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…
23 July 2011
Marlborough
Blenheim, at the center of the Marlborough wine-growing region, is among the warmest spots on the South Island. That said, it’s still winter here, and last night the temps approached freezing. High overcast on Saturday morning revealed snow on the mountains that surround the Wairau River valley that is the heart of the Marlborough region. We avoided the early morning chill through the simple strategy of staying in bed until it was really late. We put together a do-it-yourself breakfast with silky, free-range chicken eggs with yolks the color of mangos, toast with home-made grapefruit-lemon marmalade and quince jelly, some fresh OJ, and coffee. Delicious.
Thus fortified, we packed up and headed out for a short round of wine-tasting. Let it be noted that we know virtually nothing about New Zealand wines beyond the fact that they’ve managed to make sauvignon blanc drinkable – a not insignificant accomplishment. Nevertheless, when in Rome…
We made three stops, all within a few kilometers of our B&B. At each winery, we were offered a similar lineup: a sparkling wine, Sauvignon Blanc, Chardonnay, Riesling, Gewürztraminer, and Pinot Noir. Also at each winery, we were the only visitors on this winter Saturday. In summer, crowds are three and four deep at the tasting bar, but wine-tasting is evidently a summer sport here in New Zealand. We ended up buying a classic Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc at our first stop, a slatey bottle of Riesling at the second, and a bargain-basement Pinot Noir at the third stop.
The Marlborough region is remarkably compact: perhaps 15 km from east to west, and half that from north to south. Grapes are planted on the valley floor as well as surrounding slopes, mixed with pasture land and the occasional copse of evergreens. In mid-winter, it feels and looks not unlike the Willamette Valley, although the surrounding mountains are considerably higher and more rugged.
One thing we enjoyed (and which was certainly a result of our off-season visit) was the casual friendliness we encountered at each stop. It amuses me that our accent throws Kiwis off: they don’t immediately peg us as Americans and typically ask where we’re from. Without exception, people have shown a charming (and justifiable) pride in their country and seem genuinely pleased that we’re visiting. I don’t doubt that in the midst of summer tourist season, that natural friendliness gets strained, but in the doldrums of mid-winter, New Zealanders’ inherent hospitality is on full display.
Thus fortified, we packed up and headed out for a short round of wine-tasting. Let it be noted that we know virtually nothing about New Zealand wines beyond the fact that they’ve managed to make sauvignon blanc drinkable – a not insignificant accomplishment. Nevertheless, when in Rome…
We made three stops, all within a few kilometers of our B&B. At each winery, we were offered a similar lineup: a sparkling wine, Sauvignon Blanc, Chardonnay, Riesling, Gewürztraminer, and Pinot Noir. Also at each winery, we were the only visitors on this winter Saturday. In summer, crowds are three and four deep at the tasting bar, but wine-tasting is evidently a summer sport here in New Zealand. We ended up buying a classic Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc at our first stop, a slatey bottle of Riesling at the second, and a bargain-basement Pinot Noir at the third stop.
The Marlborough region is remarkably compact: perhaps 15 km from east to west, and half that from north to south. Grapes are planted on the valley floor as well as surrounding slopes, mixed with pasture land and the occasional copse of evergreens. In mid-winter, it feels and looks not unlike the Willamette Valley, although the surrounding mountains are considerably higher and more rugged.
One thing we enjoyed (and which was certainly a result of our off-season visit) was the casual friendliness we encountered at each stop. It amuses me that our accent throws Kiwis off: they don’t immediately peg us as Americans and typically ask where we’re from. Without exception, people have shown a charming (and justifiable) pride in their country and seem genuinely pleased that we’re visiting. I don’t doubt that in the midst of summer tourist season, that natural friendliness gets strained, but in the doldrums of mid-winter, New Zealanders’ inherent hospitality is on full display.
21 July 2011
Highway 1
After the morning temblor and a couple of warm lattes, we picked up our rental car and pointed ourselves north on Highway 1. Kiwis drive on the left, but Steve did a bang up job of driving us three hundred kilometers to Blenheim without incident.
For the first couple of hours, the road took us through rolling green hills with countless sheep grazing in the foreground and impossibly beautiful, snowcapped mountains in the distance. When we reached the coast, we pulled over to take a look.
There were seals everywhere, and there were only two other humans on the beach: a couple of friendly young women from Christchurch. The New Zealanders we've encountered so far have been unfailingly warm and welcoming to travelers, and are eager to learn more about our itinerary and offer advice. After chatting for a few minutes, they resumed their drive, and we got closer to the placid, puppy-like seals.
We got back in the car and resumed our trip north, but we were on the lookout for a trail that we'd read about in Oregon writer Scott Cook's book "NZ Frenzy." About a half hour later, we found it. A short, five minute walk up the hill beside the highway took us to the base of a waterfall, where a dozen young seals played in a perfect, picturesque pool.
We arrived in Blenheim, in Marlborough wine country, a little after three o'clock. We're staying at a B&B on a farm, in a converted dairy barn with chickens clucking outside our door. There are recently-laid eggs on our counter, along with slices of homemade bread, fresh butter, and the innkeeper's homemade quince jam and grapefruit-lemon marmalade.
We like it here.
For the first couple of hours, the road took us through rolling green hills with countless sheep grazing in the foreground and impossibly beautiful, snowcapped mountains in the distance. When we reached the coast, we pulled over to take a look.
There were seals everywhere, and there were only two other humans on the beach: a couple of friendly young women from Christchurch. The New Zealanders we've encountered so far have been unfailingly warm and welcoming to travelers, and are eager to learn more about our itinerary and offer advice. After chatting for a few minutes, they resumed their drive, and we got closer to the placid, puppy-like seals.
We got back in the car and resumed our trip north, but we were on the lookout for a trail that we'd read about in Oregon writer Scott Cook's book "NZ Frenzy." About a half hour later, we found it. A short, five minute walk up the hill beside the highway took us to the base of a waterfall, where a dozen young seals played in a perfect, picturesque pool.
We arrived in Blenheim, in Marlborough wine country, a little after three o'clock. We're staying at a B&B on a farm, in a converted dairy barn with chickens clucking outside our door. There are recently-laid eggs on our counter, along with slices of homemade bread, fresh butter, and the innkeeper's homemade quince jam and grapefruit-lemon marmalade.
We like it here.
Aftershock
An hour ago, I woke up with Steve's arm around me, rolling me back and forth. When I reached back and tried to steady him, he assured me that he wasn't doing anything-- it was just an earthquake.
And so we fell back asleep.
Here's the scoop: 5.1 Aftershock Shakes Canterbury
And so we fell back asleep.
Here's the scoop: 5.1 Aftershock Shakes Canterbury
20 July 2011
Chch
"More British than Britain."
Travel guide writers love to toss that phrase around, and it annoys the crap out of me. Nuwara Eliya, Sri Lanka? More British than Britain. Victoria, Canada? More British than Britain. Christchurch, New Zealand? More British than Britain. What does that even mean? Do the residents of these cities have afternoon tea twice a day? Are their teeth extra crooked? I understand the image those writers want to evoke, but I don't like it. Cities like Victoria and Christchurch may have some elements of British character, but they're unique places that reflect their own climates, geographies, and native heritages. When you're on an island in the North Pacific, surrounded by orca pods and conifers, hanging flower baskets on the street lamps doesn't make the place more British than Britain. / end rant.
We wandered around Christchurch (Chch to the locals) for a few hours today to try to get a feel for its character. We strolled along the River Avon, walked down residential side streets, and peeked into yards to see what grows here. For every hulking Victorian home with towering weeping willows, there are three or four beachy cottages framed only by dwarf citrus trees laden with ripe fruit. Every home, no matter how grand or ordinary, shares one unfortunate feature: an inspection certificate on the front door to let the owners know whether or not they're allowed back in.
The red zone in the middle of Christchurch-- the area that used to be the city's central business district-- is completely off limits. We toured the neighborhood on the red zone's periphery, where at least half the buildings show serious damage to their exteriors, and many others are uninhabitable because of structural damage that's not visible to passersby. And it's not just the buildings. The sidewalks are cracked and twisted.
The spring '11 quake was smaller in magnitude than the one that hit Christchurch the previous fall, but its location and depth-- it was very close to the surface-- made it far more devastating. It's interesting to see what survived the shaking. There's crumbled brick everywhere-- no surprise there-- but there are perfectly intact old leaded glass windows in many buildings that were otherwise damaged. The entire city is a construction zone, and although there's been plenty of disorganization and delay, the government hopes to make lemonade here. They're going to demolish the severely damaged structures across from the river, and build a scenic park in its place.
Most stores and restaurants have had to close, so the few that are open are packed. The manager at our hotel made a dinner reservation for us, because he was concerned that on this random Thursday night, we wouldn't be able to find a table, even at a brew pub.
There's not much to do or see in Chch these days, but it was important to us to visit. Why? We're figuring that out as we type. The earthquake, not unlike the bigger one that struck Japan a month later, changed a major city in a major way. It's a reminder that things that seem permanent-- both manmade things like ancient buildings, and natural things like the shapes of mountains or coastlines-- are only permanent until they're not. And if the destruction is scary, the reconstruction is a reminder that people rebuild and recover, and life goes on. So we wanted to see Christchurch for the same reason we wanted to visit the World Trade Center site in 2004. Newspapers bombard us with images of falling towers and cathedrals, but they don't always show us what comes next. They don't always show us the way people learn to cope, or the way communities come together to build something stronger and safer than what they lost.
So I guess we came to Christchurch for the lemonade.
Travel guide writers love to toss that phrase around, and it annoys the crap out of me. Nuwara Eliya, Sri Lanka? More British than Britain. Victoria, Canada? More British than Britain. Christchurch, New Zealand? More British than Britain. What does that even mean? Do the residents of these cities have afternoon tea twice a day? Are their teeth extra crooked? I understand the image those writers want to evoke, but I don't like it. Cities like Victoria and Christchurch may have some elements of British character, but they're unique places that reflect their own climates, geographies, and native heritages. When you're on an island in the North Pacific, surrounded by orca pods and conifers, hanging flower baskets on the street lamps doesn't make the place more British than Britain. / end rant.
We wandered around Christchurch (Chch to the locals) for a few hours today to try to get a feel for its character. We strolled along the River Avon, walked down residential side streets, and peeked into yards to see what grows here. For every hulking Victorian home with towering weeping willows, there are three or four beachy cottages framed only by dwarf citrus trees laden with ripe fruit. Every home, no matter how grand or ordinary, shares one unfortunate feature: an inspection certificate on the front door to let the owners know whether or not they're allowed back in.
The red zone in the middle of Christchurch-- the area that used to be the city's central business district-- is completely off limits. We toured the neighborhood on the red zone's periphery, where at least half the buildings show serious damage to their exteriors, and many others are uninhabitable because of structural damage that's not visible to passersby. And it's not just the buildings. The sidewalks are cracked and twisted.
The spring '11 quake was smaller in magnitude than the one that hit Christchurch the previous fall, but its location and depth-- it was very close to the surface-- made it far more devastating. It's interesting to see what survived the shaking. There's crumbled brick everywhere-- no surprise there-- but there are perfectly intact old leaded glass windows in many buildings that were otherwise damaged. The entire city is a construction zone, and although there's been plenty of disorganization and delay, the government hopes to make lemonade here. They're going to demolish the severely damaged structures across from the river, and build a scenic park in its place.
Most stores and restaurants have had to close, so the few that are open are packed. The manager at our hotel made a dinner reservation for us, because he was concerned that on this random Thursday night, we wouldn't be able to find a table, even at a brew pub.
There's not much to do or see in Chch these days, but it was important to us to visit. Why? We're figuring that out as we type. The earthquake, not unlike the bigger one that struck Japan a month later, changed a major city in a major way. It's a reminder that things that seem permanent-- both manmade things like ancient buildings, and natural things like the shapes of mountains or coastlines-- are only permanent until they're not. And if the destruction is scary, the reconstruction is a reminder that people rebuild and recover, and life goes on. So we wanted to see Christchurch for the same reason we wanted to visit the World Trade Center site in 2004. Newspapers bombard us with images of falling towers and cathedrals, but they don't always show us what comes next. They don't always show us the way people learn to cope, or the way communities come together to build something stronger and safer than what they lost.
So I guess we came to Christchurch for the lemonade.
Location:Christchurch, New Zealand
19 July 2011
18 July 2011
Blue Ice and Yellow Eyes
My friend Gene once told me that he did all his best reading in the bathroom. He joked that he wanted to build bookshelves right into the bathroom wall, because the back of the toilet was no place for books. I love Gene.
I can't say I've done all my best reading in the bathroom, but sixteen years ago, on the back of a low profile powder-puff-blue toilet, I picked up a magazine that changed my life. In the history of the universe, I bet nobody else has ever said that about an auto club publication. Westways, a free magazine for members of Southern California AAA, had a feature story about taking a road trip through New Zealand. The way to see New Zealand, the author explained, was to rent a campervan and drive. The pictures in that article showed a landscape that was green, misty, lush, and ragged-- pastoral, yet exotic and otherworldly. I decided it was the most beautiful place on Earth, which might have been presumptuous since I'd never actually been anywhere yet.
On some level, most people want to travel. To visit Paris, maybe. Or to see the pyramids in Egypt. It's often a hypothetical desire, one that's waylaid by cost, responsibilities to employers and offspring, phobias, or simply inertia. That Westways article sparked more than a hypothetical desire to see famous buildings or paintings: it made me want to stand in other places, and for at least a brief time, to be part of those landscapes.
Steve promised me that we'd go to New Zealand together, eventually, but it's ridiculously inconvenient. Our travel dollars and miles were always better spent elsewhere-- in places like Argentina and Iceland that were hurting economically and therefore very cheap to visit.
And then, New Zealand fell into our laps. Everything came together to make this trip convenient, inexpensive, and possible. I left the itinerary to Steve, but I had four requests:
1. I want to see penguins in the wild.
2. I want to sail around Milford Sound.
3. I want to put on some crampons and clomp along a glacier.
4. I want to suspend my ardent francooenophilia (coined that one myself) just long enough to taste some Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc with the winemakers.
Steve did his thing: he rolled his eyes, grumbled for ten seconds or so, and then smiled hugely at me and found a way to make it all work within the constraints of a seventeen day winter road trip.
Well, mostly. He's non-committal about the crampons.
Location:SE Salmon Ave,Redmond,United States
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