Fat Joan's House and Further...

In my beaten vehicle, I pushed forward from Blenheim, moving from East Coast to West. My destination was Collingwood, New Zealand, a small town in the area of Golden Bay described as being “at the edge of the world” by the more comprehensive guides. I was headed that way to experience a horse trek run by a company that made trips along the Farewell Spit, a sliver of beachfront land that sat at the base of amassed mountains and reached far out into the ocean beyond. Everyone raved about the Cape Farewell riding adventure. Galloping atop the mountains, the views were stellar. Down on the beaches, the backdrop breathtaking. A sucker for a good romp on horseback to begin with, I made it my business to get myself to Collingwood.

After numerous unsuccessful attempts to secure a room, I exchanged emails with a woman named Joan who owned a “B&B” called Skara Brae. It wasn’t my ideal choice of lodging if the website photos proved telling, but it was one night’s accommodation and I would have to make due. While New Zealand offers plenty of range in terms of accommodation, it’s the ubiquitous B&B that often can trip up even the most discerning traveler. Due to the upsurge of the tourist industry, many homeowners with extra bedrooms will apply for a permit to declare their home a viable Bed and Breakfast facility. The process is simple and, at the end of the day, it brings in an extra income. The high-season tourist, hard-pressed to secure last-minute bookings, is the B&B scam’s easiest prey.

Arriving at the Skara Brae, I realized I was (almost) their next B&B victim. As I stood in the open arched doorway of what was quite obviously someone’s home and called out, I was greeted to the sight of an obese, thin-haired woman in a mu-mu type nightgown elbowing the heft of her body off of a twin bed in an outward facing room. Getting her balance, she poured out into the hallway in which I now stood. “Can I help you?” she asked, clutching a gossip magazine at her bosom. Looking around the “B&B” I almost didn’t want to respond. I was standing in someone’s living room, full of clutter and personal affects, none of which were a necessary visual inclusion in my tourist dollar rate. Stacks of magazines and old newspapers outlined the perimeter of the room. Laundry racks displayed a recent load of laundry. The shaggy carpets were coated with dust and dog hair, the kitchen sink was piled with dirty plates. A stale odor hung in the air. I swallowed. Hard. “I’m here for my room. I’m Marie. One person, one night. We emailed yesterday.” Without as much as a blink, my slobby hostess met my gaze, “I’m sorry, I think you’re mistaken. We’re full for the night.”

Both panic and relief hit me at the same time. Panic, for where else would I stay!? I had queried all the other establishments in the town of 200 residents. Relief in the happy glee of NOT having to put roots down in this shithole for more than this particular moment, here at the kitchen table. But, ever the New Yorker, I reacted. Poorly. “Um, excuse me? I have your email right here,” I spit back, part because of the mix-up, part because the filth seemingly justified a harsher reply. I flipped through my Treo (which has since died) to pull up her email. My proof of HER error. She wasn’t apologetic, barely responsive, when she said, “Oh, I think I remember. Well, heavens, I’ve made a mistake. I’ll call around and see if anyone can take you in. But, you know,” she admonished, “it’s high season now.” I was furious even though I was loath to stay within a five-mile radius of her little establishment. “Yes, Joan. I’m aware it’s high season, that’s part of my anger. I wonder how you’ll be able to rectify this situation. As you do know, you will have to rectify it. I’ve driven over 350 kilometers today, because of your room confirmation in my inbox, not to mention on my credit card. I do hope you’re planning to fix this.” Bad Marie was boring holes in Fat Joan’s nightgown with her eyes, as she clumsily dialed proprietor after proprietress in a forced effort to find me a place to stay. No dice.

Fighting back tears -- accident yesterday, homeless today -- I sat down at her stained kitchenette, tired and exasperated. Then, lightning struck! “Oh, wait,” said Fat Joan. “The Lewis House. It’s around the corner. They’re not technically open yet, but they’re opening next week. Maybe they can take you in. It’s REALLY nice. Much nicer than here.” Right, a horse stable would be nice than here. Unable to do more than agree, I asked her to point my in the direction of The Lewis House. I’m completely aware of the fact that I didn’t thank Fat Joan on my way out.

I’ve come to believe that things happen for a reason, as The Lewis House was a small blessing. A brand-new, 3-bedroom house with separate studio-unit out back, this true B&B would open next week to a more formal level of accommodation. For now, Sarah the owner was happy to hone her hosting skills on me. A lovely Hamptons-esque split-level facing the beach, Sarah gave me the studio unit for the same price that fat Joan was charging me. She stocked the kitchen with food for breakfast, supplied bath products, and offered me a wholly flexible check-out time AFTER my trek. Further, she seemed genuinely elated to have me stay there. Her home was up the hill, so I basically had a house to myself in Collingwood for the bargain basement price of $100NZD (about $70 US). A beautiful place, I can guarantee The Lewis House, on opening, will forever be packed. As it should be.

As I settled into the ONE establishment in the town for dinner, The Courthouse Café, I was joined by an Irish "bloke" and his girlfriend who were curious about my damaged car. Shocker. Jonathan and Kasey followed me from the Skara Brae to The Lewis House, settling in one of the upper rooms. My B&B roomies for the night, if you will. Of course, as travel would have it, they were from Queens. Both bartenders in New York City, we had dinner together, ultimately sharing too many bottles of vineyard wine and closing down both the Courthouse Café and the town of Collingwood. I shared with them my driving woes, they shared with me their own – picking up a hitchhiker, which became two when they actually stopped for the first one. Hitchhiking is commonplace in New Zealand, Kasey and Jonathan thought they’d do a karmic duty by helping one out. The stench of the guys they picked up taught them a fragrant lesson…

I barely dragged myself out of bed the next morning for my horseback ride along the Farewell Spit. It rained the whole time I galloped with Bridgette, the guide, along the ridges of the mountains, through meadows of sheep and cattle, and down seaside inclines. The views were non-existent, the air chilly and the tides too high to ride down onto the beach, but that morning ride was one of the high points of my trip. Of course, as I dismounted none of it mattered. For all the downsides of Collingwood, the upsides -- the triumph of getting there in one piece, the randomness of the night, the new friends I made, all while being at “the edge of the world,” -- were quietly liberating. I’m not sure when I’ll get back to Golden Bay, but if I do, I doubt the ultimate experience will top this one.

Of course, the sun shone brightly as I made my way away from Collingwood back the way that I came, through the towns of Kaiteriteri Beach (easily the most beautiful beach I’ve seen yet) boasting the famous Split Apple Rock and Motueka. The day’s end brought me through Rabbit Island (another beautiful beach) and into the quiet town of Nelson for one last night in the South Island. In the morning, I’d headed to Picton, the South’s northern port, giving my poor little Mazda back to the Europcar attendants (“Well, good on ya! That’s the worst we’ve seen in a while, love.”) and ferried across the Marlborough Sounds, passing schools of frolicking dolphins and surfacing whales (finally, my whale sighting!), to the North Island’s capital city, Wellington.

Wellington, a bland, windy city, was the base for the North Island’s first two nights. There I devised a game plan, a loose itinerary for the next 10 days. With the help of an old Harper colleague’s Kiwi friend Lisa, I decided my route and was given the grand tour of the city, from the highs of Mount Victoria by moonlight to the sea level swishes of the surrounding bays. On the second day, I sampled the city’s many coffee houses on Cuba Street, wandered the pretty botanical gardens, discovered some talented modern Kiwi artist named Judy Millar at the City Gallery and played flirty hide and seek games with a handsome Spaniard named Eddie through the exhibits of the Te Papa National Museum. Bored with Kiwi history, we retired to an afternoon of getting-to-know-you on the wharf that led to dinner in the center and promises of tapas crawls in Barcelona and lounge hopping in Manhattan one day in the question mark of a future that travelers talk about.

Now I’m firmly ensconced in the quite different feel of New Zealand’s North Island. It, so far, doesn’t compare to the South Island’s natural beauty, but I still have hope. After all, luck doesn’t seem to be on my side in New Zealand, but nevertheless, it’s been non-stop enjoyment. So, I have confidence I’ll be back on this page, extolling the North’s splendors soon.

Until…

~M

5, 4, 3, 2...

New Zealand.
Wow. Wow. Wow.

I know that seems an elementary description, but there’s no way that I can adequately do written justice to the plentiful natural beauty of New Zealand. Sure, I’ve seen a lot of stunning landscapes over the last eighteen months, but New Zealand’s South Island is like nothing I’ve visually experienced before. It’s not one or two stops that embody a worthwhile landscape, one or two “must-dos” in a list of other tourist destinations. ALL of New Zealand is worth seeing because every part, big town or small town, mountain or valley, lakefront or oceanfront, is breathtaking.

My first stop was Queenstown, in the south of the South Island. My plan over the next three weeks was to spend about two weeks on the South Island (hailed the better of the two) and one on the North Island. Everyone who had come to New Zealand before me, as well as every article I read on New Zealand suggested renting a car and driving the country. Not only would I be on my own schedule (buses run infrequently here), but I’d get to see much more of this glorious place than I would depending on public transport. But I’d be alone. Safe? Worthwhile? I decided yes. I loved driving, period. This couldn’t be anything but a good decision. So, upon arriving at the airport, I approached all the rental desks only to be told that ALL cars on the South Island were in use (is that possible?) and it was unlikely I’d be able to secure a car at all during my time in the country. No. Unacceptable answer. I had decided on the drive, I HAD TO drive, so I tasked my concierge, an able porter named Mike who, while schlepping my bags to my room, reminded me three times that he was “also the concierge.” “Mike the concierge, please find me a car, then.” To which he responded, “No worries, mate. I’ll get it done.”

Queenstown is, from what I saw, an Interlachen for adults. Most of my friends have been to Interlachen on the post-college Europe trip. For those who haven’t, Interlachen is the Swiss chalet town that functions on ski season tourism in the winter and lake district adventures in the summer. Queenstown is similar. But, oh-so-much-better. Lying on Lake Wakatipu and surrounded by the Remarkables mountain range, Queenstown is a gorgeous valley of a small, buzzing town hawking every kind of adventure sport under the sun: kayaking, white-water rafting, jetboating, 4-wheel driving, scenic-flying, skydiving, paragliding, canyoning, and, of course, bungee jumping. The original home of the bungee at Kawarau Bridge, there are now two other jump sites, as well as bungee swings that combine the freefall of bungee with the adrenaline of a mid-air swing. All frighteningly enticing…

Add to the adventure, the 200+ bars and restaurants in the tiny little area, there’s little time to want for things to do in Queenstown. Stores sell outdoor clothing, equipment, and supplies. Every café/restaurant/storefront also books day tours. So as you’re drinking your latte and devouring your eggs on toast, you’re also contemplating which combination of daredevil trips will merit your attention. Likely, you can just have the waitress add it onto your bill. It’s big business here in Queenstown, but it works. On my first night, after merely sitting baffled on the square deciding my vices for the next few days as I poured over the requisite brochure reading from various outlets, I met James and J---- (I never got his name, and when three days later, we were all still hanging out, I couldn’t ask…) who kept me busy sampling different pubs each night, and 4WD’ing around Arrowtown (a neighboring town) by day. The Kiwis are easily the friendliest people on Earth. Yes, even more so than Aussies (if that’s possible!)

On my own, without the J-boys, I did a Fly-Cruise-Fly to the Milford Sound, which is actually a fjord NOT a sound and an awesome example of the many natural wonders in New Zealand. I flew in a Cessna over the Remarkables (yes, shotgun) to the Milford region. Fly #1. Then, I took a boat ride down the water, into the inlets, out toward Tasman Sea, then back again (remarkably similar to the Chilean-Argentine Patagonia lake crossing). Cruise. We then boarded the Cessna once again, to fly back over the snow-capped mountains before landing safely in a sunny Queenstown for the rest of the day. Fly #2. An amazing morning. Onto the Shotover Jet, a highly publicized jetboat (a quick little zipper that can do 360 degree turns) excursion that ran down the gorge filled Shotover River. A let down, not at all the thrill-ride advertised (though the Spanish couple next to me were whopping like they were doing a bungee jump, rather than a fuel-injected boat ride), but there I met a great couple from California, Ken and Iris, who figured into my later travels.

Then I headed up to the Gondola, which overlooks the city. Opting not to indulge in the Luge track and race against myself like a loser, I walked over to “The Ledge” bungee jump. There I watched jumper after jumper brave their fears, hurling themselves…gulp…off a mountain. I desperately wanted to bungee jump. How could I be in New Zealand and NOT jump? The safety record was impeccable, the rush was guaranteed, everyone lived and raved once done. I HAD to do it. But each day I put it off, finding another activity to keep me busy, even preferring to sit on park benches reading, munching on a burger and fries (best I’ve had in my life from a Cory suggestion, Fergburger), or people-watching. I decided that IF a rental car came through, I’d drive to the “original” bungee bridge and do it there on my way north, out of town. Authenticity of jump would be preserved and a car rental company would decide my fate. When I arrived back at the hotel that night, Europcar had phoned. They had a rental for me. It would arrive in Queenstown tomorrow. 10 AM. Yay, I had a car! I would be the New Zed (as they say) explorer I so desperately wanted to be. Shit! I had to bungee.

10 AM became 4 PM as I waited patiently reading and eating YET another burger. I know, I know, I’m on a diet after Queenstown. When they delivered my little silver Mazda, I wasn’t exactly at my most pleasant, as I would be starting a 6 hour drive in a foreign country--driving on the wrong side of the street, sitting on the wrong side of the car--at 4 PM. Meaning if I wanted to drive in daylight I had to forego my bungee jump at the Bridge. No way. I could not use the car as an excuse. So, after Mike the porter/concierge loaded me up, I set off for the Bridge.

I stood at the Bridge for over an hour, watching from various angles. I stood with photo-snapping tourists, with fellow decision-wracked compatriots, with successfully jumped adventurists. I went on the Bridge and looked down wishing that I had a friend to goad me into doing it; it’s at these moments when a travel companion would come in handy. Better though, I had to find my own courage. And, I did. When the guys on the Bridge started to shut down for the day, my moment came. I marched into the office, hands shaking, knees already buckling, and plunked down my credit card. Barefoot and ballsy, I walked out onto the Bridge to get “secured” which translates to a towel (YEP, a towel) folded and wrapped around my ankles, wound by a elastic cord, and fastened to a longer elastic cord clipped to a harness around my waist that cupped my ass. That’s it. The guys were talking to me the whole time, questions about where I was from, what I did. Stairway to Heaven was playing. Apropos, in an ironic and morbid way. I looked down when I stepped out on the platform and lost my nerve. I was asked to smile for the camera then wave to the pack of Japanese tourists with cameras at the ready down below. “I can’t do this,” I said to Will, my friendly Kiwi bungee boy, as I started to turn around. “Yes, you can, Marie. The longer you stand up here, the harder it is. You’re going to be thrilled in one minute’s time. I’m going to count back from five. Ready?” But, I didn’t get any time to be “ready,” as Will went right into the countdown. “5, 4, 3, 2…”

I didn’t hear 1. I splayed my arms out and threw myself off that bridge into the air. I have NO IDEA how I did it or what came over me at that moment. As I sailed off, mountains ahead, river below, I heard Will say, “Damn, that was an awesome dive,” to Henry, his bungee co-worker. All I know is, it was one of the most exhilarating experiences I’ve ever had. It was over before I knew it; then I was just bobbing up and down over a raging, turquoise river as my stomach flip flopped, confused by the defiance of gravity. I finally screamed, letting out all the pent-up adrenaline I had bottled inside for the past hour. A throaty, satisfied “Waaa-hooo” that echoed off the surrounding hills. Mission complete. (And, I looked good doing it!)

Back into the car, nothing could stop me from smiling all the way to Franz Josef. A feat, in and of itself, given the way the drive went… That’s a whole other story. New Zealand is turning out to be not only more beautiful, but way more interesting than expected…

More soon,

~M

PS. I got the BEST comment from a Kiwi who read my Oz blog... Check it out. I'm VERY proud....