Dec. 23, Paekakariki, NEW ZEALAND – Flew from Christchurch on the south island to Wellington on the north island today.

Prior to my flight I ran into Nancy, a senior attendant from Air New Zealand. Originally from the midwest, Nancy gravitated to California and made the leap to New Zealand more than 10 years ago.

Nancy had a black-belt in multitasking and was good in any situation, like a Swiss army knife.

Nancy also picked up the torch on my lost luggage situation.

“Well, they certainly have quite a file on you,” she said, paging through the computer. I’m not afraid to complain – a lot, which is being nice. Nancy set me up with a box for my bike so I wouldn’t have to lug one six miles from town to the airport.

She also let me sleep in a secluded corner of the airport and flagged the rest of the staff not to bother me. With three hours wait of my departure, Nancy wrote me a pass to the Koru Club Lounge – it’s the luxury box of the airport. A hot breakfast bar with Akaroa smoked salmon and capers, sun-roasted tomatoes, raisin wheat toast, homemade raspberry jam, and a series of refrigerators held a vista of juices and beers. Free Internet, morning paper and Amanda the barrista could whip up any five-adjective coffee.

JUSTICE OF THE PEACE…

Prior to leaving Christchurch I was notified by the airline I’d have to file a claim on my luggage. I’d need to print the form off the computer and fax in the final copy. (Good thing I’m carrying my office on the back of my bike – hardee-har-har….) Another small thing, the paperwork has to be notarized by a Justice of the Peace.

I never thought my first search for a Justice of the Peace would be so he could autograph my report card on missing luggage. I managed to locate the Justice in the Yellow Pages.

MARGARET…

Landing in Wellington, I took off directly north; the coastal city reminded me of Seattle with fishing boats and shops lining the pier. A strong headwind limited my mileage to 50 kilometers; I tracked down Margaret at her home in Paekakariki. Known to have the biggest heart in town, she took me in for the night. Her place was comforting, like the smell of Mrs. Grass’s soup.

Margaret is 77 years old and lives with her American Labrador, Finn. “He’s got a big head, that’s why I know he’s an American lab,” she said.

Upon my arrival Margaret was in the midst of making a chocolate cake – from scratch. “It’s Jesus’ birthday cake,” she said, reading instructions from the cookbook Quick, Thrifty, and Simple.

Margaret was from England; she moved to New Zealand in 1964 with her husband and worked as a teacher for children with special needs. “We called them spastics back then,” said Margaret, stirring the batter. She stopped, looked out the window and said matter-of-factly, “We’ve come a long way since then.”

Margaret talked about church, living by the sea, her husband and, of course, Finn. “He turned 12 last week,” she said, setting the empty mixing bowl down on the floor for Finn. It seemed like such a normal thing, like giving a child a cake beater.

“I’m better at throwing together a fruitcake, but this is for the children at church,” said Margaret. “I’m making it a day ahead; if I mess up I have time to try again.”

Margaret had gray, curly hair, purple sweatpants and a collared orange shirt that was fraying in the back. She was a dedicated recycler with a teacup of eggshells on the kitchen windowsill and glass bottles full of water scattered around the house. She also had a wonderful garden; her backyard full of lemon trees, grapefruit, ugli fruit and flowers.

A widow for seven years, Margaret talked freely about her husband. “He was in the service and injured,” she said. Her husband initially suffered a superficial leg wound. “When they sent him back to service, people from the small town wrote the Queen Mother and said they felt it unfair to send an injured man back to battle,” said Margaret. Her husband was more seriously injured on D-Day when he took artillery to the back. “He spend months in the hospital,” she said. Finally discharged, the couple moved to New Zealand so her husband could work as a carpenter. “He ended up building huge buildings with cement block. “It’s not exactly what he wanted to do, but we got along.”

In his mid-70s, Margaret’s husband had a severe fall while climbing a ladder to their second floor. “Doctors said he fractured his head in three places,” she said. Margaret cared for her husband at home. “I had a nurse come in and help me.”

“One day we were lifting him out of bed and the nurse had him piggyback, and he looked over and winked at me,” said Margaret. She said she was a little flustered, thinking he was getting chummy with the nurse. “Then he rested his head and the nurse gently said ‘Margaret, he’s gone.'”

Dec. 19, Sun. ARROWTOWN, NZ –
Arrowtown is an old gold mining town surrounded by mountains. The Main Street is about 10 blocks long and made up of shops resembling buildings from the miner’s heyday in the 1860s.
A candy store, This Remarkable Sweet House, was open early. Shelves that stretched to the ceiling were covered with colorful jars of candy. Rum balls, rhubarb and custard pips, sarsaparilla drops, pink smokers, sharp red bottles of Dracula’s milk and chocolate hokey pokey which was honeycomb covered with chocolate. “Lots of memories for adults and children,” said Mimmi busy making fudge behind the counter.

THE GOLD SECRET…
In 1862, miners Thomas Arthur and Harry Redfern harvested several pounds of gold with a butcher’s knife in Arrowtown. The pair agreed to keep it a secret. Within two months, word was out and diggers were coming from all over the world. In the second half of the 19th century, 10,000 Chinese men arrived in Arrowtown to search for gold. They brought with them the opium trade.

It had to have been the drugs that spurred the Wallenda-style entertainment: The Wonderful Performing Fleas. Black and white posters screamed “MARVELOUS PERFORMANCES” and pictured sword fighting fleas playing leap frog, and manning a chariot with a whip.

“We practice no deception – every item of this act performed or we will forfeit $50 to the Charities.”

“Do not let the small charge of admission detour you from seeing these WONDERFULLY EDUCATED FLEAS.”

UPDATES…
– I’m earning my street cred; managing well; however, on a bike with limited gear. Marcello from Sport Cycle in Rotorua is a Kiwi transplant who once hailed from Madison. “So you’re from the mistake by the lake,” he said, referencing Milwaukee.

Marcello lived in New Zealand going on 12 years. He visited and stayed, lured by the bike shop, liberal vacation, sound health insurance and economic stability.

Marcello listened to my adventures, noted the biker in me, my fingernails black with chain schmutz. He also advised I treat my luggage situation with a good dose of “wait and see.”
Making me feel at home, Marcello reached out and set me up with a series of Allen wrenches, should I encounter a bike-repair emergency. He also brought out a pair of used bicycle shoes. “Some guy was going to throw these away. They’ve been sitting in back for a while; I think they’re your size.”

Tools and shoes – in my low-maintenance lifestyle it felt like he had given me a ring.

– Rotorua postal delivery woman Diane took me in Wednesday night. She lived with her son Jackson, 7, and husband Paul. She volunteered to drive me to the Rotorua airport Saturday at 5:30 a.m. It was her day off.

Diane was a spitfire and 35-years-old when she had Jackson. “I was ready for him by then,” she explained with the rasp of someone whose friend in youth was “Par-tee”. “Named him after Michael Jackson,” she said of her son. “I know all the moves.”

Diane knew my name, but constantly referred to me as Buddy. It took me a while before I realized she was talking to me.

TEMPLETON..
Jeannie and Sing literally pulled me off the street Monday evening in Templeton. It was past 7:30 p.m. and I was weary and still tracking down a place to stay. I stopped the couple on their bikes to ask for directions; they adopted me on the spot. The pair were originally from Malaysia; they lived in New Zealand since 2002 with their quiet daughter Rachel, 15, a self-proclaimed bookworm, and caffeinated son Josh, 13.

“My room has been declared a disaster zone and is totally off limits,” said Josh setting his boundaries early.

After an hour and a half of get-to-know-you conversation I retired to my bedroom – a mattress with a three inch cushion on the living room floor. Sleep was like a 10-hour coma.

Dec. 18 Saturday, Rotorua, NZ –

Flying from Rotorua to the South Island and Queenstown; however, fog has “socked us in.”

With the delay, the airline opts to put passengers on a bus to the Auckland airport. “It’s only a two-and-a-half hour ride and you’ll have heaps of time to make your flight,” said the agent at the counter.

The bus ride lets me catch up on the newspaper; nice representation from the States as a Wisconsin postman has made the news in New Zealand with his wacky naked delivery.

A bus ride later, as I’m flying over the South Island, I can see why everybody says the visit will be worth it.

Mountains and hills of green; picture Julie Andrews and the Sound of Music. The small airport in Queenstown is on the edge of a very rural community. Crystal blue lakes surrounded by green hills and mountains, their peaks trimmed with white clouds.

Queenstown is a tourist hotspot; think the Streets of San Francisco swallowing the Wisconsin Dells. It’s touted as the Adventure Capital of New Zealand. Everything has an edge and Queenstown is looking to push you over it; skydiving, bungee jumping, whitewater rafting and zip line cables that clip along the treetops.

I got a bit of a feel for the area from Dwayne. The 20-something attendant at the local backpacker’s hostel looked like he could be on the cover of a Harlequin romance; short, curly hair, a Disney-prince jaw line and a cleft in his chin that resembled a baby’s butt. Our conversation ran the gamut from biking and travel, to the States. On a scale of one to Justin Bieber, Dwayne put the Bieber to shame.

I asked about neighboring Arrowtown. Dwayne said it was about 30 minutes north by bus. A quiet town of 5,000 with a historical society, shops and carriage rides. I thought it sounded great.”Yeah, it’s where my parents like to go,” said Dwayne. I thought I’d forgive him that one. Then Dwayne referred me to another youth hostel. “This one gets kind of loud; I think you would be more comfortable on the other end of town.” I felt like he was sending me and my bike to the old spokes home.

At that point I was done with Dwayne – he was losing his muchness.

KEITH & MARGARET…

Retired minister Keith Robertson and his wife, Margaret, took me in for the night. The pair were in their 80s; retired teachers, married 55 years. When life became boring, Keith would opt to get another college degree. He had four; his tendency was history. Margaret was hard of hearing, and that’s being nice.

The two had chairs set in the living room; think Archie and Edith Bunker. His was oversized compared to the rest of the furniture – plush. A briefcase and Atlas were within reach.

Margaret’s chair matched the rest of the furniture. She had a cushioned backrest and a colorful, striped afghan thrown over the top of the chair. A cardboard box filled with magazines and Sudoku puzzles leaned against the side, an easy grab.

It was like staying with your grandparents; five bookshelves, rabbit ears on the television, and lots of short, barking conversation. “Keith William,” yelled Margaret. “I have to call him Keith William to get his attention…” And within that brief moment, Margaret lost her train of thought. “Crumbs…. it must not have been important.” With that, she doppled off to muss about the kitchen, her slippered feet shuffling along the linoleum floor.

The pair had longevity and an evident rhythm of relationship. Keith spoke knowledgeably about every topic, like a university professor. Margaret often and conveniently, took out her hearing aids.