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If Melbourne is the twenty-something hipster leaping head first into the world, Sydney is the sober forty-year-old with a couple of kids, a good job and a staid outlook on life. As our terrific host at the Chalet in the Blue Mountains described it, “Melbourne has style, but Sydney has substance.”

It is hard not to fall in love with both cities.  They affect my outlook the way music can set a mood.  Crank up Ed Sheeran and I’m poppin’ off like a teenager in love for the first time (my kids will hate that image), but dial up Sting and I’m all deep, introspective sophistication.  So too, take a walk around Sydney and all I can think about is where to dine with a fine bottle of Cabernet.  Jump on the tram in Melbourne, especially St. Kilda, our current location, and I’m feeling a tall one with my homies (that would be Melissa) in a sidewalk café.  

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We’ve shared about our first sojourn in Sydney, a truly world-class city, but now we’re back in Melbourne, for the second time.  We were here for a couple of nights last week before we cruised our silver Camry into the great wide open of the Great Ocean Road.  Thanks to AirBnB, we’ve plopped our bags in a studio apartment four floors above the action in St. Kilda, a beach community about 15 minutes from the CBD – Central Business District. 

Enter our apartment through a narrow corridor that doubles as a kitchenette and you open into a spacious, sunny room with light oak floors, two six foot tall windows that look out on the Melbourne skyline, a tiny, but functional bath and a double bed plopped in the middle of the room.  Add in the twelve-foot ceilings and a small table with two chairs and I’m full on Hemingway, writing the great American novel.  The one drawback is sleep.  It’s hard to get with so much activity going on outside the window. First-world problem.

Let me step in to paint a more accurate picture. As usual, Don has done everything he can to make me comfortable. Unfortunately, that means that I got the one set of earplugs left by our AirBnB host, while Don has lain awake with the late-night bars, tram bells, and screaming mufflers on the street below (who plays an organ at four in the morning?). He says he doesn’t need earplugs, but I know better. That said, we’re getting ready to attend our first – and last? – AFL (Australian Football League) game at Marvel Stadium. Something tells me the Aussies are supportive (raucous) fans.  

Melbourne is made up of unique neighborhoods, and we have tramped from one end of this city to another. It’s been hard to find good food close by, but we zeroed in on two amazing experiences. One was a tiny creperie we stumbled upon in the CBD, the other the South Melbourne Market. At the creperie, we fell head over heels with our adorable Parisian waitress and ordered the best galette, best dessert crepe, and a small bottle of cider (it was only 5.5% and it was past noon), at her insistence. She took the plate from the table just as I was about to put my face in it and lick it. At the market, we ate fresh veggies and smoked salmon at a stall surrounded by a smorgasbord of continental cuisines. South Melbourne is a little nicer than the equally extensive Victoria market to the north, so we also enjoyed a much-needed pedicure (me) and haircut (Don).

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No one would hire us as travel guides, because we more or less “feel” our way around a big city, but it always seems to work out. Our second day in Melbourne, our peripatetic path took us through the Botanic Gardens, over to the Public Library with its newly renovated reading room and huge dome, to Federation Square for sushi and a street performance by a Cirque de Soleil acrobat who hung dangerously off a tall pole being held by four strangers he pulled out of the crowd. Having seen the signs for April’s Comedy Festival, we let a young person direct us to her two picks for the evening. One was a hilarious show, Judith Lucy vs. men, the other an improv/slapstick/burlesque show where, among other things, Don got a lap dance by a gender-fluid individual. They slapped “hugh jackman” on my shirt, but never got around to using it. Top all this off with two outdoor swims at the Aquatic Center, the crowds going wild in the (empty) stands, and we’re having fun.

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Don again.  We often start these entries on one day and finish them a few days later, as is the case now.  We packed up our stuff and left Melbourne on Easter Sunday, flying to Sydney for our last few days before returning home to Seattle for a spell. After a few rough nights of sleep in St. Kilda, arriving at our quiet, seventh floor flat in Surry Hills, Sydney and being warmly greeted by our host, Pete, felt like checking into the Ritz. I started this entry with a comparison of Melbourne and Sydney.  Now that I’m back in Sydney, I think that comparison is quite apt.  I must admit that as much as I romanticize being that young hipster plunging into the world, drinking beers at the AFL game, joining in the chorus of inebriated sing-alongs at the Irish Bar across the street, I am truly glad to be back in Sydney.

I am curious what it will feel like to walk into my own house after three months, how it will feel to sleep in my own bed.  For over 100 days, we have not stayed in the same place more than three nights.  We have not fully unpacked our suitcases. We have worn the same clothes.  For the last month, the only shoes I have worn are my tennis shoes.  For over 100 days we have not been cross with one another, moped about feeling sorry for ourselves, felt down or depressed, or worried about missing an appointment or making someone angry.  For over 100 days we have not worried about having nothing to do or too much to do. For over 100 straight days, we have held hands, kissed each other, clinked our glasses in a toast to everything and nothing, said “I love you” at odd times, and filled up our time standing witness to impossibly beautiful things to the point that virtually everything reflected something impossibly beautiful.

I have to admit that I am ready to swap out for some new clothes, but other than that, I can’t recall another time in my life that moved with such ease and grace, that was filled with such equilibrium, that felt like, and actually was, as full as it could be. 

It seems fitting to close out the first part of this sabbatical singing:

Is this the real life?
Is this just fantasy?
Caught in a landslide
No escape from reality
Open your eyes
Look up to the skies and see
I’m just a poor boy, I need no sympathy
Because I’m easy come, easy go
A little high, little low
Anyway the wind blows, doesn’t really matter to me, to me

Somewhere in Victoria, Australia

Dear Australia,

We could have had it awwwwwl, rollin’ in the deeeep. You’re older, bigger, and alright, more “built” than those wimpy Kiwis. But you can be a little, well, overwhelming. Sure, you introduced me to some nice people, but c’mon. What was up with that bartender who told me he’s never made a mojito, he “hates” them in fact, when all I said was, “what’s so grand about your “Grand Mojito”? And that news story we’ve been hearing for days about an AFL player who claims he didn’t mean to punch the other team’s player in the jaw, he was aiming for his chest? If we’re going to be a couple, it can’t all be about you. 

It’s not like I’m a princess, but a little warmth would go a long way. The long brick house that was “Arabella” stood bare of trees or bushes, like the austere mansion in “Giant.” There was no sign of life behind the curtained windows and no car parked under the carport next to it. Only us, the wind, and what we would later learn was 500 acres of cattle farm. We pulled up next to what looked like the front door, got out of the car, and stood there for a moment before one of us reached over and pushed the doorbell.  

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Innkeeper Lyn served up lovely fresh fruit and yogurt with breakfast the next morning (7:30-8:30!!) and Neil even offered to follow us to drop off our car and drive us east to the start of our hike on the Great Ocean track. But after 20 minutes of highway driving, I had to wonder why Neil couldn’t drop us at the place we had originally wanted that was closer by. What was the point of all those plowing trophies if he couldn’t get us through a little bush to the beach? Whatever. It was 22k or nothing, so I gamely tied my blue bandanna over my head like Lawrence of Arabia and hiked through your broiling scrub, finally just thinking the words my parched mouth could not form, “after three days in the desert sun, my skin began to turn red.” There’s no need to remind me that the high that day was “only” 70 degrees.

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To my point, the coast here is so inviting that busloads of tourists would rather drive the 6-hour roundtrip from Melbourne in a single day than find a place to stay. Yeah, I know. I’m actually glad about that, especially after we joined the giant amoeba making its slow way out to the viewpoint at Twelve Apostles. But it would be nice to feel a little more safe during our stay. Our bush cabin, Hideaway, basically screams “danger!” with its mounted “fire blanket,” barely potable tap water, and shower that trickles extremely hot or glacier cold. Apart from the millipede-flicking we do enjoy on the carpet, we must trust to God that there won’t be a poisonous snake waiting for us in the tall grass outside the front door. 

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Your local history is really impressive, but it’s pretty clear that the only reason you showed me it is to point out the obvious: I couldn’t hack it here. It’s not just that your ancestors are criminals, the poorest of the poor, hardened not by the petty crimes they committed back in England, but by the hard labor you consigned them to here in the “colony.” It’s that all the people who chose to come over were, to put it bluntly, crazy. So many died watery deaths, their ships foundering on the rocks that lie everywhere just off your coast. Seeing the rusted anchors still embedded in the sand on Shipwreck Beach sent chills up my spine. Only two survived out of 54 when the Loch Ard hit a reef, the rocket launchers that shot lines over the ship having proved ineffectual to save the drowning. It is, thus, an understatement to say that the ones who successfully landed here, beginning in the 1840s, were tough customers.

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At the Otway bluff, 91 meters above the sea, a lighthouse was built in 1848 of stones hewn and fitted together in a circular tower with no cement. One wife of the lighthouse keeper delivered seven of her 9 children here, removed from any doctor and relying only on the food she could grow and the supplies that were shipped and bullock-carted across the bush every six months. Even the men who surveyed the area needed three tries to find it. When they arrived, they stayed for one hour before they turned around and headed back. While I got to imagine I was Ariel calling up the storm that would drive King Alonso’s party mad with despair, I knew it wasn’t make-believe for all the people who died a few hundred yards from your forbidding shore. 

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We’d venture out for dinner in Apollo Bay, but our track record for eating out hasn’t been anything to write home about. Besides, we’d like to be back for nightfall since our innkeeper warned it’d be almost impossible to drive back in the dark. Fish ‘n chips and beer, you and your mates’ favorite food, leaves me wanting. I enjoyed the black rice, salmon dish I got the other night, but who were you reallythinking about when you laid them both on a thick bed of mayonnaise? 

No hard feelings, Australian Bush, but we’re headed back to the city. God bless your historic towns – Winchelsea, Forrest, Birregurra – as they stand up to the next vicious fire season. Your towering forests of Mountain Ash are living monuments to their resilience and courage. 

Your “possum,”

Melissa

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It’s April 17, ninety-five days into this sabbatical, or as Melissa insists we now call it, a “retreat.” She doesn’t want people to think we are on one long vacation, goofing off, doing nothing productive.  Sometimes Melissa finds it difficult to believe she deserves a vacation for as long as she wants.  She also finds it difficult to believe that I do some of my most productive work when I’m goofing off.  I’ve been goofing off for almost ten years now.  You be the judge.

We’ve planted (and that is the best word for it) ourselves in a one-bedroom cabin smack in the middle of the Otway National Forest perched between a long graceful arc of the Great Ocean Road and Antarctica.  Okay, so Antarctica is probably something like 5,000 miles across the ocean, but still, we are, by any definition, squatting at the edge of civilization. As our young innkeeper warned us when we checked in around sunset, “At night you can’t see a thing.  No, seriously, I mean you can’t see anything.”

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Melbourne may be less than three hours away, but once we wound our way off the highway into the beautiful forest of huge Mountain Ash (second tallest tree in the world) with sunlight splattering through the branches like giant drops of rain, and turned off of the tiny paved road onto a rugged wagon track winding through tall grass and thick bush before stopping at a cabin that looked as if the forest would reclaim in within the hour, all I could imagine was a scene from The Thorn Birds when the family arrives in a rundown wooden home miles from the nearest living human.  Well, Lis, we wanted a retreat. 

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We had the essentials: coffee, milk, OJ, stuff for a pasta dinner.  I did not have to set up a tent or boil our water, although our young inn keeper, in response to Melissa’s comment that the water in the cabin had a metallic taste, said, “Ya, you probably shouldn’t drink the water.  It won’t kill you, though.”  We have a cistern of sorts in the kitchen that we fill with tap water to filter it.  It would have been nice if someone had posted a sign letting us know that. 

To be fair (and honest), I love it.  The cabin is not fancy, but it is not rundown.  More importantly, I am alone with my beautiful wife in the middle of nowhere without Internet, without neighbors, without the need to wear clothes. Okay, I won’t go any further than that. Although, the romance was dimmed a bit when Melissa discovered the water pressure in the shower was somewhere between a steady leak and a trickle.  Not to mention the hot water was either scalding hot (but only for about thirty seconds) or underground spring cold.  She was a good sport about it, especially after a candlelight dinner, windows open, big gusts of wind sweeping across the bush.

Our night in the cabin feels like all of Australia, a rugged elegance, a beauty that demands caution more than an embrace.  Huge crescent beaches with rocky headlands, sheer massive cliffs and water ten different shades of blue all but dare you to plunge into the surf, but you better be a damn good swimmer if you hope to get out again.  The Great Ocean Walk winds in and out of the shade with peak-a-boo views of the ocean and coastline.  The trail is open and easy to walk, but watch out for the poisonous snakes, and after an hour, you will be desperate for even the smallest patch of shade.  On one of our walks in the Blue Mountains about a week ago, Melissa, a few steps behind me on the trail, said, apropos of nothing in that moment but relevant to everything we have experienced, “Australia: it can kill you.” 

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I do a lot of reflecting when I am in a place like this, remote, cut off, wild.  It’s not because I am some deep, introspective poet-philosopher. Think about it.  It’s dark by 7:00.  I don’t dare step outside, at least not too far.  I’ve been hiking most of the day anyway.  I can only read for so long.  (Melissa has a much better reading attention span than me).  What else is there?  Okay, there is dinner and romance, but that gets you to, say, 8:30. I end up reflecting on the things I thought about during the day.

I noticed I have been thinking about death.  Maybe it’s Australia, but I think it has more to do with The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, a book I was reading before leaving on sabbatical.  One of the reasons Sogyal Rinpoche wrote the book was to help westerners prepare themselves to face death.  I analogized his book to preparing to run a marathon.  You don’t simply show up at the start line on the day of the race. You have to train.  More importantly, however, (in fact, this is his main point) preparing to face death allows you to live more fully now.  

When I get to that point on a hike where the initial wonder of the sights along the trail has worn thin and the sun has grown hot and my feet are starting to complain, along with my knees – my knees are particularly loud complainers these days – I let my mind drift into a daydream of sorts in which I imagine I am walking the trail with people I love, showing them all this beauty as if I were their guide.  It produces a feeling not unlike the feeling of sharing really great news with a close friend.  If nothing else, it drowns out my whiny knees and feet.

More often than not, I find myself walking the trail with my parents and surrogate parents, those people who make up the thinning ceiling in my house. Imagining I am on the trail with my mom, Jack, Carol, Margaret, Fr. Paul, it is not a big brain-leap to the realization that soon I will be the ceiling in my house.  Yet, it is hard to prepare for a day in which I cannot call Jack for advice, or plan Carol’s Christmas trip to Seattle, or hear my mom say for the umpteenth time, “I love you, and God loves you.” 

In the inevitable sadness of that thought, I find myself suddenly talking to my dad who died many years ago.  I remember the time he and mom picked me up from Georgetown, driving the twelve hours in our station wagon before turning around and driving home.  Dad insisted we stop at the Outer Banks simply because he had never seen it before.  We spent one night.  Dad and I walked across the street from our roadside motel and stood on the vast expanse of beach.  

As Melissa and I crest a headland and reach a lookout, I see another crescent beach.  This one more golden than white, wilder, bigger waves and dangerous rip tides.  I hear myself saying, “So, how about this Dad?  Never seen this before.” 

The strange thing is, I was mad at my dad when he died and for very good reasons.  I stayed mad for several years, wanting to forgive and forget, but unable to find the right combination of thoughts and emotions to get me to that place.  Somewhere on one of these trails, I met my father again.

I was incorrect.  I did not need to forgive and forget.  I needed to forgive and remember.  I needed to talk to him again, to call him and tell him about everything I was experiencing.  I am not so young and naïve as to believe he hears me, and I am not so old and cynical as to think he doesn’t.  I am content to feel his presence, to hold a memory of him that is real and true and good and allows me to live more fully now.

As I said, talking about death makes us squirm.  Yet, how else could I convey to my parents and surrogate parents not only how much I love them, but how much I like having them around, even if it is only in my head?

As they say in Central America, si quiero Dios, if God wishes it, I will wander lost in a daydream with squeaky knees on many more hikes talking to people – living and dead – that I love.  And maybe, when the time comes, I’ll be ready when my trail finally gives out.  At least my knees will have nothing left to complain about.

• 

Hiking in and around, up and down, the enormous green canyon here in the Blue Mountains (in some places, it is wider than the Grand Canyon), I have watched my mind wander, happy that I am, once again, on “retreat.” Hiking gets me to this mindset faster than anything else. The ups and downs and rocky bits of trail are just challenging enough that I stay present, which is a fertile place for thoughts and discoveries. I am calm and able to let go of the negative thoughts that sneak in (less often, I find). The natural beauty – and changing light of fall – envelop us and feel like love, like God. I am grateful and full. I want to put a finer point on it, though. It’s not that we’re removed from the griefs and family members that lie heavy on our hearts. What’s different is the realization that many of the stressors in our normal life originate outside us. Hopefully this awareness can help us escape the shared psychosis. Life is hard enough without piling on unnecessary drama that takes us out of our best selves.

I’m also a slow learner. I think about all my friends who have already found ways to cozy up to beauty in their lives in Seattle. Laura always has Chopin or Bach perched on her piano stand to practice; Janey decorates so creatively and hosts warm gatherings at the shore; Cindy shares her beautiful spirit with clients to lead them to new insight; Debbie Jo carries an aura whenever she reads aloud to children; Amy quilts, cooks, builds closets and could retire to the prairie. There is plenty of inspiration for me to find additional pleasure in singing again, learning to paint, or playing music. 

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Our detox from American culture over the last 90 days continues to produce big dividends. In Seattle, the IPhone rules, distracting each of us more – or less, and reducing the number of face-to-face interactions. The first thing Don and I noticed on the train into Sydney were the heads craned down, pulled into screens. No opportunity to strike up a conversation, no sense of shared physical space. Then there is the vortex of CNN and the 24-hour Trump-obsessed news cycle. Surprisingly (maybe?), there’s no “new” American news since we got here. We know that Mueller filed his report, but only the AG has seen it. It’s not the bombshell the Democrats wanted it to be. UVA just won its first national title! With apologies to Don Lemon, do we really need to know any more?

In addition, every time I see schoolchildren, I miss my wonderful students. But my heart sinks when I think about how the open eagerness I see in my 9^th graders is hijacked by the “business” of college applications. The process starts sooner, drums up more anxiety than ever, and sidelines the point of education, which (to me) is to cultivate communities of active, curious learners and help grow young people into compassionate, socially responsible adults.

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I have enjoyed being in a different relationship to material things, personal appearance, and okay, pretty much any grooming. Living out of a carry-on puts a different spin on getting “dressed.” All the schoolchildren here wear some version of the cute blue or green-striped uniform. Likewise, I throw on my own daily uniform – whatever’s on top, and hopefully clean – lace up my shoes, brush my hair, and I’m out the door. Fear not, there is a limit to my devil-may-care attitude. When Don, the sweet man who would think I look good in a sack, tells me that I should “retire” the nondescript black pants I am wearing once I get home, I find the nearest airport bathroom, take off said pants (retrieved from the kids’ lost-and-found at home), and dispose of them handily.

Most of the time here, clothes are just clothes, and food is often, especially outside of Sydney, just (bland) food. I haven’t had my phone in 3 months and I don’t miss it. I laughed on the last day in Sydney, because I realized I’d been thinking it was an hour ahead of actual time the entire stay, because the wall clock in the apartment was wrong. Sadly, the diamond fell out of my 30-year-old engagement ring last week. I took off the ring, reported the loss to our insurance company, and surprisingly, have not once had that panicky feeling of unconsciously feeling for it and not remembering it’s gone.

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There is a sense in which Don and I are “in retreat,” fleeing from an aggressive culture that takes no prisoners. When we’re in it, we don’t realize the toll it takes. Recently, we listened to an interview with the Catholic archbishop of Sydney who gave up Netflix for Lent. There’s nothing wrong with Netflix in and of itself. I am the first to grab the latest new series. But the archbishop realized he wasn’t even focused on the shows he was watching. All entertainment is a form of escape, but he had escaped only into mindlessness. I completely related. “Mindlessness” is a poor balm for stress and distraction; how do you heal without being “mindful”? As the female Buddhist monk on this same podcast explained, the point is not to become “detached,” but “unattached.” The sloughing of layers lets in other things, such as serendipity. Don and I travel with fewer expectations (for me, a motel bathroom is “nice” if it gives me a washrag). As a result, we are bowled over by the good things that happen.

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The first place we stayed in the Blue Mountains was a sad little lodge along the main highway. Fortunately, I had only booked us there for one night, mistakenly believing we needed to be closer to the other attractions (everything here lies within a 20-minute drive). The second place I booked – where we are now – is an absolute treasure, an 1892 house lovingly restored and full of incredible artwork. One of the partners that owns it is David Middlebrook, of some renown as a contemporary Australian artist. This morning, we sat by the fire in the living room, sipping coffee and visiting as if the four of us were old friends. It’s amazing how being in someone’s home can make you feel a part of a place. We learned tidbits of local history, where to find the best walking spots, and that the abstract, geometric Aboriginal paintings on the walls are actually maps, not at all intended to be hung and displayed.

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Supposedly, Potts Point is a posh Sydney neighborhood.  Could have fooled us.  We walked past multiple backpacker hostels, a couple of boarded up retail shops and two adult entertainment houses before locating the entrance to our building.  A walk up four flights of narrow, dimly lit stairs found us opening the door to our “cozy apartment.”  It was dark and raining.  We were tired and grumpy.  After a good night’s sleep, everything looked better, including Jangling Jack’s, a tiny, hip bar just outside our building, which turned out to be a fantastic place for an Old Fashion.  Funny how sleep and bourbon can put things in a whole new light.  

We spent our first morning in the apartment looking at St. Mary’s Cathedral with glimpses of the majestic sails of the iconic Sydney Opera House and drinking (OMG) instant coffee. Note to file: someone really should explain to our friends in Australia and New Zealand the joys of real coffee, and, by the way, it’s called a “French Press” not a “plunger.”  A plunger is used on the toilet, which is where all instant coffee should be disposed off.  Instant coffee aside, our time in Sydney turned out to be a lovely agenda-less meandering from one pleasant unexpected experience to another, a kind of lazy, beautiful Sunday afternoon stretched over three great days. 

I spent our first morning figuring out how to get us back to the States before heading to France.  I know, rough life.  We should all have such problems.  Getting antsy (the instant coffee, no doubt), Melissa peppered me with variations on the same question: “what should we do today?”

A titch exasperated by the unconscionable fares for flights on U.S. airlines, I rather pointedly informed Melissa that I would prefer not to make any more travel decisions.  Could she please just plan the day and I will go along with it?  I might have had a certain “tone” in my voice.  (At this point, I had had a good night’s sleep, but not yet the bourbon). Melissa, God love her, gave me a look that said everything that needed to be said, and proceeded to map out a terrific walking tour of Sydney. 

From our apartment, we walked to St. Mary’s Cathedral, poked our heads inside and continued from there through the Botanical Gardens stopping at the New South Wales Museum and the Anzac World War I War Memorial.  As Melissa noted, Australia sent over 400,000 men and women to fight in Europe.  Over half never came home.  In a country with a population at the time of around four million, this was an enormous and devastating sacrifice.

Worse, except for two exceptions, the remains of the dead were never transported back to Australia for burial.  Mothers, fiancées, children, parents, spouses and friends were deprived of even the solace of putting their loved ones to rest.  Thus, in virtually every town in Australia there is a WWI memorial, the only place families can grieve and heal.  The memorial in Sydney is poignant, piercing and noble all in the same deep, throat-clenching inhalation. 

Recovering from the somber, bittersweet feelings in the Anzac Memorial, we strolled (as if Melissa ever strolls, but go with it) to Sydney Harbor, spending more than a few minutes hunting for Mrs. Macquarie’s Chair.  The chair (damn it) was on the itinerary, the itinerary I had “asked” Melissa to plan.  We found it.  The governor, in a blow to all males trying to impress their wives, had a seat carved into the rock for his wife on the exact spot she loved most.  Thanks for that, governor.  

Venturing along the harbor, we happened upon a huge, floating stage set up by the Sydney ballet for an outdoor production of West Side Story.  On the pathway between the stage and the amphitheater seats, we plopped down and watched the cast rehearse several numbers.  I love little freebies like this. 

Continuing on the path that runs along the curve of the harbor in Sydney’s downtown, we made our way to the Central Quay, the port for the numerous ferries that service pedestrian traffic through the harbor (think Seattle ferries times 20).  Opposite the West Side Story stage across the water jutting out on a peninsula sits the Sydney Opera House, now a man-made World Heritage Site.  In a previous post, I echoed Melissa’s insight that humans cannot create beauty; we only imitate it.  The Sydney Opera House is the exception.  Every painstaking detail magically and beautifully incorporates the structure into the magnificent environment.  

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On a whim, we checked in with a delightful older woman at the ticket counter to see if we might luck into tickets to any of the multiple performances running at the opera house.  In the span of five minutes, this fairy godmother behind the counter booked us tickets to the opening night of the ballet, Verve, saved us money by combining the tickets with an hour tour of the opera house, and timed everything so perfectly that we could grab a needed cup of coffee, take the tour, get back to the apartment to change, return to the opera house for a quick dinner, and get to the show with time to spare. 

Although I am not much of a guided tour type person, SueAnne, our forty-something, dark haired five-foot-four Aussie guide had me from the moment she introduced herself.  The genius and heartbreaking story of Jorn Utzon, the Danish architect, only increased my fascination.  Read Melissa’s entry for details about Utzon and the Opera House.  After the tour, Melissa and I dashed back to the apartment to change before the opera even though SueAnne insisted we would be fine in our hiking shorts and somewhat aromatic tee shirts. Aussies don’t judge.

Showered and changed, we grabbed a couple of salads along the waterfront sitting outside in a light drizzle because all of the covered tables were filled.  This, however, was not the greatest indignity.  Seconds — literally seconds — after the waiter placed my salad on the table, a stealth bomber sea gull darted from the sky, snatching a piece of my smoked salmon.  The waiter politely asked if he could bring me another and looked slightly green as I declined and started eating.  Time was of the essence.

Withholding any comment on my decision, the waiter brought us wire baskets to cover our food between bites and a spray bottle filled with water to fend off the utterly contemptuous birds.  Bottle within easy reach, eyes scanning the sky, one hand lifting and closing the wire basket, I ate my salad.  In this inglorious fashion, we entered the opera house for opening night. Aussies don’t judge.

Verve was  performed in three movements, each with an intermission.  It began with a more traditional ballet performance, followed by two modern dance pieces.  The second piece was called Aurum. The program, in part, explains it this way:

“Aurumis a piece inspired by kintsugi(golden joinery), the Japanese art of repairing broken ceramics with gold or metallic lacquer.  As a philosophy, it treats breakage and repair as part of the history of the object, something to acknowledge and honour rather than disguise.  By illuminating the fractures with gold, the repair often leaves the object more beautiful than it was in its original form.” 

If the Sydney Opera House is the exception to the rule that artists do not create beauty, but only imitate it, Aurum is the second exception.  An athletic but sensuously graceful dance performed primarily by a principal ballerina and two male companions, Aurum hypnotized me.  I don’t think I blinked during the entire performance.  Immediately after the applause died down, Melissa looked at me with the same wonder I felt inside and said, “I thought they were making love on stage.”  I thought I had experienced in twenty or so minutes all the passion, heartache, anger, forgiveness and bittersweet, tender love of a thirty-year marriage.  A great book or movie or song can make me tear up. Verve was the first ballet (or dance of any kind) to do that. 

I love how this trip echoes things Melissa and I have felt or thought.  Could there be a better way to describe the meaning behind the name of this blog, Save The Pieces, than the description of Aurum quoted above?  Perhaps there really is not anything new under the sun.  Maybe the way we experience something makes that thing new in each experience.  I remember reading about a Christian who was trying to understand why Hindus have so many gods.  The Hindu to whom the Christian was speaking explained, I’m paraphrasing, “we do not have multiple gods, we have multiple experiences of God.” Amen, or as Meg would say, “dead ass my dude.” 

*Acres upon acres of immaculately kept public gardens, a greenway that stretches from the Anzac museum in Hyde Park all the way down to the Opera House. We could have been a contender, with The Commons!

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*The Opera House: Yorn Utzon was a relatively unknown 38-yr-old architect when he won the design contest (1957). The shell shape was impossibly difficult, yet he figured out how to built it by fitting its “sails” on a sphere.

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In 1966, after delays and ballooning costs (7 million estimated, ultimately over $100 million), he was fired and went home to Denmark. It wasn’t until his 90s that he was awarded the Pritzker Prize for this World Heritage site. Utzon never saw it finished.

*Efficient, comprehensive train system and amazing public gyms and pools, one built under the plaza in front of the iconic St. Mary’s Church.

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*Free entry to museums (moving WWI ANZAC memorial, Art Gallery of New South Wales). The erasure of a generation of young ANZAC troops in WWI is one of the saddest stories I know. Of the fewer than five million people in Australia, 416,809 men enlisted, of whom more than 60,000 were killed and 156,000 wounded, gassed, or taken prisoner. Of all the dead, only two bodies were brought back for burial in Australia.

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*Vibrant art scene: we attended opening night at the ballet (a triptych of dances, “Verve”). We sat and watched outdoor rehearsals that same day for the Opera Company’s “West Side Story.”

*“Family Sundays.” We took the train into Circular Quay and the ferry all the way up to Watson’s Point for lunch at the beer garden; cost=$2.50 apiece.

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*Potts Point: Our “cozy” Air BnB was a four-story walk-up with a dingy staircase, but we had a big window that looked out over the city and a shared rooftop terrace!

*Kind people, from our charismatic Opera House guide (whom we ran into two days later at the Governor’s House) to the traffic cop at the airport who happily escorted us to a “safer” place when he found us illegally parked and floundering for directions.

I have discovered nothing new on this Sabbatical, but everyday I either learn something I didn’t know or remember something I had forgotten.  We said goodbye to New Zealand on a bright, beautiful fall morning a couple of days ago, flew up to Auckland and then caught a three hour flight to Sydney.  I didn’t know we needed visas to enter Australia.  One hundred and fifty dollars later, I learned something new, and with the help of a kind and efficient Qantas employee (she was apologetic for having to charge us so much) we landed, electronic visa attached to our passports, in Sydney.  

Transition days are emotional for myriad reasons.  The bittersweet feeling of leaving something that has become sweetly familiar and loved; the excitement and anxiety of venturing into another unknown experience; the creeping sadness of knowing the sabbatical has reached its halfway point. I am not sure of the old cliché that sharing sadness with someone you love cuts the sadness in half.  In fact, as may resonate with many of you, sometimes sharing the emotion with someone you love actually amplifies its potency, especially if one of you (like me) tends to get a bit anxious about flying, due not to a fear of being in the air, but of missing the plane.

I am one of those people who prefer to be at the gate two hours early sipping a cup of coffee and reading the paper.  Melissa, on the other hand, loathes downtime.  For her, a perfectly timed arrival coincides with stepping onto the jetway seconds before the crew shuts the door.  We know this about each other; yet, we still negotiate when to leave for the airport.

The night before we left Nelson was no different. Melissa pushed hard for as much sleep as possible while I started my negotiations with a wake up call at first light for a 10:30 am flight.  We agreed we would ask the receptionist at the hotel when she thought we needed to leave and accept whatever she recommended.  As Lyle Lovett sang, “that’s when I knew I had made my first mistake.”

The receptionist asked again for the departure time of our flight: 10:30 am.  She looked at the ceiling, calculating in her head. “Hmm, it takes about 20 minutes to get to the airport.  You should be fine if you leave here at 9:30.” Do the math. Twenty minutes to the airport gets us on the curb, no boarding passes and the gauntlet of security looming between us and the flight with only forty minutes before the plane leaves – not when it boards, when it leaves.  I pleaded with my eyes for Melissa to intervene.  One look at her Cheshire Cat smile and I knew, she knew, she had won.  Suck it up, Cupcake.

At 9:25 am the next morning, having double checked that our cab was on its way, I paced the lobby while Melissa, doing the New York Timescrossword, assured me I had nothing to worry about.  The taxi arrived at 9:34.  Roller bags in hand, I started opening the trunk of his car before he fully braked.  Inside was a large crate of apples, at the sight of which, Melissa sweetly remarked on how lovely they were.  I resisted the urge to chuck them on the sidewalk.  It was T minus 36 minutes to launch.  @#$! the apples.  

As we pulled out of the parking lot, our driver, who could not have been more mellow if he was doing an ad for Uncle Ike’s Pot Shop, casually mentioned that his last customer had left the apples in the car, and he needed to make a stop to deliver them. Frantically, I checked our departure time hoping to find a few extra minutes.  In fact, I discovered to my horror that the actual departure time was 10:25 am.  Thirty-one minutes to lift off and we still had to deliver the @#$! apples.

We pulled up about 100 meters shy of the airport entrance, as close as the driver could get, at 10:00 am. The only good thing about this was it had taken 19 minutes instead of 20 to get to the airport, even with the apple stop.  I was a good 30 meters ahead of Melissa, backpack slung over one shoulder, roller bag wildly bumping over the sidewalk in what must have looked like a cross between a new Olympic sport of speed walking while weighted, or middle-aged male had too much coffee and needs a bathroom.  As I entered the airport, however, I curiously passed through the five stages of missed plane anxiety in a single moment, and landed, unexpectedly, at acceptance.  If we had to spend another night in Nelson, we could do that.  

There is no security for domestic flights in New Zealand.  No, that is not a typo.  There is no security.  What’s more, every single facet of the check-in procedure is automated.  I walked up to a sleek, free-standing kiosk, scanned our passports and stood amazed as it printed our boarding passes and the bar code tags for our luggage, which we attached.  A few meters away, we placed our luggage, one bag at a time, on a conveyer belt, used the bar code reader to scan the bar code and watched as the luggage disappeared down the belt.  The entire process from taxi stop to baggage tagged and loaded took less than five minutes.  We took a seat in a large area around 10:07 and waited precisely three minutes before they called our flight, when everyone boarded, everyone, at the same time, not the gemstones first, i.e. diamond and ruby classes, not Sky Priority, everyone. 

Melissa sat by the window reading, with me on her left staring blankly at the seat in front of me. As the plane pushed back, she patted my leg with a gentle, I told you so touch.

As you can see, I discovered many new things from this experience: automation can be a wonderful thing; a young person at a hotel reception desk knows what she’s talking about; even with an apple stop it takes about 20 minutes to get to the airport; Melissa is right more often than I think.  Perhaps I should have listed that learning outcome first.  

I also remembered something wonderful that I had forgotten.  With no security check before boarding the plane in Nelson, I remembered the delight at being able to leave for a flight less than an hour before departure.  It makes flying almost like boarding a bus or the light rail.  I’d forgotten how delightful that felt.

Still, that isn’t the most important thing I’d forgotten.  I’d forgotten what it was like to live in a community that chooses to trust one another instead of reorganizing itself around fear.  ISIS, Al Qaeda, and other radical groups may or may not be defeated.  It is impossible for those groups to win a war against the U.S. in any event. Still, I cannot help but think they have succeeded in destroying something precious and wonderful about our democracy.  I am not advocating for dismantling TSA, but it would be wonderful if we could find our way back to a society that plays to the good in people instead of managing to the lowest common denominator.  

I am painfully aware, as is everyone, that not more than a month ago, terrorists shattered the innocence of New Zealand with the attacks and murders at Christchurch.  In a victory for justice, the authorities have captured those responsible.  In my mind, however, the real victory was boarding that plane in Nelson with no security check.  I had forgotten that.  

Melissa and I have been abroad for over eighty days, not a long time, but with all that we have experienced, I am mentally removed from the American culture.  Without thinking, I order a long black with milk instead of an Americano.  I look right when I cross the road.  I no longer convert New Zealand prices into U.S. dollars.  I haven’t seen CNN, at least not the U.S. version, in over a month. I could not tell you who is still in and who is out of the NCAA tournament.  In fact, I had to think about it before I could bring up the phrase “March Madness.”  Carol, if you are reading, I hope you have been enjoying the games, especially if your Blue Devils have been winning.  

Melissa and I dropped Meg at the Airport a few days ago.  While she winged her way back to Hamilton via Seattle, we flew south from Auckland to Nelson, a small town tucked wonderfully between the ocean and Abel Tasman National Park in the south island.  As hard as it is to let go of Meg after two weeks of bungee-jumping-kayaking-hiking-adrenaline and laughter, I find myself all too willing to curl up in the cocoon of this intimate sabbatical with Melissa and tune out the world. Fortunately, Melissa feels the same way. 

One of the reasons for this feeling is the south island.  Without in any way slighting the beauty and charm of the north island (please read Melissa’s last two fabulous posts), arriving back on the south island feels like coming home, a warm familiar feeling that gently peels away layers of stress and worry.  As we rode in the taxi from the airport along the gold sand beaches glowing in the fading afternoon light, Melissa, face beaming, summed it up, “I am so glad we came back to the south island before leaving.”  How is it possible to be so at home with yourself in a place so far from home?

As much as I may give the impression of being more relaxed then a dead jellyfish, I admit to one, small anxiety.  How do I hang on to this happiness when I get home?  I mentioned this to Meg who reminded me that she felt exactly the same way when she came home from her semester at the Island School.  Her comment only reinforced my (selfish?) but honest desire not to return to the United States anytime soon.  When I mentioned this issue to Melissa, she kissed me and said she loved my idealism.  I’m not sure if that was a brush off, a compliment or both.

I am torn between the inner joy of being here, the self discovery of the goodness inside me that leaks out when I’m cut off from the noise, nonsense and nastiness of American politics, and the feeling that this is not reality, not sustainable, the fear that this wonderful, gracious moment in my life is a short-lived illusion.

Yesterday, we hiked seventeen miles on a perfectly maintained trail that meanders along the coastline rising steeply over headlands and dropping gracefully into one pristine, sublime beach after another.  As Melissa mentioned, this is a self-guided hike, meaning we have a map, a two page narrative generally describing our four days, and a small graph showing distances, expected hiking times and elevations.  To be honest, the first two days of the hike I didn’t bother to pull out the map or instructions.  When we headed north the first day, I kept the ocean on our right. When we hiked south the next day, I kept the ocean on our left.  How hard could it be?

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Knowing we had a long way to go today, we rose early, a little before seven, the sun not yet up and the forest around our lodge still dark and colorless.  We had a warming breakfast of oatmeal (Kiwis call it porridge) and headed out as the sky began to lighten although the sun was not yet above the mountains.  The trail started flat heading through the rain forest before climbing steeply up and over the first headland.  As we emerged from the thick, dark canopy onto the cool windless beach, the sun peaked above the mountains turning everything beneath our feet honey gold and everything from the beach to the horizon dazzling blue.

The light in the morning on this untrodden beach feels like God’s tender kiss on her beloved creation. I hear the breeze whisper, “And God saw that it was good.”  I cannot express the power and poignancy of this moment when it feels as if all of time, from creation to extinction, is compressed into a single, fleeting second. Everything that matters is here, now, and there is no next moment.  As Karl Barth said, “here the mind stops.” Here one closes one’s eyes and stands still in reverent awe.

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The morning was so glorious we walked the first half of the trail in silence, punctuated by the sharp, beautifully clear whistles and chirps of the birds, the distant thump of the surf and the occasional trickle of water running through the forest to join the ocean.  My skin tingled one moment with a cool draft of air and warmed the next in the dappled brilliant morning rays of the sun.  The world smelled clean, alive, and every now and then some sweet smell almost, but not quite like eucalyptus, floated past.  So enrapt in our surroundings, we reached the halfway point almost two hours early.  As if waking from a dream, we rested on the beach wanting the morning to last forever.

I realize I have waxed on and on about the unspoiled, natural beauty of New Zealand to the point that it may seem overly sentimental or melodramatic.  In my defense, no poet or writer can capture either the beauty of this place or its profoundly healing effect on the soul, or whatever you choose to call that part of you that is uniquely you.  Like Melissa said, no artist improves on nature, she merely imitates it.  

I have decided, to the extent such things can ever be definitively decided, that there is a God, but, like the beauty and power of this place, we have utterly failed in our attempts, collectively, to know and understand her.  She doesn’t care.  Like the majesty that unfolded before me for mile after divine mile on this walk, God simply is, waiting patiently for us to notice.  And here again, one stands still in reverent awe.

We finished the hike by crossing a tidal estuary (at low tide).  As Melissa has said, I may be good on the climbs, but I am a complete wimp walking barefoot over shells.  For thirty minutes, with Melissa laughing me onward, I tiptoed across the mud flat laser focused on my feet.  With time remaining before our water taxi arrived, we hiked a short trail out to a place called Cleopatra’s Pool, a cascade of tea-colored water pouring over boulders into a perfect swimming hole.  Bravely (although Melissa actually slipped and fell in), we took a plunge feeling within the span of a minute the piercing, heart-stopping cold followed by exhilarating freshness.  Back on the beach waiting for the water taxi, we napped like bloated sea lions in the warm sand.  

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Today, our last day in New Zealand, we finished the Great Coastal Walk with a combination of hiking the first seven miles and then kayaking home.  The day dawned cold, clear and beautiful with barely a breeze across the ocean.  Once the sun rose, however, the air warmed to a perfect temperature for hiking and kayaking. I have no words left to describe the color of the water, the perfect blue of the sky, the contrasting green of the mountains sometimes rolling straight to the rocky water’s edge and sometimes stopping like a line of soldiers before a perfect crescent beach. Before getting in my kayak, I even saw a huge stingray glide by in the clear water, its wingspan a good three feet.

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I started this entry by saying how much I wanted to curl up in this sabbatical with Melissa and let the rest of the world fade away, but that is not an entirely truthful statement. I realized tonight over dinner with Melissa, that I care too much about the beauty I have seen and the joy I have felt not to reengage with the world, especially with the one thing that keeps this place from being perfect — all of you.

It is hard to convey how it feels, physically, to come back to the South Island from the North. It’s like falling in love…all over again. I have been giddy and honestly have known – like when I notice how blue the sky is – that I am, in that moment, the luckiest person on earth. While I wouldn’t have skipped the Tongariro Crossing, Coromandel Peninsula, or the Bay of Islands, as soon as we landed in Nelson, I knew I could live here. There’s something magical on the South Island, and everyone feels it. Nelson, NZ, is “The Good Place.” What do you imagine the weather will be like in heaven – always pleasant? Just warm enough? And the streets will be clean, not a shred of trash anywhere. Will there be cars? Maybe, but not too many, certainly none that are flashy, and while we’re at it, let’s replace traffic lights with traffic circles. Why should anyone have to wait? And if you take a taxi, maybe the driver decides that what the meter says is too much.  This happened in Nelson, where Don was told, “Just give me $25” for the $29 ride. Don was holding a $20 and a $5, but didn’t want to short the driver, so he replied, “can you give me change for $40?” Don got back $15 on $40.

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Lest you think you’d have to sacrifice letting the good times roll for this dreamy, decent life, I will point out that Don and I were “entertained” late into the night by a wedding reception taking place just down the hall at the Trailways Inn. Backing up, we had eaten dinner at a hip restaurant, one “Urban Oyster:”marinated fish with crispy rice, braised lamb shoulder, spicy stuffed peppers, and cardamom ice cream with chocolate mousse and bits of toffee.

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The Abel Tasman Walk, northwest tip of the South Island: Just a few days ago, Don was able to book us on a second Great Walk, this one unguided, through Abel Tasman National Park. The story behind this park is intriguing. Ornithologist Perrine Moncrieff (who would go on to serve on the Park board from 1943-1973) lobbied the government to reserve the land. Existing homes were grandfathered in; some are now used as overnight huts for hikers; others are still privately owned. An occasion was needed, so they decided to celebrate the tricentennial of the 1642 landing of Abel Tasman, the Dutch sailing captain who beat a fast retreat back to Holland when his party was repelled on the beach by the Maori. In tribute, they named Wilhelmina, the queen of the Netherlands at the time, as Patron. Tasman did not get NZ for the Dutch, but he did have a sea (Tasman) and an island state (Tasmania) named after him.

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There were a few famous settlers. In 1856, the first European landowner, William Gibbs, arrived in Totaranui Bay (Maori had lived there for 500 years already and were still in occupation). Gibbs created a “model” farm on over 7000 acres, planted a tree-lined avenue, and even opened two holiday cottages for rent to “holiday makers.” His dairy farm supplied milk to Nelson. Gibbs sold Totaranui to William Henry Pratt, whose son Bert brought his newly wed wife over in 1914, and built a home in the “very modern” California bungalow style. The property went through a couple of other hands, but was eventually purchased by the Crown in 1948. By that time the original Gibbs homestead (1878) had burned down, but Bert and Martha Pratt’s house was still standing and is now a private cottage. I can’t imagine the kind of people who would do this. Was there nowhere to put a dairy farm in England? This place is so remote. The first day I was here, I kept remembering “The Piano.” The scene where they drop off Holly Hunter’s piano and drag it across the sand could have been filmed here. The high winds and crashing waves on the beach, same. The trekking through the jungle palms, ferns, beeches, and huge rata trees – but minus the tattooed Maori warrior – same.

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Abel Tasman is the smallest national park (at 92 sq. miles, 59,000 acres) but with a ton of coastline snaking in and out of bays (similar to Maine).  Squinting at the map, Don judged this 40-mile walk an “easy” one. Two days in, we have been reminded that lines close together mean elevation. But the hiking is grand. We climb steep, but short hills to walk the ridgeline between bays. Day 2, we kept our eye on time, because we knew from Wally (more on him below) that if we didn’t make it to a mile-long stretch of beach during low tide, we were SOL. Don the Intrepid has just now told me that after our “easy” day today (12k and 4 hours), we have an 8-hour day tomorrow (24k). At our national parks, “8 hours” usually means something considerably less; here, not so much. Update: Incredible Day! But yes, we just hiked 17 miles, with a dunk into “Cleopatra’s Pool” and even time for a nap in the sun on the beach while we waited for the Aqua Taxi.

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You’ve just got to love the “common-sense” contract between us independent hikers and the guides who point us where we need to go. Day 1, we were dropped off on a deserted beach and told to go “that way.” For 13 miles, we walked “the path less travelled” at the northern end of the park, which is only accessed by aqua taxi or on foot. (If you sign up for this walk, make sure and do the 4-day; otherwise you will not see the northern part). In this world of lodge keepers, van drivers, and guides, everybody knows everybody else. “Wally” greeted us with big smiles and excitement to tell us all about the walk; all day long, we’d recall the tips he’d hastily given us while pointing at the map: “eat lunch at Mutton Point, don’t go down the steep steps to Separation Point, you’re going to think you’ve gotten to the top of Whangarara Point but keep climbing.” Wally handed us lunches made by “Deb” (we would open them to find thick slices of ham and cheese spread with mayo and seeded mustard between fresh bread), handed us off to “Jack” the aqua taxi driver who just knew he has the best job in the world, and insisted that we eat the 3-course dinner at “Steve’s.” I think: How can we come halfway around the world and feel like we’re already a part of this close-knit, happy community?

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In my opinion, this walk is every bit as glorious as the Milford Trek, but for different reasons. Rather than bond with the group, we’ve made friends all along the way. Yesterday morning, our innkeeper Steve drove to pick up our overnight bags and six hours later, met us across the island literally two minutes after we had finished our hike. After he opened the hatch for our backpacks, he asked if I was thirsty, to which I replied: “Yes, but I’ve got some more water.” “Would you like a beer?” After a day of serendipity (which, of course, only means that the random parts fall into a happy pattern), I just knew that there’d be a bathrobe in the room full of antiques that Steve’s partner Pete decorated. Hmmm, no luck with the back of the bathroom door, try the wardrobe. Of course! They have created an oasis here, with flowers blooming and a hot tub to sit in. After our amazing dinner and sweet little breakfast at a table set with silver and those old-fashioned delicate linens, Steve handed us our bag lunches for the day, there were hugs all around, and we were off. There’s something about someone making your lunch for you, especially a sandwich, where the meat and cheese and fillings have been layered and apportioned just so. I almost expected to find a lunchbox note: “I hope you liked the red onions and bell peppers.”

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Meg asked us an interesting question before she left, really a “c’mon, what’s it like being together day in and day out?” question that came out: “what do you guys talk about?” A bit defensively, I (at least) scrambled to come up with interesting things. But the truth is, Don and I are often quiet. On our walks, we laugh a lot (usually at each other or ourselves), but we cherish the silent stretches where we can feel the beauty and stillness take hold. I get to put my mind in a space where a thought can actually happen.

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An example: The extraordinary nature of this trek means that we are walking for hours on end, alone on a trail, with no sounds other than the waves crashing and the birds chattering. I especially love the trees and can’t get enough of their various postures and gestures. I look at them and see dancers waving their arms, old warriors sprouting bromeliads, homes for the Swiss family Robinson, and intimately entwined partners. On their bark and in their root systems is inscribed a record of time passing, of growth and branching out, of storms and erosion. When you spend time in a place like this, you realize that we humans cannot improve upon nature. We can bend it to our uses, but we simply cannot make it more beautiful. Isn’t this where art begins? Artists (simply, the inspired) either try to imitate nature or express the way that natural forms and shapes and processes make them feel. From art comes culture and eventually, machines that mimic organic structures or movement.

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So, a long-winded answer to Meg’s question. But there are other reasons why Don and I love just walking. A brief example may suffice to illustrate:

Three-quarters of the way through our hike yesterday, we get a text from Meg that she has arrived safely in Seattle and is back at home. The text reads: “Yah, I’m home, but Janice’s whole family is here. Ha ha. It’s okay though.“ Janice is the latest of Nick’s friends who has enjoyed the comforts of our home. If we’ve been away almost 3 months now, well then, that means that Janice (a college friend) has been at our house for almost 3 months now. The Janice part is not alarming, though it has been hard to nail down when Janice might be moving on with our living-at-home child Nick. As a parent of three twenty-somethings, we still fumble when it comes to text messages. Above, the “ha ha” from Meg could mean, I’m just kidding. Alternately, it could mean “ha ha,” I’m awkwardly laughing because I know that what I just said might send up some red flags. I kind of wish I could untype it, but I’m going to just steam right ahead. Spot on, Meg. So Don texts Meg back: “are you kidding? Or for real?” As I unravel the possible meanings of this exchange, I envision “Janice” being visited by her parents in Seattle. Two minutes later, I find out I am only partially right when we receive Meg’s next text: “For real. I think her brother’s looking at colleges.” So let me get this straight. Not only are both parents there, but there’s a younger sibling. Any more children that couldn’t be left at home? All of a sudden, I am jerked out of my NZ reverie, counting the bedrooms in my house, and hoping that Janice and her family will not be in “my” house when I get back just over three weeks from now. Nobody’s perfect, certainly not me. But Nick could have at least told us that 1500 18^th Ave East is now a lodge. Now you have a taste of how blessed it is to walk softly on God’s green earth a million (well, several thousand) miles “away.”

To follow up on my “epic” bungee jump (or so I was told, as my eyes were squeezed shut and except for the first fall, I clung to Don like a baby monkey), I am excited to report that I finally learned how to skip a rock, right on the beach in front of the Duke of Marlborough Inn (built in 1837). I won’t go into the mechanics of it, but it involves lightly holding a flat pebble between the thumb and 3rd finger and lettin’ ‘er rip. Don insisted on taking us to dinner at the Inn for my birthday, because I love all things historic. After an adoring stroll through the quaint village of Russell (the first capital of NZ), I cleverly put two-and-two together and realized that this is the place we’d heard referred to as “the hellhole of New Zealand.” Apparently, the Duke put the “harm” in charm for the “rascals and scoundrels” this grand edifice was erected to serve. You would think a man could respect his wife a little more.

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The highlight of our time in the Bay of Islands was a whole day spent sea kayaking in the clear, green waters. I channeled my friend Jane Jones as I gamely rowed into the wind and spray across an open bay, with a partner who had already expressed being a little bummed that “he” would have to do all the work. Once we made it out through the “squall” (guide Curtis’ word) to the desired desert island, we followed Curtis barefoot up a path to a summit that gave us a 360 degree view of the whole area. Splendid. While we took a dip in the ocean, Curtis sliced up red bell pepper, cucumber, tomato, lettuce and laid out turkey, cheese, and tortillas for a delicious lunch. The trip back was fantastic, as we were able to surf on top of the waves a good bit of the way. Curtis is a remarkable one-man operation. A 20-something guy who worked search-and-rescue on the British coast near Newcastle, he picked us up in an old van, conveyed us over winding roads to an alternate course that would allow us to row directly into the wind, and laughed with us all day. Although he is not a Kiwi, he fits the type of the person we run into most often here: reliable, courteous, fun, and honestly, just plain decent.

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Back to Auckland and our last day on the North Island, we spent the afternoon with Meg in Cornwall Park, another of the enormous green spaces New Zealanders have seen fit to design and place in the middle of their towns. From the True North obelisk atop One Tree Hill, we viewed the volcanic “cone” hills, offshore islands and marshes that frame this grand city. As the wind moved in the trees, I had a sudden urge to be walking a lonely moor in England, preferably around the time Jane Eyre was written, the dramatic natural landscape removing the normal limits to my imagination.

The salve to having to say goodbye to Meg was the kindness of the people we encountered that day. Even with all the tourists tramping through, this whole country often feels like a small town. People are instantly personable and open to conversation no matter what job they’re doing – bellmen, flight attendant, bus driver. So, another “g’day” to the bus driver at the Auckland airport who sang along with Seger’s “I like that old time Rock n Roll” as he carried us to our terminal. Thanks to the woman at the café who gave us a chocolate chip cookie for free. Thanks to the van driver who patiently explained the downsides of the “shared” shuttle service we got stuck with because we had gone with a cheaper car rental company. Thank you to the kind people who waved us through (no security checks) in the domestic terminal.