What's in a Name?

Anyone who knows me acknowledges that I am a bit quirky. When you meet others who share some of your quirks, you know that they’ll be your friends for a long time. To my delight, when Robin and I were working and teaching together (“back in the day”), we both discovered that we share an affinity for naming inanimate objects.

Ok--this news may not be so weird. But to me, you can’t just assign names to objects. Things have names. For example, my first car was named Alexander. He was cool and classy but had an old school finesse about him (manual shift--*sigh*). I couldn’t pinpoint his name immediately, but once my friend Matt suggested it, it felt right. He was an Alexander. (That whole process took about a week.) My current car is a year younger than Alexander was. I purchased it when Alexander was rear-ended and deemed “beyond repair” by the powers that be. The new car looks similar--it’s the same make and model, but a different color, and it’s an automatic car with a V6 engine. Yup--he’s an eager little bugger. Step on the gas and it’s like taking a puppy out to play. He revs up and is off to the races. Within the first hour that I actually owned the car, I knew his name was Fletcher. It just fit.

So, what does this have to with New Zealand?

Since Robin and I were on the “Great Kiwi Road Trip,” we spent a chunk of time maneuvering through parts unknown. We used some of our handy map-reading skills to find destinations, but we relied heavily upon our Navman to help us negotiate the twisted roads and pinpoint our locations. A Navman is a GPS unit, like a Garmin or a TomTom. Our Navman had a Kiwi accent and a saucy little attitude to match. The cool female voice was colored with a little disdain every time she gave us a direction, as though she were sneering from her lofty perch at the fact that we needed the help of a GPS.

The first day we ventured away from Tauranga, we called her “Beatrice,” thinking that a suitable name for the “personality” she seemed to have. MISTAKE. “Beatrice” wasn’t particularly keen on this misnomer, and gave us one or two faulty directions. (Sometimes she just “forgot” to provide a turn.) On the second day of our road trip, Robin suddenly figured out our Navman’s real name--one that fit her snarky condescension perfectly: “Bernice.”

Ironically, once we started to refer to her as “Bernice,” our Navman started playing a bit nicer. Was she ever perfectly sweet? I wish I could say “yes!” but her personality always lent a bit of sarcasm and condescension. Some of my favorite directions from her were utterances such as, “In 3 kilometers, continue straight” on the same road we’d been driving for 50 kilometers.

(Incidentally, we did name the car too. That was part of our rainy day “girl talk”* as we attempted a visit to the Coromandel. He was quite obviously a “Gus.” He huffed and puffed as we climbed hills, squealed his gears on the gentlest of turns, and ate gas like there was no tomorrow.)

Gus, with Robin

(Bernice was “too cool” to have her photo taken.)

*Yes, I realize that naming vehicles is not usually a part of “girl talk,” but I have already acknowledged that I am admittedly not your average gal. I send my Christmas cards in July, for goodness sakes!

Food for Thought

“This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten!”

I cannot count how many times I uttered this sentence while I was in New Zealand. I think the first time I said it was on my second day, when Robin and I stopped for lunch in a small cafe near MacLaren Falls. The culprit? A tasty focaccia sandwich with either turkey or chicken, lettuce and sprouts, and what I assumed must be sweet potato. At least, it looked like sweet potato. However, it didn’t taste like a sweet potato. It was actually sweeter, but balanced with the other savory ingredients, it created a magnificent blend of flavors. I learned that this orange spread was kumara, a local ingredient that looks a bit like the sweet potato. Here’s my advice. Find some kumara. Eat it. Enjoy.

Day 4 in New Zealand, we encountered another utterance of “This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten!” . . . this time for vegetable broth. I’m not certain that this broth was in fact any better than any other I’ve had in my life. In fact, I’m pretty sure that it was fairly average. However, when you’re chilled through and through from sitting in cold cave water (which I will adamantly declare was delightfully fun despite the fact that my hands were a waxy shade of white by the time we were done), the comfort of vegetable broth in a tin cup goes a long way. Flavors that ordinarily may not seem remotely engaging suddenly seem like the best thing in the world.

Extreme circumstances do have a way of enhancing things we mistake for mundane. I’m pretty sure I married, and then proceeded to consume, a peanut butter sandwich at the highest point of the Tongariro Crossing. I will admit that the bread of the sandwich was outstanding--it was seedy and full of whole grains; it didn’t have nearly as many preservatives as American store-bought breads do and was all the better for it. Aside from the bread, though, this sandwich was quite frankly plain. Plain old creamy Jif on bread. That’s it. But I swear I could taste every seed in the bread, every little peanut that was creamed to perfection for this tasty spread. It was as though the cold wind, which minutes before had forced me to wear mittens on my hands, helped this sandwich transcend its ordinariness.

I couldn’t help but realize that everything in New Zealand tasted, frankly, a little bit better than food at home. Flavors were brighter, even in scrambled eggs or a plain little peanut butter sandwich. Yet, it didn’t seem that the foods were truly anything particularly different from what I can find here at home. Don’t get me wrong--I ate plenty of good foods in New Zealand. (Kumara, for example, is something that is not a staple here at home.) But when people say, “I’m going to New Zealand” it doesn’t usually conjure the same thoughts of food that “I’m going to Italy!” would bring.

For me, I think the enjoyment in eating came from taking time to enjoy the whole experience. Instead of gulping down lunch in a 26-minute time constraint dogged by incoming students, I ate in beautiful surroundings with a good friend and could take as much or as little time as I liked. Breakfast could be savored with tea as we checked the news, or mapped a route, not shoveling it in before rushing off to work. Dinner was enjoyed after a day of activity outside. Were there star foods among my choices? Absolutely! The seafood chowder I had in Rotorua, the vegetable, egg, pesto, and beet spread wrap (it sounds bizarre, but the flavors were insanely good!)--those were standout foods I normally wouldn’t have put together on my own. But at the end of the day, it was time--simple minutes and seconds--that was the magic ingredient.

The Curse of the Coromandel

No, this is not the title of the fifth Pirates of the Caribbean film. But avast ye mateys! Consider yourselves warned! The Coromandel Peninsula is a cursed location for the Minnesotans.

Why?

Rain.

Rain and rain and rain again. Those of you who also follow Robin’s blog are probably familiar with Robin and Rich’s first attempt to visit the Coromandel. It’s a gorgeous region on the east coast of the North Island. You climb up twisty roads and travel through near tropical vegetation. Robin and Rich were rained out on their first attempt to visit the Coromandel. We were hopeful that the weather would be more cooperative when I visited and went to sleep on Sunday night dreaming of sun on the gorgeous shore of Cathedral Cove.

We awoke, of course, to rain.

We decided to venture forth regardless. It wasn’t raining that hard, and the weather in New Zealand can change in an instant. Though it might be raining in Tauranga, it could be completely clear in the Coromandel.

Of course this was the one time the weather was consistent. But we were determined. Curse or no, we still had a good time. We lucked out and only had drizzling rain when we climbed down the coast toward Cathedral Cove itself. The mud was extra sticky and made a gloppy “smuck” every time we took a step. By the time we reached the beach, we were graced with a break from the rain and were able to prance about. I even removed my shoes and socks and waded into the ocean. (It was one of those “I’m here, so I must” moments. It was chilly, but still awesome.)

The beach itself was gorgeous. It actually plays a role in the Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian. According to my internet resources, the cove is where the Pevensie children first emerged when they return to Narnia in the second story/film. I compared photos, and sure enough, it’s the same! I wish my angle was slightly different so I had an exact replica to compare with the shot in the film, but I think even here, in the dim of the overcast sky, you can still see the similarities.

After we had our fill of running around Cathedral Cove, we took a short jaunt down the road to Hot Water Beach. The beach is fed by an underground river of hot water. Just before and after low tide, you can dig down into the sand and find your own natural hot tub. Just as we arrived at Hot Water Beach, the rain kicked into high gear. We didn’t really dig in and create a pool, but the feel of the hot water as we buried our feat against the cold sting of the rain created a neat duality.

Rich headed for home after our stint at Hot Water Beach. Robin and I ventured further out toward Whitianga, a small town on the coast. We were planning to spend the night in Coromandel and then continue to cover as much of New Zealand as possible (in two more days). However, the rain was relentless. We briefly considered staying at a backpackers hostel called “The Cat’s Pyjamas,” but on closer inspection (a drive-by), we felt it was just a bit to skeezy-looking to actually allow us to sleep. (It was probably cool back in the 60’s, but hadn’t really been updated lately. It looked like the type of place that might have some rodent or insect infestation problems. Or where a delinquent may just wander into your room in the middle of the night. It gives me the heebie-jeebies all over again just thinking about it. But I do like the name of the place. I think we ought to bring “the cat’s pajamas” back into vogue as a phrase. But in a good way--it should not in any way reflect this hostel.)

Robin and I drove around Whitianga a little bit more and stopped in another backpacker’s lodge. Though the owner of this second place seemed doubtful that the roads would get washed out, we were starting to wonder if this rain would impede our travel plans. Not wanting to get stuck in the Coromandel (my return flight was only two days away at this point), we decided to turn tail and head back to Tauranga, crash at Robin and Rich’s (and give Rich a bit of company), and make alternate plans for the next day and a half.

And lo and behold! The next day we woke, safe and sound in Tauranga to news reports that--shocker!--the Coromandel roads were washed out!

But better than the slightly smug feeling that we had upon hearing that news was the whole experience of traveling with a good friend. As Robin noted to me while we drove back to Tauranga, I had come an awfully long way for “girl talk” in the car. Yet, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Sometimes it’s the experience of doing “nothing special” with a good friend that makes for the warmest memories.

3-2-1 Bungy!

I don’t know why, but I didn’t hesitate. Once I was at the edge, I didn’t have a doubt in my mind. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world.

Three. Two. One.

And I was falling.

It was the most fantastic sensation! I gave a whoop of joy, and then it was back up, and down. I felt a sense of absolute abandon and weightlessness, and utter joy as I bounced up and down between the most amazingly bright river and a beautiful blue sky. The cliffs around me were a blur. I wished it would never end.

There are simply not enough words to describe how bungy jumping felt. It was exciting, amazing, and went by far too quickly. After I was pulled into a boat on the river, I ran up the cliffside, feeling as though I would simply burst out of my own skin. I wanted to run everywhere, proclaim my excitement to the world, and burst into joyous song, only my mind was racing so fast I couldn’t think of a single song to sing (despite the fact that one of the boatmen who took me to shore requested I sing because he discovered I was a choir teacher in our brief exchange on the boat). Had this been a musical, I most certainly would have started singing on a surge of orchestration full of swelling trumpets and rising melodies.

I really must thank Robin for prompting me to try this most amazing experience. I honestly had never imagined myself bungy jumping. I’ve long had a fascination with sky diving and would like to journey in a hot air balloon at some point, but I never really thought I’d try bungy jumping. When Robin and I were talking about my impending visit to New Zealand, she suggested that I might want to try it. She and Rich had just gone bungy jumping in Queenstown, and as she noted, New Zealand is the place where the sport was invented. What better place to try it?

I initially gave a tentative “maybe.” I wasn’t completely committed; but the more I thought about it, the more the idea took hold. “Why not?” I mused. I would be jumping with a reputable company full of professionals who knew how to hook me into the gear correctly, so safety wasn’t a concern. If I didn’t like it, I could chalk it up to having had an experience. If I liked it, it would open a door to a whole host of extreme activities I had not tried before.

Looking back, I think I was more nervous before my first jump than I acknowledged at the time. When we were on our way to breakfast that morning, I took a look in the mirror and noted that I was ghostly pale. (This was quite a feat considering that I had gotten a bit sunburnt the day before on the Tongariro Crossing.) Although I am normally a voracious breakfast eater, I didn’t really want to consume much that morning. And anybody who knows me well knows that I am a chatterbox--when I’m with good friends or family, I cannot stop myself from talking. And talking, and talking. That morning, as we drove from National Park to Taupo, I wasn’t silent, but I did have fewer words than normal. There were actually noticeable moments of quiet in the car where I wasn’t holding up my end of the conversation as well as I normally would with my equally chatty friend.

Yet, there was no going back in my mind. There wasn’t a moment when I said, “I don’t want to jump,” or “I don’t know if I can do this.” I even heard the terrified screams of the two girls who jumped before me (one of whom sounded as though she was being chased in a campy slasher film) and didn’t think about backing out.

Did I shout? Certainly. You can see for yourself in the video (complete with commentary by Robin) posted on my Facebook page. (I was planning to post it in the blog itself, but after at least four failed attempts at uploading, I figured that it wasn’t worth the stress. Everyone who reads this blog is a Facebook friend, anyway . . .) Yet, rather than screaming, I gave more of a whoop of joy. As I bounce back up, listen closely and you can hear me exclaim a “holy cow!” (Seriously--who says “holy cow” mid-bungy jump?)

After the first jump, I naturally had to jump again. Once was not enough. Twice was not really “enough,” though it did suffice for that day. The second time I jumped, went backwards. It was fantastic--on the second jump time slowed just a little bit, and I was able to really take in my surroundings as I fell backwards into the air. All I could see at first was the sky above. It was surreal.

I don’t know if there’s really any one thing I loved most about bungy jumping. It was thoroughly exciting and soul-satisfying all at once. Most people look at me incredulously when I tell them that I bungied in New Zealand; I laugh. I know I look like a kindergarten teacher to most, and therefore people assume I have the daring-do of one as well. Well, I have the video to prove otherwise. And I’m definitely planning to jump again, though it’s not to disprove anyone’s expectations. I just want to jump again because I really liked it! Maybe next time I’ll do a flip off the platform!

And sky diving is something I most definitely need to take from a dream to a reality.

The Tongariro Crossing

The mountains rose up out of the mist like a scene from a movie, but even quasi-questionable weather couldn’t diminish our excitement for the Tongariro Crossing.

See?

Yup, we were pretty excited for 19.4 kilometers (that’s 12 miles, American friends) of mountain hiking.

The Tongariro Crossing is known as one of the world’s most amazing hikes. It takes you across a full mountain, with everything from the scrubby plant-covered base to the rocky mountainside, the windswept mountaintop, lakes, waterfalls, and wooded terrain that felt almost like being back in the north woods of Wisconsin and Minnesota. The variety of terrain seems so surreal, looking back at my pictures it seems impossible that it was all encapsulated in one day-hike.

The hike started innocuously enough. It was flat with wide dirt pathways. When the walk got marshy, the conservation department had already put up boarded walkway so you didn’t sink into the sodden ground. (It wasn’t that wet when we hiked, but it was a bit damp and drizzly at the start of the walk.)

Just prior to beginning the ascent toward Red Crater, we came across the side track to Mount Ngauruhoe, best known to Lord of the Rings fans as “Mount Doom.” Prior to our hike, Robin and I had talked about wanting to climb Mount Doom. After all, it’s Mount Doom! How often does one get the opportunity to do such a thing? However, we had been forewarned that this was a tricky climb. First, our hostel roommate from the previous evening, Peter, had already shared with us his experience in climbing Mount Doom. (For the record, Peter is just about one of the most fascinating individuals I’ve yet to meet! He has travelled all over the world on extreme adventures; he shared several stories of his escapades with us. He works in his home country of England for a while, saves up, and then takes off all over the world. He’s just . . . cool!) Just like the hobbits, you have to climb Mount doom on all fours, grabbing at bits of dirt along the way. There’s no real path. This wasn’t enough to completely deter us, but we decided to “see how we felt when we saw it.” Our second warning came from our bus driver who dropped us off at the start of the track, a man craggy enough to have been carved out of the rough hewn mountainsides we came across along our hike. Due to the fog and the wet terrain from the previous night’s rain, he cautioned that anyone who wanted to climb Ngauruhoe should consult with him first, and that only the most experienced of hikers should take the climb. Robin and I glanced at one another and confirmed that although we were perfectly suited to trek the Tongariro Crossing, Ngauruhoe was not ours to conquer that particular day.

(This just gives me an excuse to go back and trek the Tongariro Crossing again! I need to face Mount Doom!)

We confirmed our decision not to climb the summit of Mount Ngauruhoe whilst passing Mount Doom--from the wide track, you could see the hardened lava flow from it’s last eruption (1975), but the entire mountain was completely shrouded in fog. Not ideal climbing conditions for gals who had not previously grappled with hand and foot climbing.) We were thrown a small consolation prize just as we were about to ascend the steepest part of our hike--the wind shifted the clouds and we got a glimpse of Mount Ngauruhoe through the mist.

As we turned back toward the track, we were given one more moment to ponder our options (and level of fitness) before we continued our hike. Here I am, thinking really hard. (Or plotting something nefarious. Take your pick!)

And we were off!

Climbing, climbing, and climbing!

Uphill adventuring isn’t so bad. Yes, it’s tough, but it’s not pure evil. Stairs, on the other hand, are a different story. I know they can be dead helpful sometimes, but so much of the time they feel like sheer torture. During the stair-laden part of our hike, we heard a lot of heavy breathing, both from ourselves and those we hiked near or passed. One lady said, “I feel like I’m working a dirty phone call!”

Luckily for us, the stairs ended. Though we continued to climb upwards, we had more gradients and rocks to help us along our way. However, we did encounter climate changes! We had happily layered ourselves for this hike, and though we were sweated from the exertion of the uphill hiking, it was quite chilly at the top! Coats came on, pants got rolled back down. I actually traded out my lighter jacket for my better-insulated one when we stopped for lunch.

(Incidentally, simple peanut butter on bread, at the top of a hike tastes phenomenal. Extreme wind enhances the flavor.)

As we walked away from our lunch stop, the craziest thing happened! It became warmer; the wind, instead of simply blowing at us in cool blasts, actually blew the fog away and we saw sunlight and blue skies again. And not a moment too soon! As we started our first mini-descent, skating through loose, dark dirt toward the Emerald Lakes, we were treated to some of the most astounding colors we’d seen yet. In front of us, we could see the bright green of Emerald Lake, caused by minerals that leach from the surrounding rocks. Against the black of the volcanic soil, the blue of the sky, and the

constantly moving fog, the green of the water appeared gem-like. When we turned around, we also had the chance to see red crater, which mere minutes before had been so saturated in fog we had to take it on good faith that it was there.

After the breathtaking scenes at Red Crater and the Emerald Lake, the rest of the walk felt serene. There were moments where the view opened up into vast landscapes that seemed to go on forever. In the last kilometers, we plunged into woodlands that felt like we had suddenly landed back home in the midwest!

All too soon we found ourselves at the end of the track. It was gratifying to have beaten the anticipated 7-8 hours--we managed the trek in six hours! Oddly, even though we had done an awful lot of walking and climbing, I didn’t feel particularly sore or even tired. (Of course, the next morning, my first few steps were a bit like Frankenstein’s . . .)

And remember that half bottle of Shiraz we had started in Raglan? We finished it that evening . . . after we had each enjoyed a complimentary glass of wine (included with the purchase of our bus tickets; for those of you familiar with my low alcohol tolerance, this was A LOT of booze in one sitting!). It was almost surreal sitting back with wine in hand, watching a full moon rise over Mount Doom in the distance. The rhyme made me giggle. Or maybe that was the wine talking . . .

Cave Women

Personally, I think Robin and I are ready to grace the front of a Wheaties box. If this picture doesn’t scream “Breakfast of Champions!” I don’t know what does.

Ok, perhaps I jest. But there is something about putting on a wetsuit, a helmet (complete with its own torch), and adventuring through a cave that does make one feel a bit inspired.

Accomplishment number one: putting on said wetsuit, when it was still wet from an earlier run through the caves. If you’ve never experienced this particular joy yourself, the sensation of putting on a waterlogged wetsuit is not pleasant. In fact, I’ll go so far as to say that it’s downright nasty. It’s cold and rubbery and feels like you’re trying to put on another layer of skin that disagrees heartily with you. Robin caught this, um, charming picture of me as I pulled up the bib top of my wetsuit. I assure you it was as clammy and cold as the rest of the suit.

Accomplishment number two: facing the more frightening cave critters. Ok, I’ll admit that this wasn’t the worst thing ever. In fact, it was pretty easy to avoid the frightening cave critters altogether, and frankly, they weren’t that scary. But we did see a weta, a sizable cave-dwelling spider that looks like it popped directly out of the fourth Harry Potter flick as soon as we entered the Ruakuri Cave in Waitomo. (Robin was none-too-pleased by its presence.) And though we thought our guide was joking, there was in fact an eel waiting to greet us in one area of the cave. For some reason, that gave me the willies, and I proceeded to squeak whenever someone in our rafting group shouted “eel” to me throughout our adventure.

Accomplishment number three: black water rafting. Robin sent me an email that listed several things we could tackle prior to my trip to New Zealand, and this was one that made my “must” list. Ostensibly, we simply “tubed in a cave.” Yet, there was a bit more to the black water rafting than simple tubing. We did a bit of hiking through the cave river, which was tricky at times. Although you have a torch on your helmet, you often can’t see your footing through the darkness of the water. Rocks jut up out of nowhere and if you’re not careful, you may just take a nasty dive and injure yourself. (For all of you who are privy to my more clumsy exploits past, I am pleased to say that I emerged from this particular venture without incident!) We also got to jump off some waterfalls that were 3-4 meters in height. They weren’t particularly daunting in comparison with the waterfalls that Robin and Rich had already conquered weeks earlier whilst canyoning, but we still heard our guides give the warning: “Make sure you jump far enough away from the fall so you avoid the undertow, but not so far that you hit these rocks . . .”

Accomplishment number four: singing in a cave. It’s a funny thing, but as soon as I told anyone in New Zealand that I taught choir here in the states, I was asked, “Are you going to sing us a song then?” Ordinarily, I don’t feel stage fright. I love to entertain an audience from a stage either as a soloist or part of a choir. I like the adrenaline rush and the thrill of live performance. Yet, when asked to do this human to human, without the distance an audience and performance space, without a character to play or a planned program, suddenly it’s the most daunting thing in the world. My mind blanks, my pulse rushes, and though I nearly always have a soundtrack running through my head, I can’t think of a song. I feel like a stunned child, paralyzed in the moment, struggling through the far reaches of my mind. What can I sing? Why can’t I think of any songs that I know??? Then I proceed to berate myself for not being able to think of any songs since having a catalogue of songs in my brain is so much a part of who I am at every other juncture of my life that I often sing bits of songs when people utter phrases from them in ordinary conversation. Thankfully, I was able to pull a verse of the Irish folk song “The Salley Gardens” out of the recesses of my brain. So while floating through the river, helmet torches dimmed, and only the light from the glowworms above to light our way, I sang. It was a frightening moment personally--Robin had built me up to the rest of our caving group, and I was loathe to disappoint. But regardless of what others thought of my singing, I enjoyed a moment of personal satisfaction both while singing and afterwards. The acoustics in the cave were stunning. (I should sing in caves more often!) And I take great pride in the fact that I was able to share something I find intensely personal in a truly unique situation.

As mentioned above, we also saw one of New Zealand’s natural beauties while in the cave: glowworms. From the water below, we stared up at the dazzling light of what looked to be thousands of glittering stars above us. In reality, the glowworm is an ugly, gooey little larva, made pretty by its bioluminescence, which, as our caving guide pointed out, is really just glowing fecal matter used to capture its prey. However, knowing the truth about our little friend, arachnocampa luminosa, could not diminish the beauty of the little buggers. They are truly a sight to behold.

Perhaps the only downside to the adventure was the chilling cold. However, this was nothing that a hot shower, followed by hot soup and a toasted bagel, couldn’t fix. Would I do it all again? In a heart beat! Perhaps next time we’ll add in some repelling for an added thrill!

Nerd Alert!

Doot-do, do-do-do. Matamata! Doot do-do-do! Matamata!

(If you have no idea what little song I was singing while writing the opening lines of this entry, I insist that you check out this lovely YouTube clip of the muppets singing “Mah Na Mah Na.” Your inner child will thank you.)

On March 17, Robin and I bid farewell to Rich and began our own little sojourn into Kiwi country. Our first stop? Matamata, a lovely little town, now famous for its Hobbity hamlets. That’s right folks, we let our inner nerds out to play and took the tour of the Shire set. Having both read and watched The Lord of the Rings, I instinctively recognized the rolling green mountains as Hobbiton, and delighted in having the opportunity to visit the set. It is so quaint! There are round little doors and chimneys popping out of hillsides as far as the eye can see. Across the lake, you can see the Green Dragon and the mill. Real fruit grows on the apple and pear trees! It’s so picturesque even the most Orc-like individuals would feel their blackened hearts melting. Sadly, I cannot publish any of the pictures of the Shire here. Before touring the set, Robin and I had to sign a bit of parchment that said we wouldn’t, or Peter Jackson may just gobble us up for second breakfast. Or elevensies. Or afternoon tea. So you’ll have to be satisfied with our mock-hobbit pictures from the shuttle launch in Matamata.

Yessir, I’m skipping. And for good reason. I’m apparently too tall to be a hobbit! (The new casting call for The Hobbit asked for extras 5’2” and under. At 5’4.5,” I’ve missed the cut-off.) I think my lack of hairy feet may also have put me out of the running for the casting. As you can see, Robin has attempted to make herself hobbit-height, but alas, I think she’s more elvish with those long limbs.

Our time in the Shire led us to feel a bit hobbity, so we were concerned about food immediately following our tour of the set. Luckily, Matamata complied and we didn’t have to go on much of a quest to find lunch. (Just one lunch, though. We are too tall to be hobbits, after all!) Near the cafe we visited, we came across the Manly Milk Bar. Now, we know what Milk Bars are--small convenience stores from which one can readily buy various food cupboard staples like milk, juices, crackers, and treats. It’s not a fully-stocked grocery store, but enough to help you “get by.” It also acts as a newsstand. However, I couldn’t stop giggling at the name of this Milk Bar. What made it “Manly?”

I had to investigate.

Using the best skills one could glean from The Boxcar Children, I sauntered casually into the store, saying “hello” to the elderly gentleman behind the counter of the Manly Milk Bar. On the right, a refrigerator for soda, milk, and juices. Next to the counter and spilling over onto it I saw a wide array of candies. Frozen treats were located in a freezer on the right of the counter. Shampoos, soaps, and other personal sundries were located in the back of the shop. Toys were on a shelf just beyond the cold beverages. This wasn’t feeling particularly “manly.”

And then I saw it--the “man cave.” Lurking surreptitiously behind a tall shelf was a rack of magazines with scantily clad and cleverly black-bar-censored women.

It’s a good thing this was not really a Boxcar Children mystery. I don’t think the wholesome Boxcar kiddos would have been able to make sense of the “man cave” in the back of the Manly Milk Bar. I think they might be altogether scandalized if they saw two people *gasp* holding hands. I can’t bear to think of how they’d react to scantily clad women on magazine covers!

(I, on the other hand, giggled.)

To commemorate this momentous occasion, I struck a “manly” pose, in the vein of Sears catalogue models, outside the Manly Milk Bar.

(Hey, a girl can only do so much to be “manly,” especially when wearing a ruffly purple t-shirt.)

We headed toward Raglan next, a beach community noted for its black sand beaches and surfing. While on route, we took a small detour to Bridal Veil Falls. It was a short trek to the falls, but the twisty roads to reach the track were killer. I travel fairly well to most places, and I like a good thrill from time to time. However, the one thing I simply cannot master is twisty roads (or spinning rides). I do not blame Robin’s driving in the least--again, she handled those twists and turns like a pro and kept us safe to the bitter end. I just wish my stomach would listen to my brain, which kept uttering “It’s ok, it’s ok. Don’t toss your cookies!”

The visit to the falls was worth it, though! McLaren Falls had been nice; Bridal Veil Falls was impressive in its sheer force. It was a taller fall, and we even managed to see a rainbow in the mist. (Thanks to my handy dandy 35mm “biggie” camera, I managed to capture that rainbow too! Look closely!)

(Ok, I’ll admit that the rainbow wasn’t that difficult to capture. I also snagged some shots with my digital “point-and-shoot” camera, which also came out nicely.)

(And since this entry is entitled “nerd alert,” I guess this is the appropriate time to note that I had a total of THREE cameras on the trip--the 35mm biggie, the point-and-shoot digital, and my HD Flip cam for video. Nerd alert, indeed!)

Arriving in Raglan after our day at the Shire and Bridal Veil Falls, we were in for a very different sort of visit. We stayed at the Karioi Lodge, a hostel that hosted its own surf school. Since we were just passing through for the night, we weren’t part of the school. However, we still got a taste of the surf culture. We met some very nice people at the lodge, but looking around we got the sense that a few of the travelers had been there slightly longer than the average backpacker would stay. Perhaps they’d originally intended to stay for 3 days of surf school, but liked the surf life so much that they stayed for 2 weeks instead. This is not in any way a judgment--just more of an amused observation. The lodge itself had a comfortable, relaxed vibe that permeated every inch of the property. The kitchen was clean but well-used. Our shared bunk had a slightly damp but pleasantly camp-like smell. Robin and I opted to get Indian takeaway from the city proper that evening, as part of the Kiwi culture. (I know, I know! Indian food doesn’t scream of Kiwi culture at first glimpse, but takeaway is like a whole food group unto itself! The folks of New Zealand seem crazy for their takeaway food, and based on the caliber of the Indian food we got, I can see why! It was exquisite!) We also opened our bottle of Mills Reef Shiraz and each had a glass. (Please note--we still had about half a bottle left after this. For future reference.) In plastic wine glasses, of course! I think actual glass would have defied the very nature of Karioi Lodge and felt completely out of place. Plastic? Just right for the occasion.

And perfectly suited to us at the time. Two gals off on a wild and crazy, and slightly nerdy, road trip.