A recent trip to New Zealand surpassed all expectations of beauty and fascination. It was indeed a once-in-a lifetime experience. As usual, however, one must expect the unexpected, especially when I am involved! What follows is a brief record of my time in “the land of the long white clouds” in six installments:
1. A Day Early and a Visa Short
This bucket list trip to New Zealand had been meticulously planned for over six months. Every little detail, from airlines to accommodations to quality attractions, had been reserved and confirmed so long ago that it felt like January 28 would never arrive. Final itineraries, green fees and gratuities, airplane meals and seat selections, transportation to and from airports, resorts, golf courses and attractions . . . everything was solidly in place. Arrangements on the home front were also confirmed. Rusty’s life would continue marvelously at home with no disruption to the luxurious dog’s life to which he’s become accustomed. He would be fine . . . probably much happier with his top-of-the-line caregiver than he is with me. [Hmmmm . . . I might have to upgrade my petting techniques, frequency of walks and doggie biscuits and general overall treatment of the family pet. Maybe . . . but that’s for later].
Air New Zealand Flight NZ05 wasn’t scheduled for departure until 8:00 p.m. PST. [Part of the Master Plan! We could board the plane, enjoy a late supper then sleep for most of the 14-hour flight. Reminder to Self: Compliment Carl on his strategic and thorough travel planning].
Since we had the entire day to spend prior to our flight, I readied to head out to one last bar method class before putting the last few items in our one shared suitcase. I’d finally come to terms with the fact that Carl and I were packing light and taking only one suitcase for a two-week trip. That’s right . . . ONE SUITCASE for a TWO-WEEK TRIP! But I was fine with it . . . finally. Well, not completely fine, but accepting of the proposal and at least willing to give it a try. Solidly supportive? No. Cynically skeptical. Absolutely. I had painstakingly culled clothes from my closet, making sure they were all constructed from wrinkle free fabrics, folded them neatly and placed them into a 16” x 20” nylon packing envelope I’d received as a Christmas gift. Satisfied with my little parcel, I placed it in the one suitcase we were taking for our l-o-n-g two week trip.
“There!” I thought, “That’ll do it! Carl’s going to be so impressed!”
But impressed he was not!
“Hmph!” he began, “I see you’ve taken up most of the suitcase! I haven’t even started packing yet and there’s hardly any room left!”
Uuuuuuuuuuummmmmmmmm . . . . don’t say a word! Don’t do it! Don’t open your mouth! Just walk away, Peggy!
But sometimes I just can’t help myself.
“WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!” I shrieked, “Look at that!! One TINY packing envelope . . . ONE . . . for TWO WEEKS! THERE’S PLENTY OF ROOM IN THAT SUITCASE!!! I can’t help it if boy clothes are bulkier than girl clothes! I can’t scale down any further!”
“No, no, no, no, no,” Carl backed off, “I didn’t mean that! I just meant that I’m going to have to really think about what to take. You did fine, Honey! Just take a deep breath, count to ten . . . everything’s going to be fine!”
“I’ll count to ten. I’m going to Bar. I’ll see you in an hour,” I said as I clomped out of the bedroom.
“Oh, hang on a sec,” said Carl. “Do you have those visas I told you we needed? I thought I printed them out but now I can’t find them.”
“Oh, Brother!” I said, panicking and rolling my eyes at the same time, “You never gave them to me. I asked you MONTHS ago if we had them and you said yes.”
“I know I paid for them and I thought I had them, but . . . I can’t find them!” he said.
“Well, you didn’t give ‘em to me!! Now what do we do? Why don’t you call the guy at the travel bureau you used and ask him for help?”
“I sent him an email. If I have to, I’ll drive to the New Zealand Consulate in Santa Monica and get some.”
Adrenaline coursed through my body at such a level that the thirty pushups required in bar class seemed like five. I aced the bicep curls, tricep stretches, thigh and calf stretches, and even took the challenge options on all the ab exercises. PTSD from missing our flight to Ireland loomed in the back of my mind, thinking that there was now a very real chance that we’d also miss our flight to New Zealand because of a missing visa and possible red tape at the consulate in Santa Monica! I couldn’t beLIEVE this was happening.
“Oh well,” I thought mid-exercise, “I guess it won’t take that long to UNpack!”
Upon returning home, I learned that the crisis was over.
“I went on line,” Carl explained, “and discovered that I’d been scammed! The website I used to apply for those visas was a phony, so I got onto the right one and filled out the applications. We should be getting an email confirmation within the next couple of hours that they’ve been issued.”
[Let’s hope so!]
Again due to PTSD from the Ireland trip freeway fiasco and missing our flight, I insisted that we leave for the airport at 3:00 p.m. for our 8:00 p.m. flight. I didn’t want to take ANY chances that there’d be another lunatic jumper on a freeway overpass or any other traffic nightmare blocking our route. I’d rather be there and wait instead of sweating it out in Los Angeles gridlock. As luck would have it, we found ourselves sitting in the Star Alliance lounge, fully checked in, boarding passes in hand and cleared through TSA a short fifty minutes after leaving our house. We had four hours to kill!
At least I was comfortable . . . For awhile, that is. I’d purchased a posture perfecting T-shirt from the trunk show following last week’s President’s Cup and thought it would be a good idea to wear it on the long flight. It would keep me aligned. A strong built-in front panel pushed my shoulders back, while a stronger built-in back panel kept them from slouching forward. My posture was PERFECT! I felt stronger, taller and very, very fit! I even had more energy! I think I may have noticed a few women jealously noticing how good I looked, sitting there in the lounge all “posture perky” and all.
[Eat your hearts out, Girls!]
For awhile, Carl and I each took care of business on our electronic devices; he making sure the visas came through and answering emails from lawyers on pending cases; me texting friends and catching up on Team results, etc.
“We’ve got 2 1/2 more hours before we can board the plane,” Carl said. “I’m going to go have a smoke.”
“Really? REALLY??? I don’t think so! This is a non-smoking airport! Your smoking is like having another person along on our trips! We ALWAYS have to accommodate it!” I replied.
“Trust me,” he said, “I’ll find a place! It’ll be 14 hours before I can have another one once we get on that plane! I’m going to have a smoke!” And with that, he disappeared in search of a smoking zone.
As I waited for him to return, I slouched down on my couch, only to be pulled by my T-shirt back up into a perfect posture position.
[Uh oh!!! This could have been a mistake!!! I feel like my seat is in the full upright position and I’m not even on the airplane yet! This can’t be good! Not good at all!]
Each time I relaxed or reclined just a bit, that T-shirt snapped me back into full attention!
[Yep . . . Bad idea. I wonder how I’m going to sleep on the plane! Maybe I should ask the flight attendants to prop me up in the coat closet! What a waste of those business class sleeping pods!! I’m going to be board stiff!]
With the clock winding down to just minutes before boarding time, I sent one last group text:
“Hey . . . I know this is a day early, but tomorrow is National Curmudgeon
Day! Make sure you do something nice for your curmudgeons!”
I may have been a day early with the message and a visa short for the trip, but . . . Boy oh boy, my posture is perfect . . . And will be for at least the next fourteen hours!
2. We’re Not In Fallbrook
Fourteen hours later, Air New Zealand’s Boeing 777-300 gently touched down on the tarmac in Aukland just as the sun was rising. The long leg of the journey was behind us, but we still had to claim our luggage, navigate through customs, check-in for our puddle jumper to Kerikeri, then sit and wait two hours for take-off. Once there, Stephan from Black Robin Transport was scheduled to greet us at baggage claim, then drive us the one hour distance to our final destination, Kauri Cliffs. Everything was pre-planned, prepaid and perfected.
“I’m going to go have a smoke,” said Carl, not ready to tackle the long line at customs.
“Oh, o.k., . . . Finnegan!” I said, “I’m naming your smoking habit, Finnegan.”
“Finnegan?” he asked, “why Finnegan?”
“Because Teri [a friend of mine] had a Scotty dog named Finnegan, and when he died, she got another one, just like him and named him Finnegan Again. When Finnegan Again died, she got another one and named him Finnegan Again Again. I think it’s perfect . . . You go find places to smoke again and again and again and again! So, FINNEGAN it is!”
He smirked, uttered a near silent inaudible then headed out to deal with Finnegan. I perused the duty free shops waiting for their return.
Upon clearing customs, Stephan met us at the marked “way out” (not “exit”), hoisted our golf clubs along with our one shared suitcase into the back of his van and ushered us into the roomy backseat. As we pulled out of the loading zone and through the airport complex, Carl asked Stephan to stop at an ATM somewhere along the way so we’d have some New Zealand money.
It was nice to be on the ground enjoying our new surroundings. We passed several small and quaint sheep and cattle farms before entering a village in search of the ATM. The scenery was beautiful, serene, charming, rustic. Certainly nothing like we have at home.
“You know,” Carl said to me, “everything is always the same.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, somewhat taken aback by the irony of what I was experiencing.
“Well, every time we go somewhere, I mean, EVERYTHING’s always the same . . . Airports are the same, there’s people everywhere. There are crowds and lines, workers, taxi drivers, buses. Cities are cities, no matter where you are. Countryside is countryside, wherever you are. Just look out the window! This looks just like Fallbrook, don’tcha think?”
[My head exploded into a million pieces!]
😳😳😳🤯🤯🤯
“FALLBROOK?” I shrieked, “FaaaaallllllBROOK??? FALLLLLLLLBRROOOOK?? Are you kidding me? We just traveled through eighteen time zones, we squished all of our clothes into ONE SUITCASE, I spent the better part of the last twenty-four hours bound in a straight jacket, not able to sleep for more than ten minute intervals because my posture was so straight that my pinky fingers went numb and all we had to do was jump in our car and take a two-hour road trip down the 15 Fwy. to wander through FALLBROOK? FALLBROOK??? REALLY? You are unBELIEVABLE, Carl West!!”
By the time I’d finished my rant, we’d arrived in a small town. A sign on a sporting goods store caught my eye: Fishing, Camping and Tramping.
[Now THERE’S something you don’t see in Fallbrook!]
For a split second, I smiled at a possible meaning of “tramping.” Of course, according to my take on the word, one could be found “tramping” down Hollywood Boulevard, clad in a gaudy, flamboyant lime green sequined miniskirt, a feather boa draped around the shoulders, patent leather platform shoes, perhaps a wig, fake eyelashes, rhinestone encrusted chandelier earrings, a cigarette holder and a thick band of bright lipstick drawn across the lips. I couldn’t resist:
“Stephan . . . What’s ‘tramping?’” I asked.
“It is an activity associated with the outdoors,” he said, “taking a tent and supplies for a few days and living in the wilderness.”
“So . . . Camping.” I confirmed what I already knew.
While Carl negotiated the currency exchange, I got to know Stephan a little better. A giant of a man, standing well over 6’ tall, well-built and brawny, I wondered how comfortable he was being a driver, sitting in a van day in and day out. He had dark brown hair, brown eyes and strong, chiseled features. He spoke with a thick accent, much like Arnold Schwarzenegger. In fact, he looked very similar to The Terminator. During our conversation, I learned that he’d come to New Zealand twenty years ago from Frankfurt for a gap year and never returned! I wondered how many young people spent THEIR gap years in Fallbrook, never to return home! I’m guessing a big zero!
Upon our arrival at Kauri Cliffs, The Terminator offloaded our luggage and, as if on cue on a movie set said, “I’ll be back . . . on Sunday to collect you for T’ara Iti.”
We turned to enter the resort but were immediately greeted by two men welcoming us to Kauri Cliffs. We were definitely not in Fallbrook! The beauty of the resort is beyond description. The best I can do is to compare it to the popular ABC television series of the 1970’s and ‘80’s, Fantasy Island. Adrian (Mr. Rourke) and his assistant (Tattoo) received us at the entrance and gave us a small tour of the main resort area. We were invited to sit in the living room while he retrieved refreshments for us, after which they gave a brief presentation of all that was available at the facilities. Only twenty-eight guest cottages currently at 80% occupancy make this an extremely private, intimate experience. In fact, it is SO much like Fantasy Island, I was waiting for Adrian to ask us, “So what’s YOUR fantasy?”
“Canapés and cocktails are offered for our guests right in this room every afternoon from 5:00-7:00 p.m. Dinner is available, no reservations required. You are scheduled for golf . . . . . “
Following our official welcome, a shuttle transported us to our cottage . . . #22. Corey, the shuttle driver, is from Nova Scotia, working here for the season. Adrian (aka Mr. Rourke) hails from France, and “Tattoo” is from Perth, Australia. The more staff members we met, it became clear that many, many people fell in love with New Zealand and have yet to return home and I can understand why! Our cottage is nestled amidst a tropical rain forest, birds and cicadas chirruping. No city sounds heard at all! The ocean views across the golf course best those of Pebble Beach, Hawaii, Ireland and yes, even Fallbrook!
All guests attended a beach bbq last evening down on the property’s Pink Beach. The sand is not sand at all. It is composed of millions and millions of crushed sea shells, giving the beach a pink hue. During the evening, we mingled with the other guests and lo! and behold! The world became smaller!! There is a woman here from Sherwood Country Club who was my opponent in Team last season! (We’re playing with them today!) We met another couple, Manfred and Petra, from Germany who are “on holiday” for thirty-five days! As the evening drew to a close, all of us admiring the beautiful beach, the sunset and one last nightcap, it became eminently clear that we are not in Fallbrook
3. Bonnie and Clyde
Our last day on Fantasy Island’s Kauri Cliffs drew to a close with one last dinner with Manfred and Petra, Paul and Amy. Just prior to meeting them for cocktails at 6:00 p.m., Carl wanted to hop in a golf cart and drive around the back nine one more time. Of course the scenery was breathtaking and I’d already snapped over fifty photos during our rounds played, so I didn’t quite understand the need for another jaunt around the course. It sounded like fun, however, so I took my seat and readied for the ride. We veered way left off the cart path on Hole #10, coming to a halt where the fairway ends and the gorse begins. The same thing happened on Hole #11, only we went right this time and stopped near the deep fescue. We stopped again on #12 right beside a huge tree and a fence. On Hole #13, we got out of the cart and took a selfie with the ocean and islands in the background. When the cart stopped again on Hole #14, I finally asked what we were doing.
“I wanted to come out here one last time,” said Carl, “to say good-bye to all the balls I lost! I don’t want them to think I don’t care!”
Richard, not The Terminator, arrived early the next morning to transport us by motorcar to our next destination, T’Ara Iti. I was quite pleased to meet my very first Kiwi. Everyone else I’d met had come from somewhere else and I was beginning to think there were no native New Zealanders other than the indigenous Maoris. Richard Parsonson was born in Kerikeri just south of Kauri Cliffs and had made his living as a men’s clothier until retiring at the age of 58, a short fifteen years ago. Now he plays golf most of the time but drives people like us from resort to resort to resort for a little extra money. Richard, like Stephan, was extremely friendly and offered bits of local lore as we motored from town to town. While Stephan resembled Arnold Schwarzeneggar, Richard was a dead ringer for Telly Savalas. The only two clues that prove he’s not Kojak are (1) he had no lollipop in his mouth and (2) he spoke the Queen’s English mixed with a bit of an Australian accent.
Of particular interest was a small, seaside village that was preparing for National Maori Day this coming Thursday. Preparations were in full swing with entire tribes of Maoris staking out their areas, erecting tents, campsites and dancing areas. Maori motorcycle biker clubs roared into town, announcing their arrival with a flourish. Young Maori children jumped and played and local police cruisers patrolled the area, keeping it safe for all to enjoy. Definitely not a sight you’d expect to see in Fallbrook!
As we continued toward T’Ara Iti, Kojak ran through his duties with us for the next couple of days. It became clear in very short order that we’d left behind our leather-bound travel binder, containing hotel vouchers and our domestic plane tickets! When Carl called Kauri Cliffs to make arrangements for them to messenger that binder to us by express post, he learned that he’d also left his brand new blazer on the chair back at breakfast!
“You left the binder AND your jacket behind?” I asked a little surprised at his forgetfulness.
“I did. You know, you should have noticed the binder on the dresser and you should also have noticed the blazer on the chair! I count on you to be a little more responsible, you know!” he said, deflecting the blame onto me.
“So now all of this is MY fault?” I asked, not one bit pleased with the accusation.
“ExACTLY!” Carl and Kojak agreed simultaneously. “Our wives are our better halves . . . we NEED you!”
T’ara Iti (named for a sea bird) sits on 6,000 acres of land with eleven miles running along the ocean. Its facilities are stunning and the links course along the water would probably even intimidate Tiger Woods! The best way to describe the overall feel of this place is to take the Pacific Dunes course from Bandon Dunes OUT of Oregon, plop it down at Kaanapali in Maui then get rid of all tourists and golfers except for about fifteen! That’s T’ara Iti. Each cottage, no more than 20, is complete with two golf carts for the guests’ convenience. As we finished parking our cart at the club house for dinner, a young female employee emerged from the Concierge building. I suppose under other circumstances I would describe her as attractive and sweet, however, I took an immediate dislike to her.
“Excuse me,” she began, “Is THAT a pipe?”
“Yes,” said Carl, “I’m sorry! Is that o.k.? Am I not allowed to smoke here?”
“No, Not at all! Of COURSE you can smoke here . . . I LOVE a man with a pipe!!! It makes you perfectly gangster!” she encouraged in her oh, so British/Australian accent.
[Gangster? GANGSTER? What the heck??? Is that a compliment? Is she actually flirting with MY husband? What a little tartlet! If Carl’s a gangster, what does that make me? Who are we now, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid? Am I the Bonnie to his Clyde? The Carmela to his Tony Soprano? Who knew that Carl and Finnegan were now gangsters and that I’m some lousy floozy side-kick!]
Super Bowl LIV is alive and well, even down here in New Zealand! The Head Pro solicited bets this morning as the golfers warmed up on the driving range.
“Choose your team, then go out and play. We will take your net score minus the score of your chosen team. Lowest number wins! Good luck, mates!”
Heck yes!! Bonnie and Clyde are IN on that bet! GOOOOOO ‘49ers!!
4. The Pied Piper of Huka Lodge
Kojak drove up to the concierge building at T’ara Iti at exactly the prescribed time to transport us to our next stop, Huka Lodge. It wasn’t his fault that we’d been waiting his arrival for nearly an hour and a half. Not wanting to be rushed, we moved our tee time up, knowing that we’d have to wait a bit. That was fine with us. We’d just hang out in the concierge hut and relax. What we didn’t count on was the possibility that Christina, the gangster groupie, would be on duty!
“Good Afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. West! It’s such a lovely pleasure to see you again!” she cheerily greeted directly at Carl as if I weren’t even there. “It is Richard that will be fetching you today, is that right, Carl? I hope you enjoyed your stay here with us!”
[“Oh, brother!!!” I thought, “Go get your own gangster! In fact, I’ve got one for you . . . go look for Jimmy Hoffa!! That’ll keep you busy for awhile!]
Because I was included in no part of the conversation, I opened my crossword puzzle book, turned the page and immediately almost burst out laughing. The clue to 1 Across read: Union boss Jimmy _______.
“Hey, Christina!” I said, inserting myself into her full-court flirtation, “Do you like crossword puzzles? Here’s the first clue for 1 Across: Union boss Jimmy blank. Any idea who that could be?”
“Uh, no . . . sorry . . . I’m not very good at puzzles,” she responded, a little put out that I’d spoken to her.
[“Thought so, you little groupie!” I thoroughly enjoyed the irony!]
Richard provided a continuous travelogue pointing out different interesting sights during our 2-hour trek to the Aukland airport. We were booked on the 4:50 p.m. flight to Taupo where we will stay for the next two nights. Again, all was proceeding quite nicely . . . no traffic problems on the route there and no problems checking in and getting our boarding passes. All we had left to do was check our one shared suitcase then our golf clubs at the oversized luggage counter and wait to board the plane. It appears, however, that Finnegan pulled a fast one! The clerk behind the counter scanned our bags, loaded them onto the conveyer belt and pointed us toward the boarding area. Almost there, a uniformed security officer beckoned for a Mr. West to report to the oversized baggage area. There was a problem. His golf clubs did not pass the x-ray test!
“There’s a problem with your bag, Sir,” he began in a very officious police voice, “ would you please remove the contents.”
Carl rifled through the golf bag, opening each zippered pocket, exposing the contents then repacking until the cop identified the problem . . . a butane lighter.
“I’m sorry, Sir,” he said “this cannot be in your bag. Just put it in your pocket, that’ll be o.k.”
“Finnegan AGAIN?” I asked, “SEEEEE? It’s a problem. There’s ALWAYS something going on with him!”
The rest of the journey to Huka Lodge was uneventful. Upon our arrival here, a lodge representative escorted us to our cottage spelled out the dining protocol for the evening. Each group dines in their own private dining area with their own private waiter. I didn’t know what to expect, but I did know that we were in a very special, special place!
We settled into the suite then took a walk down to the river’s edge, enjoying some mixed nuts from the minibar. The current flowed quite swiftly drawing our attention to two little ducks trying to paddle from one side to the bank of our side. They finally pulled themselves up onto the bank, fluffing their feathers, quacking and cheeping. I tossed a cashew at one of them. Then another . . . and another and another. Suddenly I had two new friends. All the nuts tossed and eaten, I returned back into the suite to shower before dinner thinking the ducks would go along on their way. But they didn’t! They were waiting for me INSIDE THE SUITE . . . on the carpet!
“No, no, NO, you guys! You can’t come in here!!! Get out . . . shoo!”
(Carl and Finnegan were out for a walk).
Our dinner assignment was to an upstairs room looking out onto the magnificently beautiful river. The room itself housed mounted African animal heads perched on the walls . . . in an homage to the the sister lodge in South Africa. An enormous water buffalo watched over the room from above the fireplace. Our table was set just inside the bay window adjacent to a small terrace. Framed photographs of the Queen of England and Prince Philip sit on one of the coffee tables along with African masks and other such pieces of art. The Queen stays at Huka Lodge when she’s in New Zealand and has signed the official guest book several times.
“You know,” said Carl, “some people would probably think that this setting is really romantic!”
“They would, would they?” I said, “they might say that because IT IS!”
Our waiter, Elian, offered us our choice of water, “Monsieur et Madame, would you like some water? I have sparkling and I have flat.”
Of course I chose sparkling and, of course, Carl chose flat. Sometimes even water describes people!! We knew we were in for a five-course “tasting” dinner, but it was far beyond our expectations. Prior to the first course, Mercury Bay Kingfish, Elian presented us with an amuse bouche.
“Here we have a petite rice waffle with avocado, anchovy paste, creme freche, juniper seeds and lavendar petals,” he said in a beautiful French accent as he gently placed our dishes in front of us.
“What the hell is this?” said Carl as soon as Elian disappeared.
“An amuse bouche,” I said.
“A WHAT???” he said a little more loudly. “What the hell is a mooz boosh?”
I laughed a little, “An ‘amuse bouche,’” I repeated, “it’s French for a little something to please your mouth before you begin the dinner.”
“O.K., then I’m in WAY over my head! Whoever heard of amuse bouche?” he said as he picked up the little rice waffle.
Course after fancy course came and went before we learned a little something else that will stay with us forever.
“May I present you with your pre-dessert?” said Elian, placing what looked like a miniature sidewalk sundae encased in a small glass cake plate on top of frozen black rocks in front of each of us.
We marveled at the concept . . . a PRE-dessert! How genius!! Why hadn’t we thought of it?
“Gosh!” I said, “so now, when you grab a handful of cookies before you go back and scoop yourself some ice cream, we can say you’re just having your ‘pre-dessert’! What a GREAT idea!”
We drank the last drop of wine, finishing the dinner and the day.
I brought my two slices of dry sourdough toast back to the room with me from breakfast this morning for my two new duck friends. They were nowhere to be seen, so I started tearing one piece up and scattering it near our patio deck. From literally out of nowhere, Mama Duck and four young ducklings flew in from across the river. I couldn’t tear the bread fast enough! They pecked my shoes, cheeping and quacking in anticipation! At least this time I knew enough to close the sliding doors. They followed me all the way from the water’s edge back to the room!
Our itinerary showed a 10:00 a.m. tee time at Wairakei Golf Club. This particular course is among the top 50 courses in the world, making it yet another exciting thing on our trip. What we learned, however, was terrible. A former groundskeeper who’d been fired for who-knows-why, snuck into the maintenance area, poured corrosive chemicals into the fertilizing sprayers so when the gardeners sprayed the greens, all the grass would die!! The greens on the entire golf course were ruined! Temporary greens have been mowed for use in the interim, but . . . what a tragedy!
Before returning to Huka Lodge following golf, our driver dropped us off at Huka Falls, a natural water fall down river from our accommodations. We snapped several photos, then walked the half mile back to the lodge.
I am now sitting on a chaise lounge just off the riverbank, writing this recap . . . along with Mama Duck and her four ducklings. I have no bread to offer them, but they refuse to believe me. One of them has been stealing the little felt cloth that I keep inside my tablet to clean the screen, begging me for something to eat. A couple others are beneath my seat, pecking at my butt and Mama Duck has hopped up onto the bottom edge of the lounge and is sitting between my feet! I suppose I am the Pied Piper of Huka Lodge! I have to stop writing now and get them some mixed nuts from the minibar! It’s so nice to be needed
5. Shades of Meaning
English is undeniably the world’s universal language. Because it is the official language of more than seventy countries, English helps to increase effective communication, trade, business and travel. Tourists are better able to navigate through foreign countries without the need to learn a particular foreign language or to rely on phone apps for translation. Hence, someone from New York should be able to visit England, let’s say, with no language barrier and vice versa. People from Hong Kong should have absolutely no trouble communicating in the United Kingdom. Further, those in Canada would ease right into the swing of things in the United States. Of course it’s true that some idioms and terms may vary, but the overall meanings are not changed. It follows then, that Carl and I would find no difficulty in New Zealand. Problems occur only when mispronunciation and shades of meaning confound language.
I began to notice a few glitches in effective communication through a common language early on in the trip. Young people, either still in college and taking a semester off to travel, those already graduated off experiencing the world before they settle into adulthood or those neither ready nor willing to accept the responsibility of being completely self-supporting and independent, staff most of the resorts we’ve visited. When asked how long they’ve been in New Zealand, the common response is, “I’ve been here for three months now.” They’re on work visas that expire six months from the date of issuance. They are happy to move on from these seasonal jobs, then pick up and find temporary employment in some other country for another six months.
“They have wonderlust,” Carl said one evening over our dinner discussion in the ultra-romantic setting in our private dining area with our own private waiter. “They are young, not tied down to any responsibility and they just want to travel. We never even thought of that! We finished college then either went straight to graduate school or started working. These kids don’t do that . . . they’ve got wonderlust.”
“I think you mean “WANDERlust,” I said, of course feeling the need to correct him.
“What the hell’s the difference?” he said, “they want to see the world. ‘Wonderlust’ or ‘wanderlust’ . . . it’s all the same.
“Actually it’s not,” I pressed. “‘Wanderlust’ is a compound word . . . a word made up of two words to form one new word . . . ‘wander’ and ‘lust,’ . . . means that there is a strong desire (lust) to wander or travel. Yep. Compound word.” And I took a satisfied sip of my wine, completely destroying any hope of reviving the romantic ambiance of the setting.
[I’m sure he just wanted to flick me away like a piece of lint from his sport coat!]
“WONDERlust just doesn’t make any sense at all,” I continued, “that would mean a strong desire to wonder. . . . like ‘Oh my gosh! I REALLY have this huge urge to think about something . . . I’m lusting for wonder! Do you get it? ‘Wonderlust’ isn’t a word at all!”
Luckily, Elian arrived at just the right time with our amuse bouche which halted any further discussion on word derivation. Instead, I took the opportunity to segue into words adopted into English from other languages . . . just like amuse bouche and crudités. It was also at this dinner that we learned of “pre-desserts,” but there was no confusion on that meaning at all . . . we were fully aware that eating a pre-dessert is just code for eating the first of two desserts, and we welcomed that concept wholeheartedly.
The second instance of word confusion occurred the following day. We had been served such rich and lavish gourmet meals since our arrival, so I felt compelled to dial back on the food and calorie intake, at least for breakfast and lunch. After holing out on eighteen at Wairiki Golf Course, we ordered a cold drink from the snack counter . . . Carl decided on a Scotch and water and I chose an iced coffee. I gasped when the waitress served my drink! Instead of a tall glass of cold black coffee poured over ice cubes, I was presented with a large soda fountain glass full of thick vanilla ice cream topped with a few coffee beans and a fluffy cloud of whipped cream. A straw stuck straight up from the thickness. If I’d wanted a Venti Caramel Macchiato, I’d have ordered one!
“Excuse me,” I said to the waitress full of wonderlust, “I didn’t order a milkshake. I asked for iced coffee.”
“I know,” she confirmed, “that’s what that is . . . iced coffee!” and she turned on her heels and padded away.
There, directly in front of me, sat my entire calorie allotment for the day! Apparently “iced coffee” in New Zealand means “MILKSHAKE!” This was confirmed this afternoon when talking to a young staffer from Massachusetts manning the snack shop at Cape Kidnappers.
“You won’t beLIEVE this,” I said to her as I explained my iced coffee story.
“Oh, ya,” she said, “when I first got here, I ordered a smoothie down in town. You know, a smoothie has berries, fruit juice and yogurt in it, right? Maybe some protein powder, too! Well . . . I got berries blended in vanilla ice cream, so basically I got a milkshake, too!”
Just then, one of her co-workers (a Kiwi) passed by.
“Hey, Trevor,” she called, “what’s in an iced coffee?”
“Vanilla ice cream, coffee beans and whipped cream,” he answered.
“O.K., so then, what’s in a smoothie?” she continued.
“Vanilla ice cream and berries of some sort, I suppose, and whipped cream.
“O.K., then what’s in a milkshake?” she asked again.
“Ice cream and milk . . oh! and whipped cream!” he answered, like we should already know all of these things.
“Then . . . what’s the difference between an iced coffee, a smoothie and a milkshake?” we asked in unison, wondering why he didn’t see why we were confused.
“I guess nothin’, actually,” he said as he wandered off to more important things.
Another instance of language nuance occurred with our caddy. Grant offered to take our picture out on the sixteenth tee which overlooks steep cliffs and Hawkes Bay in the background. He told us of an instance where a golfer for whom he caddied remarked at the beautiful vista as he pointed out to the ocean.
“The vista?” Grant queried as he stared out into the ocean.
“Ya! The vista!! Just LOOK at it! It’s spectacular!”
Not understanding what he was supposed to be looking at, Grant asked, “I’m sorry, Sir, could you please point to it. I don’t see it!”
The golfer then explained that vista and view were the same thing!
A fabulous tour of the 6,600 acre Cape Kidnappers property in a Can-Am ATV got me thinking about language, nuance and the inherent problems of a universal language. There are over 4,000 sheep, 2,000 head of Angus beef, scads of rabbits and countless species of birds living on the grounds. We heard the distinctive voices of the Tuis (birds that sound like R2D2 from Star Wars) and the sea gulls and gannets. We heard the moo-ing and baa-ing of the cattle and sheep. I wonder if they, too, experience mispronunciations and shades of meaning or if they have a true universal language
6. It’s Always Something
As has been heard over and over again, “All good things must come to an end,” and so it is for this magnificent dream trip to New Zealand.
Upon checking in on-line twenty-four hours ahead of our scheduled flight time, Carl received a notice from the airline advising arrival for the long flight to LAX an extra hour ahead of the already recommended two hours due to heightened airport screening. We assumed it was probably because of the coronavirus outbreak. One of the cruise ships coming into port at Napier (the village closest to Cape Kidnappers) was possibly under quarantine, we’d heard, so it held that the airports were being extra cautious.
The domestic flight from Napier to Aukland finished without a hitch. We arrived in plenty of time, checked the luggage with no interference from Finnegan (largely because there is no security check for domestic flights), collected our golf clubs and one shared suitcase at the other end and found ourselves snaking through security for the international flight. We were so close to smooth sailing for the long last leg of our journey.
“Step over here, Ma’am,” the agent barked at me in his officious Aussie/Kiwi accent. “What’ve you got in your pockets, eh?”
“A FitBit,” I responded.
“Give it to me,” he instructed, “then pop into the cylinder right here and raise your arms up in direction with the guide on the wall.”
Alarms beeped again.
“All right, Ma’am,” he said as he handed me over to a female agent, “I’m showing four suspicious points on your body. You’re going to have a full body pat down. You can either remain here or we can escort you behind the privacy screens. Please select your option.”
I felt like I was in a SNL skit illustrating how ludicrous TSA screenings are! I had NO contraband, nothing left in my pockets except lip gloss and no reason for the full body personal pat down. I could just hear Roseanne Rosannadanna:
“It’s always somethin’,” she’d say, “if it’s not this, is that . . .!”
The female agent, I’m sure, was a WWF wrestler in her off time! She was big. She was burly. She was strong. And she was ugly!
“Stand right ‘ere, Luv. I’m gonna pat you down with me ‘ands. Don’t be wiggy ‘bout it. I’m gonna use the backs of me ‘ands.”
[As if that made me feel better! “I’m headed for the Pokey!” I thought.]
Of course she found nothing. She then pulled out a wand that looked very much like a taser, but I sort of knew it wasn’t. At least I hoped it wasn’t!
After a completely thorough wanding over my entire being, she concluded that the problem was with the zippers on my Athleta cargo pants . . . four of them! She chuckled a little, then excused me to collect my belongings at the end of the conveyer belt.
“Betcha won’t be wearin’ those trousers on another flight, eh?” she chortled as I turned my back on her and sped away.
All the while I was being frisked, Finnegan had caused another set of problems. Carl’s backpack didn’t clear the x-ray test. It was set aside behind at least ten other items that raised the eyebrows of the hyper-vigilant security agents.
“Let me guess. Finnegan again?” I asked as drolly as possible.
“It’s probably my butane lighters,” said Carl.
“Ugh!! WHY DON’T YOU JUST USE MATCHES?”
“It’s not that big a deal. Most of the time I get through!” he insisted.
“No, you don’t! You didn’t clear through at Taupo and that was just three days ago! You either don’t clear security and the lighters are confiscated OR they get stolen by the TSA guys. I just don’t understand why you don’t use matches!”
And sure enough, the two butane lighters were confiscated . . . again.
We FINALLY found ourselves parked in the Air New Zealand Lounge where we could relax and recover from our brush with the law and near incarceration into the Pokey!
Boarding began at 18:40, but who knows when THAT is?? I’m so confused, not only with the time, the time zone change (trying to figure out what time it is at home compared to what time it is in New Zealand, and temperatures in Centigrade!! WHY CAN’T WE ALL USE THE SAME . . . EITHER FAHRENHEIT OR CENTIGRADE? WHY CAN’T WE ALL USE THE SAME METHOD OF TIME? I have been doing more math on this trip than I EVER dreamed!! Converting temperature, time, money . . . Sheesh! It’s enough to give anyone a migraine headache! So many word problems!!!
Finnegan and Carl were out for a walk. I checked the boarding pass one more time and started doing my mental math.
“Boarding is at 18:40 o’clock. O.K. WHAT IS THAT???? Twelve noon, one o’clock is thirteen hundred, two o’clock is fourteen hundred, . . . . OH, NO!!!!! We’re supposed to be boarding NOW!” I gasped.
Just then Carl and Finnegan returned.
“We gotta go!” they said.
A quick look at the monitor showed Flight NZ06 “boarding now” at Gate 17 (15 minute walk).
My pace quickened from a power walk to a speed walk. I mowed people over on the walking escalators, pushed toddlers out of my way and cursed my ineptitude over calculating the time!
Another EXTRA security check of our backpacks slowed us down one more time!
“Good God!” I thought, “What could I have possibly smuggled in after Brunhilda patted me down?”
Huffing and puffing, we reached Gate 17, fully relieved that we hadn’t missed the flight. The ticket agent informed us that boarding would begin in ten minutes and that the monitor screen was in error. While we were waiting to board, we learned that everyone else there waiting was on a flight to Houston!! WE WERE AT THE WRONG GATE!!!! THE MONITOR WAS WRONG!!!!
Gate 15 was the correct access point!! We scrambled once again, arriving just in time to board the flight!!
Now that we’re seated, carry-ons stowed in the overhead bins and a glass of wine on my tray table, I can say I agree with Roseanne Rosannadanna . . . “It’s always something!”
M. Margaret West 