the right word. These two women were absolutely dotty.

Doug took one look at our hostesses, and smartly volunteered to take the luggage up to the room while I finished the registration. I nudged a crocheted cat head (which I think was fitted around a roll of toilet paper as a base) out of the way so I could complete the paperwork. Part of our reservation included Internet connection, which usually required the receipt of a username and password at check-in. I inquired about the setup.

"We have Internet connection in the room, is that correct?" I asked.

Dotty 1, whose real name was Shirley, turned to Dotty 2 and announced, "Yes, of course, dear. Margaret will take care of that for you." Poor Margaret looked at me like I had just asked her to go jump off the roof. She didn't want that hot potato. "I've only set one of these up through the computer, so I know Shirley will help me."

Shirley: "Now don't be ridiculous, Margaret, you have done this a thousand times."

Margaret, pouting, looking like an old Shirley Temple: "No I haven't."

So the two of them pushed keyboard buttons and fussed and carried on with each other until the computer spit out the Internet login information for the room. Margaret wrote it on a small piece of paper and proudly handed it to me.

"Is this a wireless connection?" I asked.

"Why, yes it is," said Shirley, as she handed me a plastic pouch that held an Ethernet cable.

"You simply plug this wireless connection into the clock in your room, and you should be connected straight away to the Internet."

I could not make this up.

Crocheted Cat Image: poshlittle.com

The Blue Pearl of a Place

Eastern philosophers believe there is a small blue light that lives inside each of us.

Some say it exists in the head; others, the heart. Through this little orb there is a gateway to something so much bigger than we can ever imagine. Nature, God, spirit...whatever you want to call it. That if we close our eyes and wait patiently, sometimes for many years, it may appear. It is known as the "blue pearl." It is where our soul lives, the place of our essence. And it is said that experiencing the blue pearl reaps the greatest reward, that of coming face-to-face with ourselves.

On this earth, you can also experience the blue pearl of a place. Very near the southern-most tip of the South Island of New Zealand, it appeared unexpectantly, during a stop on the side of the road at a place called McCracken's Rest on Te Waewae Bay.

A sunny day that simply was, along the shore of an ancient water highway used by the Maori as a greenstone route.

It is a place where the wind blows its swirling blanket about you. You sit on the sand and that comfort of air reminds you of your beloved human pack who wish you, as Annie Lamott writes, "traveling mercies." It means, "Be safe, notice beauty, enjoy the journey, God is with you." And it brings tears to your eyes because you believe, deep inside, that you might never understand any of this. But in this blue pearl of place you realize that you have been shown, on this day, a small spark of grace.

Eugene O'Neill wrote, "Man is born broken. He lives by mending. The grace of God is glue."

New Zealand Easter Sunday 2009

Quote from New Zealand poet James Keir Baxter (June 29, 1926—October 22, 1972), etched on stone and placed in the water of Wellington Harbor.

Happy Easter, everyone.

Wellington, NZ: Pizza from Hell, Andrew's Life, and Fidel's on Cuba Street

Journal Entry -- 25 March 2009:

"Arrived in Wellington late this afternoon. At the bus station, we found a cab driver from the Czech Republic who transported us to the i-Site Tourist center, complaining that the locals, and the Brits, don't tip him. There is a rule in New Zealand: you do not have to tip anyone, at any time. The sense is that everyone has a job, and are paid a decent wage.

At the i-Site center, the tired young woman who helped us find a hotel was near the end of her shift, and acted as if she certainly wanted to be rid of the likes of us. I don't blame her. She sent us up the hill to a newly-refurbished hotel on Cuba Street. Enormous room, new carpet, huge windows, lots of light. Determined there was no electricity in the room. Then discovered that one must put one's room card key in the slot by the door to activate the room's lighting and power. Saves a ton of energy a year for the hotel. Makes sense.

This is a land of balance. The food is bright, clean and beautiful. The water you drink from the tap tastes like the expensive bottled water one purchases in the States. The egg yokes of this morning's breakfast were a beautiful orange, pure under the fork. People are calm. There is little crime. Children are rosy-cheeked and behaved. The closest I have seen to a brat tantrum was delivered by a small blonde girl standing with her mother at a street corner. The little one stamped a sneakered foot and simply stated, 'No, Mummy, I do not care to do that.' The mother took hold of the little girl's hand, said, 'Straighten up now,' and the two crossed the street.

Doug has gone off in search of takeaway pizza, wine, coffee and dessert. The Internet connection is not wireless, but hard-wired broadband in this room, so I asked him to stop at the front desk on his way out to shop to request that a wireless router be borrowed for our stay.

Soon there was a soft knock on the door, and Andrew, the hotel manager, requested permission to enter so he could install the router. Once it was plugged in, he used the room phone to call his IT folks to activate the connection. While he was on hold, he and I got to chatting about tech stuff, New Zealand weather, and cricket. He told me it had been a tough day. 'My wife is home sick, and I am supposed to be there right now, cooking supper,' he told me. 'I may be getting divorced by the time I get home.' He wasn't looking simply to dump his personal troubles on any available ear, or to have someone feel sorry for him. He was simply stating facts. In New Zealand, everyone has a job to do, and that includes, for some, marriage.

Doug came back with a pizza from Hell. That is the name of the pizza shop down the street, and the pie was great. He also found a bottle of wonderful Australian Shiraz at "the bottle shop" around the corner, plus lattes and apple dessert at a wonderful cafe a block away called Fidel's. Yes, as in Castro.

Walking up Cuba Street today, I noticed a street artist's stencil of Tolstoy's face on a wall, accompanied with the quote, 'In the name of God, stop a moment, cease your work, look around you.'"

PHOTO: Coffee cup illustration on wall of Fidel's Cafe, Wellington, NZ

See more New Zealand photos

New Zealand: Taking the Bus

Seems to me when you visit a place, the more money you spend, the further away you place yourself from the folks who live there.

That means it is time to take the bus to your next destination.

When I think of taking the bus, I am reminded of pre-Christmas childhood travel trips I took from NJ to New York City with my mother Dottie M. to go holiday gift shopping at Macy's. That usually meant having to wear a stupid dress, white gloves and Sunday hat while experiencing a crushing ride in a stinky mobile cannister filled with rude people.

New Zealand has a national bus system called InterCity. It is very slick. You purchase a deal called a Flexi-pass, a set number of hours you use to fly down the left-hand-side of New Zealand's roads in a motorcoach. Yes, that's right, it is not a bus, but a motorcoach. As the vehicle's name suggests, your ride is spotlessly clean and it makes scheduled stops for tea-time along the way. One lump or two?

What I like best are the bus drivers on the system. They switch off every four hours or so. The first one we experienced was named Stan. He was a short, wiry, very strong fellow who wore knee socks with his Bermuda shorts, and could pick up my suitcase (affectionately known as "The Dead Body Bag") with one hand tied behind his back. And Stan gave us a nature tour as we motored along ("If you look to your left, you will notice a myriad of trees that were planted during the Great Depression.")

I have to say my favorite bus driver so far has been Paul. He reminded me of Monty Python's John Cleese imitating a New Zealand motor coach driver, informative about the scenery in a refined presentation, yet at times, slightly indignant. ("Now, I want a moment of silence on this bus to remember all those who died keeping China British.")

The adventure continues...

PHOTO: UK Mirror The Best Overloaded Transport Pictures

Auckland: Illegal Boots, Plato's Phone, Ambassador Jason and Hillary's Axe

On late May 1953, at the age of 33, Edmund Percival Hillary and Sherpa mountaineer Tenzing Norgay became the first climbers known to have reached the summit of Mount Everest.

These days, Sir Edmund would have trouble bringing back boots to New Zealand dirty with some foreign soil.

When traveling to New Zealand, please leave your aquatic pests at home. New Zealand doesn't want them. When coming through customs, we had to declare the fact that we were both carrying hiking boots in our luggage. Upon inspection by a customs agent, it was determined that:

1) Doug's boot were clean, but, of course,
2) my boots, which had some spots of U.S. mud on their soles from the last time I walked Walt, could cause a national incident if they were not shined up, straight away.

Seems the NZ government is serious about biosecurity, as they want to keep their waterways clean. All hiking boots, called "tramping shoes," are checked for clumps of algae and other debris, then cleaned with a decontamination solution. After treatment, items are rinsed with water that comes from the local town's water supply.

So, at 5:30 a.m., we were directed to our very own Agriculture/Quarantine officer, a cheerful lady who was gloved as if ready for a plunge through plutonium. She took my boots and disappeared behind a screen for a few minutes. Heard lots of splashing water, and I suspect a few zaps from some special ray gun. She returned with my trampers, cleaned and wrapped in plastic.

On to Auckland City, Hillary's hometown.

We checked into our hotel, took a nap, then ventured out to get a glimpse of the city.

Found a public phone set for philosophy...

and a wonderful Auckland Ambassador named Jason Greenwood, an accomplished writer and actor, who will also answer any questions you have about the city, and direct you to the best steakhouse in town.

And we took the bus across town ($1.60 NZD one way) to see Hillary's Axe, the one he used on Everest, the same tool his widow donated to the Auckland Museum.

PHOTO CREDITS:
Sir Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay, Hillary's Axe -- Photo Gallery, Hillary's Axe, Auckland Museum
Hillary's Axe made by Claudius Simond from Chamonix in France and purchased before the 1951 New Zealand Himalayan expedition. Hillary’s ice axe has a European Ash wood handle and a forged steel head and spike.
All other photos: Mary Gillen