Kia ora

From my window seat on the plane to L.A., the landscape resembles a crinkled beige blanket. The sunny ridges contrast with dark slopes, and they're punctuated by tufts of cloud, which make bold shadows. The clouds become thicker and out of the midst, mountains' heads rear up, isolated. Later, we sit for three hours on rows of stuffy airport seats, getting hungry, waiting.

Finally, I board the flight to New Zealand. To my right, an older man is already asleep with his pillow against the window. He must be drugged. I recline my seat and snuggle in with a movie. The flight attendants, all Kiwi men, bring dinner around, surprisingly good: braised beef with green beans and potatoes, cheese and crackers, two glasses of red wine, and chocolate cake. Through the night I doze, unable to sleep deeply, my head lolling from side to side and my neck cramped. If not for John's shoulder, I would go slowly mad. In the night, I make the mistake of visiting the airplane toilet without replacing my shoes, and, caught between the suspicious wet drops on the floor and the pressure of the lineup behind me, step gingerly, feeling foolish.

Later, in the darkness, I wake to turbulence: the plane rocking, jumping, and seeming to plunge into the air before catching itself. The seatbelt light comes on with a loud bell. I sit holding John (who easily goes back to sleep) and wait it out, outwardly calm. All around me, people sleep, no one worried. Eventually, the plungings and joltings calm down, and I go back to sleep, somewhat reluctantly.

The kiwi men wake me just before dawn with fruit, yogurt, tea, and orange juice (strangely sour). There's an hour left of the flight, and I spend it watching a tourism program on Auckland, where we'll be landing. The sleeping man beside me wakes, and initiates a cheerful conversation about his work in New Zealand as a professor of history. The author of A Penguin History of New Zealand is a colleage of his, incidentally; although, it turns out, the two of them don't get on personally.

Customs is, of course, a drag. Many lineups later, we learn that the customs officers want to thoroughly clean our hiking boots and tent-- microspores in the soil could contaminate their forests. So, again, we wait.

Finally, though, at daybreak, we emerge into fresh air and a mild spring morning. The airport bus is waiting outside, and we climb aboard, stowing our packs and looking out the windows eagerly as the landscape rolls by. Strange trees! Huge arbutus-looking trees, with dark, wet-looking leaves; small palm bushes with fan-like leaves; spikey, upward-facing pine trees that seemed manicured; tall palm trees, like in L.A.; tree ferns; and even what might be been banana trees, with large wide leaves and scaley trunks.

Auckland is very like Vancouver. Billboards, graffiti, and bus stops pepper the sidewalks, and young people jaywalk everywhere. Tall glass skyscrapers seem to sway in the air as clouds pass. On our way, we stop for a coffee (which, by the way, is not an Americano here, but a "tall black"), and we try unsuccessfully to pay by interact (called eftpos in New Zealand) before finally arriving at our hostel, tired and dirty. I take a break for a much-needed nap and shower. We wander up to Ponsonby (our hostel is on Richmond), and walk up and down both sides of the street, reading all the menues. Finally, we stop at a corner grocer to pick up camomile tea, chicken soup, and crackers, which I make at the hostel before falling deeply, deliciously, asleep. My first day in New Zealand has been a whirlwind, and it's already over.