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Monday, Dec. 13, Te Kuhai, New Zealand

By
Judy
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BAGGAGE UPDATE…

Today’s marks one week since I’ve seen my gear. I’ve dubbed the lost luggage Baby Jessica – similar to the 1987 situation in Midland, Texas. I fear my gear has fallen down the well of lost luggage and I’m waiting for its rescue.

E-mails from a newly assigned specialized search agent with the airline leave me with flagging hope as each memo continues the drumbeat of bad news.

Mon. Dec. 13, Te Kuhai, NEW ZEALAND – Paul Christensen lives on a small family farm about 10 miles outside Hamilton.

His wife Roz did say it was okay to bring me home and son, Drew, 9, said my visit “made them clean house.”

The Christensen’s felt like instant family.

Along with precocious young Drew, there was Ryan, 14, an avid bicyclist, talented soccer player and a young man with genuine hospitality and manners; not something that would impress the ‘tween girls just yet, but it sure did make his parents proud.

Ryan was a true gentleman.

Nicole, 20, was the hard-working daughter who was debating a career with the police or health care.

We all found common ground within minutes of my arrival while discussing musical tastes like Pink, Katy Perry and Nicole’s favorite, Justin Bieber.

“I can’t stand him,” said Nicole, who tempted whiplash as she flung her head to the side mocking Bieber’s hair toss.

We dined outdoors on the back patio as Paul barbecued chicken kabobs and steak on the grill. Roz laid out a decorative salad, potatoes, meringue with strawberries and ice cream for dessert.

We managed a gender-specific game of soccer after dinner. Drew soon jumped ship on the boy’s team and then gravitated to whichever side was winning.

The game was soon replaced by an evening visit to all the animals. Roz and family used to run a petting zoo and they still owned a small pony, chickens, and a black bull.

The Christensen’s were a unique group. Obviously tight knit and helpful, they jumped in the mix upon hearing my luggage fiasco and made it a team effort to at least get to the bottom of the situation.

It was an impressive attempt – two phones working, Ryan monitoring the ‘on-hold music’ as Roz pushed to speak to a supervisor on another line.

This whole process has really become a big time suck, and now…. it’s making my teeth hurt.

The next morning we were back at it; the Christensen’s working behind the scenes as I relayed my case to yet another clerk based in India.

It was like the Amazing Race and we were in it to win it.

Ryan filled my water bottles and packed my maps in plastic bags. Roz cobbled together a bag of snacks including two oranges, some granola bars and fruit snacks and Paul found some spare tools in case I suffered a bike breakdown.

I can usually manage a crabby hope in these situations, but lately I’ve just felt crummy.

The Christensen’s warmth and cooperative effort made me feel I’m not in this alone.


Picture Treats

By
Judy
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Outside a church about 40 miles from Rotorua – it’s a town full of corrugated art.




Here’s a view outside of my bedroom window on Tuesday morning.

Sunday, Dec. 12: TE KAUWHATA, NEW ZEALAND

By
Judy
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Dec. 12, Sunday TE KAUWHATA – Started the day at 4 a.m. with jet lag and little sleep but was determined to pick up some biking miles and drilled south to Hamilton – a distance of 95 kilometers.

Made it as far as Te Kauwhata and met Linda Plant, the minister at the local Presbyterian church. Her salt-and-pepper hair was cropped short. She wore thin rectangular glasses with a partial red frame and was relaxed about everything … including housework.

Linda outright hated housework; she had a ‘what-you-see-is-what-you-get’ attitude and welcomed me into her home with open arms.

Her three children were grown and out of the home, her parents lived in town and all were coming over that evening for tea – which smelled a lot like dinner.

The buffet-style meal ran the gamut from sizable cuts of fish, hearty shrimp, rolls, potato salad, and greens.

We sat out back at the picnic table, fed our hunger and took turns dousing ourselves in spray to try and fight off the mosquitoes.

The next morning, Linda and I had more time to chat about New Zealand, the trends, culture and food.

It was then she made me try Marmite. “It’s a spread you put on bread or toast,” she said.

Marmite looked a lot like chocolate spread or prune butter. “You have to spread it on very thin,” said Linda.

The Marmite label read, ‘New Zealand’s original yeast spread. Meat free product.’

The name sounded like a vermin; something run over with your car or found dead in a trap in the basement.

I tried it with mature spirit and ate the rest out of politeness. I’m sure it would have been inappropriate to yak at the table and use a napkin to wipe Marmite off my tongue.

“It’s an acquired taste,” said Linda.

With watery eyes I changed topics to the Maori culture.

Linda said the natives in New Zealand, especially the women, demand respect. Mary, a long-time Maori woman in Te Kauwhata, went to the hometown grocery store that was recently purchased by some people from India. Her children brought home ice cream cones and Mary thought the servings were less than adequate.

A large woman, Mary stormed the store like a bulldozer, strongly lectured the owners about their lack of respect for the Maori and then pushed herself behind the icebox, flipped the lid and served up healthy Eiffel-Tower scoops to the children.

Those kids always got their money’s worth after that.

LIGHT THOUGHTS…

The roads in New Zealand have already done a number on my wheels. I’m riding on a two-inch gash in my back tire.

I haven’t had a blowout yet, but the meaty gravel covered with a thin spray of black tar is chomping at the bit.

I try to ride or at least ‘think’ light. I channel an elephant in a pink tutu gliding over a surface of balloons.

The concentrated attempt is short lived and I soon fall back into my pattern of stone on fencepost, dragging my dinosaur tail of supplies.

My rucksack now consists of a garbage bag and a colorful array of bungee cords.

I feel I’m getting closer to earning my scout badge for ‘successful transient.’

THE CHRISTENSENS…

I meet Frank at his bicycle shop in Puhete, on the north end of Hamilton.

We work on a new rear tire and bicycle pump since mine seems shot.

Outside the shop, while working on my tire, I chat it up with Paul Christensen. He’s stopped to retrieve his bike.

We talk about my tour, the weather, and I quick hop in side to settle my bill with Frank.

Back outside, Paul is waiting. “I called my wife and she said it was okay if I brought you home.”

It was the worst pick-up line I’d ever heard.





Monday, December 13 – Hamilton, New Zealand

By
Judy
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Monday, Dec. 13, 2010 HAMILTON, NZ – The 13-hour VAustrailia flight from LA to Sydney, Australia was made tolerable by a 12 x 10-inch personal television with selections that included current movies, TV programs, and music.

I fed off the programming like a drug. I didn’t learn a lot about the woman sitting next to me but managed to watch the new Eclipse, a bunch of Glee and Date Night with Tina Fey and Steve Carell.

Transferred from Sydney (whose airport is much like a Chicago mall) and took a puddle-jumper, 2-hour flight to my destination of Auckland, New Zealand.

I was worried the airline would lose my bike. At every stop and transfer point I made the airline check that my bike was still on board. I paid Delta Airline $200 to make sure my bike and gear travel with me.

Got to Auckland Airport about 5 p.m. Saturday and there was my bike in a box just as expected.

And my gear, it was safe… in L.A.

Not a problem, but my pedals and tools and axle for my front wheel were with my gear – as were my clothes.

I’ve never been the ‘lost-baggage person.’ I knew this would be a new challenge.

After a mere five minutes with baggage claims customer service, I wished this was happening to somebody else.

Simply put, there was no accountability. Matter of fact, the airline determined this was all my fault.

“Did you have travel insurance,” said the clerk, who had just finished tracing the bar code on the bag to L.A.

I didn’t have travel insurance, but to clarify I responded, “Did I pay $200 extra to correctly fly my bike and bag to New Zealand or did I pay $200 extra to only fly half my gear?”

I was not in the mood to play.

A woman standing next to me also lost her bags. She flew out of Canada to L.A. to Sydney to New Zealand and was shy her luggage with a wedding dress she was wearing in two days.

“I have travel insurance,” she said.

The clerks eagerly flitted to her like birds chasing bread crumbs.

The clerks proceeded to hand the woman an encyclopedia of forms to fill out. “The insurance carrier will notify you in four to six weeks with a decision on your claim,” said the clerk.

That woman was on the doom-line express and, sadly, I was riding shotgun.

Baggage Claims said my gear was apparently on stand-by for a flight Sunday morning.

I was directed to the empty ‘help desk’ for assistance to the closest youth hostel and as I left the clerk said, “You can’t leave your bike here – you’ll have to take it with you.”

Mind you my bike was in a box the size of a recliner. I’d put it together, but I have neither pedals nor a pin to attach the front wheel. Think pushing a wheelbarrow and carrying the wheel.

Apparently, since I now claimed the bike, I would have to pay the airline to store it.

Have I mentioned they lost my bag?

Storage was $15 a day.

Testing my patience and my survivor skills I grew a thick skin and challenged myself to remedy the situation that was all my fault, for under $100.

I cut a deal with the storage guy; I would pick up the bike the next day guaranteed, if he could just store it for one night for free.

Then $5 went to a shuttle to a youth hostel for $30; the room was probably the best money spent so I could shower, sleep and come back with my game face on.

The Youth Hostel had a giant kiwi bird peering over the top of the building, like it was stalking food.

Comforting.

The clerks at the youth hostel were Indian, so it felt much like America.

I had been in my clothes for three days at this point; I spent another $7 on toothbrush, paste, and razors or shavers, as they’re called in New Zealand.

Another $2 for Internet and the Youth Hostel made an attempt to reach out, generously throwing in two medicinal beers at no charge.

My next step was to find a bike store, buy pedals and an axle, get back to the airport, put my bike together and wait on my gear.

I got up at 4 a.m. and the manager of the Youth Hostel gave me directions to the bike shop in Onehinga. “But you can’t go now, they don’t open until 9 a.m.,” he said, with a heavy Indian accent.

I planned on walking the 6 miles to the shop. “You can’t – that’s not possible……” (I think that’s what he said as I pushed out the door.)

Temps were comfortably in the 70s. The sun was coming up and I was walking with all my personal belongings.

I felt like Caine in Kung Fu – a sleeping mat slug over my shoulder and a bamboo stick for protection.

Actually my gear was a bike bag with a camera, small computer, and a book by Anne Lamott, spare inner tube, notebook and radio.

Not exactly a comfortable pillow to rest a weary head, and all growing primarily useless considering my recharging cords were with my gear, which was safe in LA.

CHRIS AND HEATHER…

Clipped off the six miles to Hedgehog Bikes and determined walking is too slow a form of world travel; I desperately missed my bike.

I had a nice two-hour wait until the bike shop opened, but it was all made comfortable by Chris and Heather. The couple arrived early to open the neighboring bar and restaurant.

“Can I made you a cup of coffee?,” asked Heather, as I sat on the ground outside the shop looking miserable.

It was the nicest someone had been to me so far this trip.

Heather was in her late 40s and managed the bar. She had short, straight hair and wore a one-piece black dress with sandals and smoked Horizon cigarettes.

Her boyfriend, Chris, was a tough biker dude with a red, four-inch beard; think if Metallica swallowed Easy Rider.

Heather was also the one who came up with the plan to volunteer her boyfriend to drive me to the airport, pick up my bike and return to Onehinga. It would save time and be easier than juggling the airport on foot, again.

Chis, with some tough-guy reluctance, agreed.

Once on our way, Chris turned teddy bear. Make that rebel teddy bear, since he talked about his visit to the States, Sturgis, and something about being arrested and a gun.

I felt, however, he had my back.

Grabbed my bike, got fixed at the cycle shop for $55 and I was on my way. Happy to be moving and somewhat relived that my gear was safe in LA.

And yes, I realize that’s such an oxymoron.

New Adventure..New Zealand!

By
Judy
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Maoiri totem pole just outside Auckland.


Flowers and bike/Auckland

Chain store, Burger Wisconsin…. It’s in NZ, but not in Wisconsin, as far as I know

Friday Dec. 10 … or is it Saturday?? I’ve reset my watch three times … always turning the clock back, but for some reason I’ve lost a day; it currently remains unaccounted for.
For the most part, things have been smooth. Flights on time, nice people, and managed to find my way around LAX with little problem.
Disappointed I haven’t once yet had a stranger ogle my pillowy-white lady parts as part of a security check in.
It did, however, take nearly two hours to check in at Delta Airline in Milwaukee and all because of helpful ticket agent No. 116834.
I’d give you her name, but her name tag was buried under a stack of name tags swinging from a cord around her neck. She reminded me of the lunch lady.
If my dad could have made up a name, he would have called her Dandy. Used in a sentence – “She’s a Dandy, Huh!”
“That’ll be $200 to check your bike,” said Dandy, kindly.
Seriously, the bike isn’t even worth $200 and the most I’ve ever paid to fly it is $80.
But she swiped my credit card and called VAustralia to see what charge she could tack on, on their behalf.
Persistence was Dandy’s strong suite. “VAustralia says it won’t cost anything to fly your bike from LA to New Zealand… that can’t be right”
I cheered the news. No. 116834 stewed and hit me with another whopper.
“Let’s see your VISA,” she said. I passed her the credit card again and she clarified, “Your travel visa.”
I knew I didn’t need one and she adamantly told me I did. “You can’t get into Australia without a visa.”
I explained that Australia was a stopover on my flight; a transfer point to Auckland. I wasn’t staying.
“And you’re not going, either, without a visa,” she said.
My heart was in a vicegrip from the stress. I carefully plan these trips.
Okay, I know I don’t know where I’m staying when I get to Auckland, nor do I know the bicycle route out of the airport, but I did know I didn’t need a visa.
Dandy silently, in business-like fashion moved to another computer. A woman checking her bags stood in front of her and No. 116834 totally ignored her.
I asked to use a phone and called my travel agent. He, too, said I didn’t need a visa, but Dandy wasn’t buying it.
I threatened to cry and have a heart attack. “Please, don’t do that – not here,” said Dandy with as much compassion as Glee cheerleading coach Sue Sylvester.
“Oh, wait – are you staying in Australia longer than three months?,” she asked.
To be clear, again, it was a stopover as I transferred planes.
“No, I guess you don’t need a visa,” said Dandy, scrunching up her face, flashing a weak “my bad” smile. Her half-hearted wink didn’t cut it.
Hoping to wrap it all up and move along, Dandy posed another delay. Apparently she didn’t want to wait on anybody but me.
“Let meee cheeckk onnnneee morreee thing,” she said, like she was trying to fill a 10-minute speech with two pages of copy.
“I can’t believe that other airline doesn’t charge anything for a bike.”
You’ve got to be kidding me. I could already smell myself sweating and felt sorry for the person seated next to me… if I made it to the plane at all.
MILWAUKEE TO MINNESOTA TO LOS ANGELES
At the Minneapolis airport I met Adam, a 30-something who resembled glam rocker Adam Lambert.
I noticed Adam when he checked in at boarding with his iPod. “It’s actually my cell phone. You call up the ticket and then it comes up like this,” he said, flipping through the palm-sized computer with ease.
“Give me your phone and I’ll show you how to do it,” he said.
Blank stare.
“It’s easy. Who’s your carrier?” I told him AT&T, but then outted myself and said I had no cell phone, just a land line at home.
“I didn’t know they made those anymore,” he said.
For the first time I felt smarter – in a tangled 30-foot-yellow-cord kinda way.
I explained my technology-challenged lifestyle, biking and reporting from the road, using WiFi at the public library and tapping stories out on a mini-keyboard and computer screen. I gave him my business card and numbers and such.
“I can’t believe you do all this without a phone. That’s actually pretty amazing.”
I felt impressed with Adam’s opinion of my low-tech status.
By the time we boarded the plane, Adam turned and while taking his seat said, “I’ve bookmarked your web site and sent you an e-mail so you can get a hold of me.”
Well, I’ll just get right to that when I arrive at my next library. It’ll be like a little gift awaiting my arrival.
THE AUSTRALIAN AIRPORT…
The Australian Airport is enormous and looks more like a shopping mall than an airport. There are genuine full-fledged stores, not kiosks. Shoe stores stocked with furry Ugg boots. Must-have trinkets, i.e., a wombat in a can, didgeridoo, or boomerang. A Wiggles store dedicated to everything Wiggles. Fine chocolate, men’s clothing, jewelry – good shopping if you won the lottery.

Speaking Engagement at Cedar Campus

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Judy
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Just a few pics from my recent speaking engagement at Cedar Lake Home Campus.

There’s No Place Like Home

By
Judy
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Steffes meets Santa – Mt. Horeb

By
Judy
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The loo.


Santa

Met Santa in Mt. Horeb. He was dressed in a red shirt, short red bib overalls, striped red and white socks, black boots with red laces and he was using a walker on wheels. Santa was recovering from heart surgery, that’s why he was in Mt. Horeb.
“Where are you from,” I asked.
Blank stare.
He said ‘the North Pole’… like, “Isn’t that common knowledge.”
He was very genuine and never broke character.

POSTVILLE, IOWA

By
Judy
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POSTVILLE, Iowa... I just cleared the small town of Clermont this morning on the busy, awful Hwy. 18. Climbed a big hill out of the valley and saw this guy at the side of the road waiting to cross.

Heavy truck traffic; saw his mailbox, and figured that was his goal.
Instead, he reached the mailbox, turned around and waited for me.
“Want a bottle of water,” he said.
His name was Randy. He was a county employee who had lived at the top of the hill for the past 10-plus years. Worked a bit for the farmer next door. He passed me in town and went home and filled up a bottle with ice and water.
We chatted for about ten minutes. So nice…

A Few More Pics from West Bend, IA

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Judy
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