"D'oh!" Moments

 

Okay, if you aren't a "Simpsons" 
fan, you don't know "D'oh!" - this is the moment of realization when you smack yourself in the head and make one of those sounds that indicates "I'm a dummy why didn't I get it boy that was obvious."  That sound.  My down-the-hall-in-the-dorms-buddy Matt Groening gave it the sound "D'oh!"  Imagine your own sound.  That's the one.

Remember the blog that included silhouettes marching around the outside of a building?  Big, larger than life silhouettes?

(Recognize the figures yet?)

I'll give you a clue.  We're in New Zealand.

(Do you have it yet?)

Second clue - this is from a movie that is being re-released, in 3-D format or extended version or something like that.

(Are you getting warmer?)

Third clue - it was filmed here in NZ.

(Have you smacked yourself on the forehead and said "D'oh!" yet?)

I did!  We walked by a bank and post office that had the same figures, smaller than life size, marching across the windows.  And suddenly, DUH, why didn't I see this before???

We have a group of heroes and hobbits, our buddies Bilbo Baggins and maybe Frodo and I don't remember who else, following Gandalf, across Middle Earth and on to find the Ring and get it away from Gollum and save the world.

Yup, Wellington is suffering from Hobbit Fever, with banners and flags and stamps and these silhouettes, getting everyone ready for the new and improved version of the movie.  So we have hobbits and all marching around or looking down from lampposts.  I don't know how I didn't see that immediately! 


Not that seeing Wellington on a beautiful day is a "D'oh!" moment - not at all.  It was just a beautiful day that got prettier and prettier as the sun came out and the clouds retreated.



But I suspect some city planner immediately regretted having his young daughter name a street.

 "What are you doing, Daddy?"  "I'm naming streets, sweetheart."  "Oh Daddy, pleasepleaseplease let me name a street!!!"  "Oh baby, you're too young, this is serious work!"  "Oh please, Daddy, let me name just one street!!!"  "Okay, you can name one street, we'll put it here, on this side of town, it will run from Waterloo Quay, you see?  What would you like to name your street, dear?"  "Oh Daddy, BUNNY Street - my favorite toy!  Please Daddy, can't we have BUNNY street???"

Feeling Like the Dumb American (North, that is)

Te Papa, the National Museum

This is one of those times when I come face to face with my ignorance.  I can blame the fact that I’ve spent the last 25 years in the Virgin Islands, where we are somewhat sheltered from world news.  I can blame the fact that I’m from the US, where we tend to be somewhat egocentric about world news – and I have to say, watching New Zealand news coverage of the US election does reinforce the notion of the US as the center of world politics.  I can also blame the fact that social sciences and history and politics have never been my strong areas, despite my interest in anthropology and international studies and cultures.

At any rate, Te Papa – Maori for “treasure box” which it truly is – was an eye-opener.  I found out how LITTLE I truly know about New Zealand.  For example, the Maori are most likely from originally from various Pacific islands, but not Hawaii, and came to New Zealand about 800-1000 years ago.  That the Maori aren’t one nation or group of people, but rather are a number of different tribes who formed a confederation to deal with the incoming whites “Pakehas.”  That there have been numerous other immigrants over the years, from other Pacific islands, from the Balkans, from Italy – as well as a large group of orphaned and homeless Polish children after WWII.  That Sir Edmund Hillary was from New Zealand.  That the British signed a treaty in 1840 agreeing to allow the Maori use of their lands, fishing rights, all that – and reneged on the treaty.  Until they apologized and basically signed the treaty back into law in modern times.  And on and on. 

Te Papa is a gorgeous museum – with amazing exhibits of the history, art, and culture of New Zealand.  There are New Zealand artists displayed, as well as European artists like Gainsborough, Reynolds, Turner, to name a few.  There are painters who took Maori designs and rendered the symbols in more Western formats.  Exhibits featured a Maori waka (canoe) from the early 1900s, an elaborately carved entrance to a community house, video testimonials and artifacts collected from immigrants, political posters, interactive computer games – on and on. 

I made it through about half the museum before my brain when into overload or hyperdrive or something. 

But I learned so much.  I learned that this nation has always been multicultural, but that it didn’t become the pluralistic society we’ve seen until the 1980s.  That Maori language and culture has undergone almost a renaissance since then.  That it took a great deal of effort and foresight on the part of communities leaders to overcome the prejudices against and marginalization of the indigenous peoples. 

Makes me realize that those of us living in much of the rest of the world have a lot to learn from this small country.

Land of the Long White Cloud

That’s the Maori name for New Zealand – Aotearoa, land of the long white cloud.  Today, it fits – on Friday the wind turned wild and came out of the north, icy cold and gale force, shepherding in clouds like flying sheep.  The clouds blew in overhead, first in small puffs like lambs, then larger and greyer, until eventually they were huge rams, butting heads and pushing each other out of the way, filling the sky.  By Friday night the wind was raging and the clouds turned to mist, fog, and eventually rain.  Saturday – rain and rain and more rain.  Cold, grey, wet, we might as well have stayed in Seattle!

 

Richard pointed out that we aren’t on vacation – or holiday, as people would say here.  We’re just living.  We’re retired.  So I don’t have to be my usual see-everything-today kind of traveler.  I can relax and just do what I feel like – and if I feel like staying in on a nasty rainy day, then that’s okay.  I don’t have to see everything and do everything.  MY TIME IS NOT LIMITED.  That’s the most important concept – my time is not limited.  We can stay here longer.  We can come back.  We don’t have a set itinerary.  We’re living – we just happen to be living in Wellington, NZ for a while, and we happen to be living in a hotel at the moment.

My brain is adjusting to this.

I’m also adjusting to the language.  Who knew that reading British children’s books as a child would prepare me for time in New Zealand?  Sultanas are raisins.  (You can buy sultana scones, which are tasty for brekkers, or sultana bran cereal, also for brekkers, haven’t tried it yet.)  Milk comes in jugs, not pitchers.  Of course, tea also comes in jugs, not tea pots.  We’re asked if we’re on holiday – not holiday as in a special day, just holiday as in vacation.  Sometimes our brains try to sound more British than American.  We both have shifts in our accents, and our phrasing sounds slightly like Jane Austen.

Anyway, I took a long walk on Friday, watching the clouds blow in, trying to not get blown down the street or off a bridge myself.  There was one point, while crossing a street, when a sudden gust blew me off course – that’s how strong the wind was!  But it was a walk on the wild side as the stormy weather blew in, elemental, atavistic.

I found a sculpture, a large boulder carved with the Maori design of a feather – the symbol or emblem of the son of one of the Maori gods (or ancestors?  I don’t remember exactly).  But the feather has come to symbolize spirituality, harmony, and unity – and from there, a symbol of peaceful co-existence among the various Maori nations.  The feather seems to be the symbol of the All Blacks, New Zealand’s national rugby team – a team that I believe began with all Maori players and now is mixed, but is still one of the best rugby teams in the world.  (Interestingly, the women’s rugby team is the Ferns – and the stylized feather on the Rugby Union can double as a fern.  At least, that’s my visual take on it.)

 
I also found a building with, well, I don’t know how to describe this.  Silhouettes of explorers?  Maori warriors?  Various ancestors?  Anyway, larger-than-life-size silhouettes marching across the exterior of a building, maybe eight or ten storeys up.  Marching around the corner of the building, with no explanation.  Just marching.

 






But my favorite – in the railway station – there it was, the platform we’ve all been looking for, the platform to the Hogwarts Express.  I wasn’t able to buy a ticket for this train, but at least we know how to find the platform when we need it.

A Walking Tour of Wellington

We decided to just wander around Wellington, both to orient ourselves as well as to just get a feel for the city and the country.

We wandered around our neighborhood of Thorndon, which is in the area of the Parliament and other government buildings.  An interesting feature of Wellington, possibly all of New Zealand, is that government buildings and offices are labeled in both English and Maori.  And many of these signs have symbols, emblems, logos that are reminiscent of Maori tattoo or carved designs – the interlaced curves and spirals that likely represent fish, animals, plants, weather patterns in abstract forms.  It seems, from what we’ve read, that the Maori people are well-represented and well-respected within the New Zealand culture and society as a whole – that they aren’t marginalized nor disenfranchised, the way so many indigenous people have been in so many countries colonized by European nations.  At the same time, the Maori culture hasn’t been absorbed or diluted by the Anglo-Saxon culture of the British Commonwealth; the Maori people have kept their culture and language alive and vibrant.  This seems to be, on day one, a very pluralistic society.  And I like that! 

So we walked along the waterfront, the Customshouse Quay, and practiced our Britishisms.  “Yield” signs are now “Give Way.”  Napkins are serviettes.  Sometimes we understand a comment or answer the first time round, sometimes we have to say “sorry?” a time or two before we our American ears decipher the language.  There are Chinese accents, Indian or Pakistani or Sri Lankan accents, Asian accents, Maori accents, and the New Zealand accent which is more like Australian (or perhaps Cockney?) than anything else – our ears are adjusting.  Hopefully they will soon become educated.

We also walked up and down Cuba Street, which has all kinds of little shops and places to eat – and wonderful people watching.  We looked at signs (“adverts”) for the Guy Fawkes Day fireworks (Monday, Nov. 5).  We crossed bridges, looked at Maori canoes covered in fabulous carvings, and sampled the ever-present meat pies.  

              

We’re used to people driving on the left – but now we’re adjusting to seeing right-hand drive vehicles.  We were getting used to autumn and trees losing leaves, now we’re readjusting to early spring and bright green new foliage and new flowers.


We also are used to being the rebellious colonies - now we're in an area that is proudly part of the British Commonwealth!

And of course tea – choices of tea, served in a heated pot and with a small pitcher of milk, because this is part of the Commonwealth.   

 

The Queen is on the twenty dollar bill, Sir Edmund Hillary is on the five, and a penguin is on the back.  Well, the 

karearea is on the back of the twenty, it seems to be some kind of bird of prey, I’m not sure what.  I suspect “karearea” is the Maori name, since the penguin is labeled “hoiho” – and I know this is really a penguin.

It's a beautiful sunny day, although we think the breeze is chilly.  But there are Wellingtonians out enjoying the early spring, full of sunshine and the promise of summer - runners, bikers, joggers, walkers, mothers with babies in strollers, mothers with toddlers on leashes, young couples, old tourists, groups of students, businessmen or politicians in suits - everyone is out and about, along the quay or on the quirky bridges, getting some bracingly fresh air during their lunch break.

It’s an adjustment.  It’s only our first day, so we’re taking it slowly, and letting our minds and bodies adjust to this new place and new season.  

It Wouldn’t Be a Phebe and Richard Trip Without Drama

There we were at Immigration and Customs, with forms in hand, passports at the ready, and supplemental paperwork in our files.  We waited in line with “Other Passports,” watching the New Zealand and Australia passport holder queues speeding through.  Eventually it was our turn, and we handed over the forms and passports.

Then we were asked for our itineraries for travel onward.  Which, as rolling luggagers, we don’t have.  We explained that we didn’t have flights out planned, that we were just traveling through, but that we did have proof of income and funds. And that, from reading their website, we thought that was all that was required.

Our Customs agent handed us over to an Immigration Officer, and we followed him off to the side.  He explained that we should either have an outbound flight, or have already obtained the three month visa – that the airline should never have let us on the plane without confirming that we had outbound flights as well, and that they would be fined.  (Sorry Qantas!!!!)  We read the entry requirements online, and it definitely sounded as if proof of support was all we needed!  No one asked us about outbound flights prior to boarding any of the flights, and in fact American Airlines booked our one way flights, and Qantas changed our seats around – all of that done on the phone – and no mention was ever made of needing flights out before we could land.

Mr. Immigration took our boarding passes from the flight to New Zealand, our entire trip itineraries in, as well as our passports.  He reviewed our bank statements proving funds, and took everything back to an office to make photocopies. 

We waited.  And we waited.  We probably waited for 20 or 30 minutes, while Mr. Immigration made photocopies and who knows what else.  Richard suggested that maybe he was watching us from a camera, to see if we looked nervous.  I thought maybe he was researching us online, or looking us up in some kind of worldwide database.  Richard then said maybe we’d spend a night in jail and then be deported.  We had no clue.  It was tense, but we watched another planeload of people come through, and chatted with another agent – I think he may have been Maori, he kind of looked like it, and he had a wonderful black and red tattoo on his arm in those intricate curling designs.

Eventually Mr. Immigration Official came back, and apologized for making us wait.  We made demurring noises – it’s okay, we understand, have to check, blah blah blah.  He said they’d go ahead and give us the three month visa as if we’d applied ahead of time, that he could see we had funds to support ourselves, and to go ahead and get stamped in by the man we had spoken with earlier.

So we made it into the country, without being arrested or deported or spending a night in jail.  And we were never asked about our medications (we have more than three months worth), or anything else.

Sometimes being middle-aged and looking innocuous is helpful!

Qantas Wins

Qantas is a great airline – the flight attendants are helpful and friendly, and actually chat with flyers and play with babies.  The telephone agent who confirmed our seats blocked off the middle seat, and not only were we in an exit row, we had the huge giant exit row opposite the flight attendants’ seats - we had move than enough legroom.  I could have laid down and slept in all that space!

Each seat had a pillow and blanket for sleeping – not just a little paper pillow, a real pillow with a cloth case.  Headsets were provided, as were eye masks, disposable toothbrush, a tiny toothpaste tube.  Each seat also had a private entertainment screen, with games, TV shows, movies, a map of the flight’s progress, and I don’t know what else (because I was reading my Kindle.)

Despite the fact that the flight left at 10:20 PM, we were served a midnight dinner – with a choice of entrées.  Lovely salad, okay chicken and sides, roll, variety of drinks, mini tiramisu dessert, and a delightful sliver of Valrona chocolate.   We ate, we relaxed, and as we snuggled in for the night flight we were given a bag with snacks and water, just in case we needed something during the night.

It was a fairly smooth flight and we both managed to sleep, and woke up fairly refreshed.  It was still dark, we managed to fly in the dark for close to ten hours. Somewhere in the night we crossed the International Date Line, as well as the Equator.  We went from Monday, October 29 to Wednesday, October 31.  Tuesday disappeared into the ether. But the sunrise was gorgeous and breakfast was served – fresh fruit, yoghurt, choice of eggs or cereal, and a muffin.  And cup after cup of tea or coffee. 

Then there it was – Australia!  Sydney!  Only a transit point, but still, here we were at our first stop on this side of the world, the eastern and southern hemisphere!  YAY!!!!

We slogged through the Sydney airport, went through another security screening, and then to the transit area.  A cup of coffee for Richard, tea for myself, and free wifi – we were set for our wait. 

Once again, we left on time, and we had the window and aisle seats with an empty seat between us.  It was a 2 hr 45 minute flight, with another breakfast, and more time to read or watch shows on the screen. 

We flew eastward, not quite retracing our steps since we headed further south – and then green green New Zealand – hills and fjords and rocky mountains covered in snow – New Zealand!  After something like 27 hours of traveling, we reach our final destination, Wellington.  Even bigger YAAAAAY!!!!!

Seattle, The Emerald City, The Caffeine City

There are so many things I love about Seattle, mainly the fact that I have so many dear friends there, and a trip to Seattle is always a whirlwind of get togethers and catching up.  But the always green quality of the city, the huge green spaces and parks and undeveloped hills and the evergreen trees with dots of autumn color changing trees makes it a beautiful place.  Ferries dot the Sound as they sail to the various islands, seals ply the waters, eagles soar overhead, and there’s a feeling of peace and nature in Seattle that I love, as if this city isn’t really a city but just a few neighborhoods set in a giant green park that is wedged between Puget Sound on the west and Lake Washington on the east.  The green extends to the outlook of the people, with recycling bins and post-consumer-recycled products and electric buses running on hydroelectric power – it’s just green.

Then there’s the weather.  The weather is often just grey.  The weather might be the worst part about Seattle.  The weather is definitely why I don’t live in the Pacific Northwest.  There are gorgeous days, with a deep blue cloudless sky and golden sunlight.  There are clear days, when the mountains come out.  Yes, that’s what we say, “Rainier is out today” or “The Olympics [or Cascades] are out today” – meaning they have come out from behind the thick layers of grey haze/cloud/fog/mist/rain/drizzle that often envelopes the region.

Of course, in my head I know that all that moisture is why western Washington is so green all year, and why the flowers are so amazing in the spring – fields of daffodils, tulips, hyacinths, orchards of flowering fruit trees, neighborhoods of rhododendron and azaleas and of course the most amazingly fragrant lilacs.

But the skies are grey, the foliage is muted by the mist, and the damp creeps into your bones.  So I visit, I have wonderful times with wonderful friends, and the weather gods usually give me a few weeks of perfect weather and a few weeks to remind me why I don’t live there anymore.

I have a theory though – that grey wet weather that presses on your eyes and brain, that makes you feel as if you aren’t quite awake – that weather is the reason Seattle is such a center of caffeine culture.  Everyone knows that Starbucks began in Seattle.  Tourists go to the original Starbucks shop in Pike Place Market (just known as the Market to those who live in Seattle) and take photos of each other, as if they’ve arrived at Mecca or the Vatican.  Then there was Seattle’s Best Coffee, and all the myriad independent coffee shops all around the city – nearly a coffee shop on every block.  There are drive up coffee shops, so you don’t have to get out of your car to get your latte or mocha.  There are lingerie and bikini coffee shops to try to pull in male coffee drinks who get a different kind of wake up.  (I have to interject that this has got to be one of the most sexist and exploitive things I’ve heard of in quite a while, and I will never patronize such a place.)

There are tea houses as well, because some of us love our Earl Grey or English Breakfast or Oolong or Chai.  And of course most coffee shops also carry a variety of teas.  Newest is Rooibos, a non-tea-leaf tea that is tasty but seems to put me to sleep.

And best of all, Seattle has the chocolaterias.  Not that they call them that.  No no no, we have gourmet chocolateires in Seattle – The Dilettante, Fran’s Rose’s, Theo’s, to name a few.  Handmade truffles and bars and cakes and cookies and unbelievable hot chocolate with choices from milk chocolate to 70% dark.  Chocolate-covered espresso beans, just in case you need an extra bit of caffeine in your life.

 

And, as everyone knows, chocolate is a basic food group and you should have some every day.

So you can imagine my delight when, after arriving at the airport and going through the security screening (does anyone else pretend they’re a criminal ready for a pat-down with that new hands-above-head stance in the security tube?) – as I enter the post-security terminal – there, my personal Mecca, my Jerusalem, there it is, the Dilettante Mocha Café!!!!!!!  OMG, my heart leaps and pounds, my mouth begins to salivate, my cells cry out CHOOOOOOOOOCCOOOOOOLAAAAAAAATE!!!!!!!!

I had a Grande Nonfat 70% Hot Chocolate (made with molten chocolate instead of the Dutch processed) – because this is still Seattle and that’s how we order drinks around here.  I shared a piece of Rigo Jansci torte with Richard on the plane.  (Dark chocolate cake with over an inch of dark chocolate whipped cream in the center, and a dark smooth ganache on the top.  I have the Dilettante cookbook, and I make my own version of this cake for very special occasions.  That whipped cream center takes a quart or so of cream, whipped, and then mixed with about a pound of melted semi-sweet chocolate.  Heaven in a bowl.  Heaven between layers of chocolate cake.  Absolutely amazing stuff.  I’ve been known to put it in a goblet and call it chocolate mousse.)

And Richard bought the chocolate covered shortbread cookies, which we shared with our seatmate on the way to LA, shared with my little niece who met us at the airport, and then polished off somewhere over the Pacific Ocean in the middle of the night.  (And I only had two out of the box, just so you know who the true Midnight Cookie Monster was.)

Happy Halloween to us!