Follow that Sun

When we drove through the mountains from Wanaka yesterday, the skies were perfectly blue and clear and huge in every direction except one. Our destination, Mount Cook, looked like Eeyore off in the distance, shaded by rain clouds that seemed to start and end exactly at its borders.

In the hit parade of the world's scenic drives, New Zealand's Highway 8 is in a category all its own. We had no idea that the drive to Mount Cook would be so beautiful, but the region is unrelentingly breathtaking. Just as you habituate to 360 degrees of jagged, glistening, snow-covered mountains and scrape your jaw up off the floor of your rented Corolla, the road dumps you out beside the milky, celadon-green waters of Lake Pukaki. We had hoped to hike the Kea Point Trail when we got to Mount Cook, but the cloud cover only worsened. When we woke up to a solid white sky and sheeting rain, we figured we had two options: hang out at our lovely lodge, The Hermitage, or find the Sun and follow it elsewhere for the day. We chose the latter.

The sky was still grey when we left the mountain, but a faint rainbow ahead gave us hope.





And then, for the second time in a day, we reached Lake Pukaki.





We pulled off the road at least a dozen times. We snapped a few pictures, but mostly we gaped at the water. The sky looked blue toward the east, so we set our sights on Lake Tekapo.

New Zealand has just about exhausted our ability to describe various shades of blue and green. For Lake Pukaki, we settled on celadon. Lakes Wanaka and Hawea are indisputably azure. Lake Tekapo is turquoise. Backlit turquoise.














We enjoyed our walk at Lake Tekapo, but we decided to leave ourselves enough time for the Kea Trail, just in case Mount Cook's personal rain cloud lifted. As we approached the turnoff to the mountain, though, the sky darkened and strong winds jolted the car (and the trees) from side to side.




If the sun shines for us tomorrow morning, we'll stay long enough for that short trail. If it doesn't, then we're off bright and early to Oamaru and its many penguins.

Location:Terrace Rd,Mt Cook National Park,New Zealand

Mount Cook, Day One

Location:Terrace Rd,Mt Cook National Park,New Zealand

Open letter

Dear New Zealand,

Glad to be here. Love your snowy mountains, your endless deserted beaches, your not-that-bad-actually sauvignon blanc, your amusingly-named waterways, and your friendly citizens. So how 'bout you consider springing for two lanes on a few more of your bridges? Just a suggestion.

Wanaka. It rhymes with Hanukkah.

We left Franz Josef after a night of pounding rain. When we reached Fox Glacier, about 30 km south of Franz Josef, the clouds were low and threatening. We drove up the short gravel road to the glacier lookout, stepped out, snapped a few photos of the nearly-invisible glacier, and hopped back in the car.


We drove south along the west coast through alternating periods of rain, mist, and gloom. If there were any spectacular views of the nearby mountains, they were obscured by clouds and fog. We stopped briefly at the Munro Beach track, but the time of day, the tide, and the weather conspired against us and we had no hope of spotting the Fjordland Crested Penguins that occasionally emerge from the surf.




So we drove on, stopping for gas and a dispiriting search for a healthy lunch in the scruffy little town of Haast. When we reached the lone cafe, the only thing on the menu that wasn't battered and deep fried was the spaghetti sandwich. New Zealand has fresh, innovative food at the high end, but at the fringes, it's thoroughly old school British. After a greasy pub meal the night before, we just couldn't handle it. We opted for an apple and some crackers in the car instead. We were getting a little grumpy.

Then we turned east and followed the Haast River valley up and over Haast pass. Although we drove through a snow-covered landscape for a few miles, the roads were clear and - as we've experienced throughout our trip so far - mostly deserted.



Within a few miles of the summit of the pass, it was clear that we'd passed from the tropical luxuriance (and near constant rain) of the west coast into a drier, sparer environment. The snow peaks surrounding us were no longer choked with vegetation - instead, long expanses of open range land were interspersed with occasional copses of trees. A Great Basin-type landscape, if you ignore the occasional stand of giant cabbage trees.

The unrelenting overcast thinned, shattered, and bright sunshine beamed down as we zoomed down the empty road. We found ourselves driving beside an enormous, deep blue lake, utterly empty for as far as the eye could see. Lake Wanaka, which stretches for over 40 km in length and over 10 km at its widest point. Looking at that enormous, empty body of water, I was reminded of Pyramid Lake in Nevada.


A quick left turn of the road and suddenly an entirely new vista presented itself to us: Lake Hawea lies in a glacier-carved valley parallel to Wanaka. It's not as large as Wanaka, but even more spectacular, with jagged, snow-covered peaks surrounding all but its narrow southern end. Under the sunny skies, the water in Lake Hawea was as blue as I've ever seen at Crater Lake. We stopped several times to gawk at the spectacular landscape.






We rolled down from the mountains and into the busy resort town of Wanaka. Our motel room (more on this later-- motels are a whole 'nother thing here) is typical NZ style: spacious, squeaky clean, and perfectly comfortable - and outside our back door, there's a narrow, rushing stream full of absolutely enormous trout.





After exploring Wanaka, which is a ski town through and through in the winter, we found a great little Indian place for dinner. We settled in by the fire with a bottle of Otago "Misha's Vineyard" Riesling, and raised a glass to our delicious curries-- which were neither battered nor deep fried.

That bottle of Riesling prompted us to add a detour through Otago to tomorrow's drive to Mount Cook. Riesling is often dismissed as sweet and unserious by casual wine lovers, but among hardcore oenophiles, it's treasured as the finest, most transparent in character, and longest-aging white wine in the world. The best examples usually come from Germany, Alsace, and Austria. We've yet to find a New World Riesling that can compete on quality or price with a $20 Mosel Kabinett, but the bottle we had last night hinted at a strong effort to do precisely that.

Off to Otago to test that idea.

Location:Upton St,Wanaka,New Zealand

Pancakes

Monday. Lazy, scenic, sunny. We drove southwest from Nelson to Punakaiki, and saw pretty things along the way.

We stopped at a honey farm smack dab in the middle of nowhere, and picked up a few jars of potent Manuka honey. Manuka honey is prized by granola-types for its antibacterial properties. We just like that it's kind of minty.

We stopped at the Tua Dellaca Reserve, where Little Blue Penguins emerge at sunset.













We got to the Pancake Rocks at almost-high tide, and watched the surf pound against and in between massive, striated limestone formations.























And we made a donation. A couple of days before I left Portland, our dear friend Eve gave me two one-dollar bills for my cosmic protection. "Donate one in New Zealand," she explained. "And donate the other when you return." Eve suggested I hand the first dollar off to a New Zealand hobo, but we haven't seen one. We saw a shoeless backpacker, but based on the rest of his attire, we're pretty sure it was an affectation and not actual poverty. Anyway, I was very happy to see this display at Punakaiki.







Eve, the first part of our mission is complete, and we love you madly for wanting to keep us safe.

After our brief visit to the Pancake Rocks, we backtracked up the coast to a trail called the Truman Track. We timed our visit so that we'd get to the beach-- another one where the elusive Little Blue Penguins make their home-- close enough to sunset to see them, but not so close that the jungly trail would be pitch black on our way out. We didn't see any penguins, but the beach was stunning.









Next stop: the Franz Josef Glacier.

Location:Punakaiki, New Zealand

Keep left

Much as I’ve been looking forward to our road trip in New Zealand, there’s been a nagging worry in my mind. Even as a pedestrian, my experiences in countries with left-side driving have always been slightly disorienting, and I’ve been fretting that actually navigating a vehicle down the wrong side of the road might prove to be a complete disaster.

As it’s turned out, my anticipation was worse than the reality. It’s unquestionably weird, but not at all unmanageable. As I expected, simply steering the car down the road in the left lane is pretty simple; making a right-hand turn across oncoming traffic and into the correct (far) lane, a bit more challenging. Roundabouts are relatively easy: they’re truly a mirror image of what I'm used to, and therefore pretty non-threatening.

The real challenges come from unexpected quarters. The turn signal is on the right side of the steering column, and half the time when I try to signal I turn the wipers on instead. It’s surprisingly hard to remember to look up and to the left to glance in the rearview mirror. Similarly, it feels bizarre to reach to my right for my seatbelt – if I were the passenger, that movement would be totally natural, but as driver? It’s strange. Driving in reverse is way trickier than it seems it should be. And frankly, I can’t even get my head around how one would go about parallel parking.

Fortunately, New Zealand roads in mid-winter don’t see a lot of traffic, and all our parking has been nose-in. Drivers are pleasantly patient and courteous, and as long as I pay close attention to what I’m doing, I seem to manage. Now, if we can just get Melissa to move to the LEFT side of the car to get to the passenger seat…

No mo' Omo

Omo has evidently been reassigned, so tomorrow I get a different driver for my last few days here. I'm sure he'll be just fine, but come on...

Kind of bummed.

Omo

For the duration of my visit to Jakarta, I have the services of a hired car and driver. The driver’s name is Omo. His English is roughly equivalent to my Bahasa, which means we’re limited to the most rudimentary of exchanges: “Hello”, “How are you?”, and “Thank you” are about the extent of our conversations in each other’s language. Still, we’re spending a few hours per day together in traffic, so I like to imagine that ours is a companionable silence.

Omo is a remarkably skillful and aggressive driver – in this traffic-clogged city, he has to be. I’ve cringed as we squeeze through inches-wide gaps in traffic, always accelerating to find the next empty bit of pavement. The sheer volume of traffic here is mind-boggling: at rush hour, it seems that virtually every bit of road surface in Jakarta is occupied by smoke-belching buses, taxis, private cars, motorcycles, and three-wheeled bajaj vehicles.

Coming from the relatively placid and structured environment of the US, the free-wheeling approach to driving here is disconcerting: it looks like complete pandemonium, but after a couple of weeks of exposure, it’s clear to me that there’s an intricate dance performed on the streets here. To be successful requires equal measures of bravado and humility – you are expected to dart for the open space, but you must yield when someone faster, braver, or larger gets there first. Drivers in Jakarta aren't talking on their phones, drinking coffee, or applying makeup - they're driving. It's serious, all-consuming activity that requires way more concentration and skill behind the wheel than most Americans ever demonstrate.

The motorbikes just kill me (and often, I expect, themselves). Most riders are young, and often ride two or even three per scooter. Virtually every rider wears a helmet, but that seems scant protection against tons of metal as they squeeze through momentary gaps in the cars. Sometimes when traffic is really jammed, motorbike riders bypass the crowd by riding in the oncoming lane – it’s not uncommon to see a solid stream of riders roaring head-on against traffic.

Omo weaves through all of it, shifting, braking, frequently honking – not in anger, simply as a signal that he’s coming through. He drives as if he alone has a universal right of way, and he is merely reminding others of that fact. It works astoundingly well. For Omo, there are no stop signs, and the only red lights that count are the ones with policemen directing traffic beneath them. It’s rare that he elicits any emotion – driving is what he does, and traffic is where he does it. Mostly he concentrates, rapidly evaluating the shifting stream of vehicles that surround us, and constantly changing, re-calculating, reacting and dancing through the crowded streets. It’s impressive – he is very good at what he does.

When he drops me off, our mutual lack of language is most pronounced. We simply say “OK”. Until tomorrow.

The Morning Commute

We are in a traffic jam, duh. Suddenly, while we aren't even moving, there's a slight jolt and a scraping sound. Someone just bumped into us! It's amazing it doesn't happen more frequently. Anyway, Omo gets out, checks the situation (clogging traffic even more), then climbs back in, smiling. Summoning the extent of my Bahasa, I ask him "Bagus?" (Good?) To which Omo waits a beat, stretches his English as well, and replies "Woman."

The new, improved, road less traveled

For the past several days we’ve been driving through France, by our choice mostly on the vast network of secondary roads that constitute the “scenic” route. Formerly, such an itinerary would have been composed equally of preparation, acrimonious map-interpretation sessions, and frequent episodes of being completely and utterly lost. Frustration, stress, and confusion would have competed with (and frequently triumphed over) the joys of being off the beaten path.

Not so much this time. Our rental car has a GPS system and that, as Robert Frost said, has made all the difference. In a thousand kilometers (so far) of blue highways, we’ve been mis-directed a couple of times, but we’ve really never been lost and only rarely have we not been precisely where we need to be. I’ve impulsively veered onto single-track roads that led to scenic villages or panoramic vineyards, and no matter what hairbrained driving notion I entertain, no matter how many wrong turns I make, the GPS system patiently and effectively guides me back to where I need (or want) to be.

We navigated our way out of the maze that is Charles de Gaulle airport and headed unerringly to our first stop in Reims. We navigated tiny village lanes en route to visit vignerons in Champagne and Burgundy. We drove to our current location – a tiny village in the south of France – without a single missed turn, without a single moment of hesitation.

This is the transformational power of technology. I’m thousands of miles from home, driving down a narrow road in the Luberon, and my position is being tracked by a half dozen or more satellites. A disembodied female voice tells me which exit to take from every roundabout, when to bear left or right, and even directs me away from construction zones and traffic jams. The map on my dashboard not only displays the road I'm on, it shows the even smaller roadways I pass while I'm joyriding through the middle of French nowhere.

The technology isn't perfect, but it's amazingly close: on one or two real cowpath routes we've taken, the GPS has gotten confused. And sometimes there are new roundabouts or other road features that the software doesn't recognize. But the overwhelming majority of the time, it's almost creepy how accurate the technology is.

I can't over-emphasize how incredibly cool this all is. We love road trips, but the typical price for automotive impulsiveness is a lot of extra effort expended on getting un-lost. No more. It's liberating to follow a road simply because it looks interesting, and all the while feel confident that we will still find our way to our next planned stop.

Tomorrow we're navigating a circuitous path from here on the edge of Provence, up through the Alps and into Italy. I've tested a half dozen alternate routes, even seen driver's-eye views of the roads on Google maps - another astounding bit of technology - and I've plugged in my choice. Tomorrow, I'll literally be guided on every turn from this flyspeck French village to an equally obscure Italian town - and the only wrong turns I'll make will be the ones I choose.

The miracle of the iPod

Is the sibling car-fight a thing of the past?

We're off

We got a late start this morning, but we're on our way. The sun is shining, the lattes are foamy, and Caroline is reading a story about polar bears to us.

Life is good.

True Economy

We leave for Los Angeles on Saturday, 6/28. My task this morning was to find lodging along the I-5 for two nights on the way down, and one on the way back. How is it possible that every dump in Bakersfield costs three times as much as our top-rated B&B in Buenos Aires? 

With three nights at hotels, food, $4.50/gallon gas, and a conservative estimate of 22 MPG, the road trip portion of our summer vacation will cost about $800. That's still half the cost of flying. 

Even if it were a false economy to drive, it's become our tradition. We love to stop for gas in Yreka, where we pick up a State of Jefferson brochure so that we can mock the nutty secessionists. We stop at Granzella's for olive-themed souvenirs and a bathroom break every time. We have lunch at In-N-Out every day. The burgers are always yummy, the french fries always suck, and we always regret letting the kids order thousand-calorie milkshakes. Daniel still talks about the chandeliers at the godawful Red Lion in Redding where we stayed in 2005. Caroline still talks about the time we bumped into a teacher from her school at a bagel place north of Sacramento in 2006. We never get sick of the first, glorious glimpse of Shasta Lake when we cross into Northern California, and we always agree that when the kids are a little older, we'll have to stop at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival on the way back home.

-Melissa