Goin' South
It's 5:40 a.m., and my alarm is sounding. Actually, both alarms. I was paranoid about missing our bus which would mean we'd miss our ferry to the South Island. Not a chance. It's a 2-alarm morning. I dress quickly, and Finley stirs. "Is it morning?" he asks. "Yes, honey," I say. "Time to get dressed." It's early, but could be a lot worse. I'm always reminded, during these early wake-up calls, about the time I got the kids up at 3 a.m. to fly to Mallorca, Spain. We'd crashed on our friend, Anne's, couch for a few hours before driving a half-hour to the Geneva, Switzerland airport with our friend and nanny, Chelsea. The early morning air stung our noses and chilled our hands -it was about 30 degrees (Fahrenheit) outside. Fiona and Finley were such troopers – I'd warned them about the early alarm, and they popped up without a fuss. I was stunned. They can be such pills, I forget to give them credit for the many times they humor 'ole mom by being really good kids and good travelers. 3 a.m. drive to the airport? No problem. Wait in line a half-hour to check in? We'll just play on the luggage.We'll put a jacket on the carry-on bag's handle and pretend it's a person. No worries, mom.
After a quick breakfast of 'Bugs 'N Mud' (the kids' favorite NZ chocolate cereal), we walk 3 blocks to the Youth Hostel to catch our bus. Wellington's still asleep. It's Easter Monday and ANZAC Day and most Kiwis have a day off with family. Our Party of 3 quick-steps past shops and cafes, alongside the Subway sandwich shop, Burger King, and local Indian restaurants. Finley wheels our suitcase (we're sharing one for this trip), and Fiona carries a bag with a car seat. If you wanna be my kid, you gotta be a Sherpa. Only I'm pretty sure Sherpas don't complain like Fiona and Finley: "This bag is too heavy!" "Why does Finley get to pull the wheely one?" asks Fiona.
The 3 of us schlep 1 suitcase, 2 bags with carseats, plus purse and backpack to the terminal of the Interislander ferry, Kaitaki (which means 'Challenger' in Maori). The ship will take us to Picton, on the South Island. The crossing
traverses the Cook Strait for 92 kilometers (50 miles) and takes 3 hours. The ship has 10 levels, one of which includes a "Little Pirates Mess Room" - play area with inflatable slide. Fiona and Finn bounce around 20 minutes before I reach my below-deck limit. If I wanted to stare at bouncy slides and plastic play structures, I would've taken the kids to McDonald's. Scenery lured me to the ferry in the first place. We take the stairs from Level 2 to Level 7 and step outside. I ask a man if he'll snap a picture of the kids and I. He has an American accent. "Where you from?" I ask. "Washington State..." he says, and I can tell he's about to explain where that is, because you learn quickly after leaving the U.S. no one knows the difference between Out West Washington and Washington, D.C. (heck, we don't know that in the U.S., either). Even Finn's teacher said, "Oh, I've always wanted to visit the Smithsonian." I tell the picture-taker, "I know Washington. We're from Spokane." Picture-taker's from Seattle.
The kids and I settle into reclining seats on Level 7 and I give them my iPod to watch "Monster House." My plan is working so brilliantly, I doze off for a few minutes. I'm sleeping until a crew member blares a very important message over the intercom: "Good morning, passengers. We would like to advise you that the food court on Deck 8 is serving Hot Cross Buns." Thanks. Those buns might save our lives. I'll don a life vest and be right up. Fi and Finn aren't wild about the buns, because they contain raisins. They are, however, starving by the time we dock, grab our baggage from the carousel and collect our rental car, which will cost at total of $90 in junk fees: $45 for a holiday surcharge, because it's Easter Monday and ANZAC day, and another $45 for unlimited miles. Damn Pegasus rentals. Should've gone with another company. Clearly, I've slacked on the travel planning. Also, remind me never to travel in New Zealand on a public holiday. Everything costs more. Damn holiday surcharge.
We order lunch from the Dog & Frog cafe on Picton's main drag (another place with the dreaded 15% holiday surcharge). I take the kids into a gift shop next door while we wait for our food. It's chock full of Kiwi bird souvenirs, fern leaves, All Black logo apparel...the usual Kiwiana. The owner's a middle-aged man with a heavy Scottish brogue. He asks where we're from and tells us his children lived on 5 continents before becoming adults. "It's been great for them," he says. I resist the urge to ask the Scotsman if he's ever seen the Saturday Night Live comedy skit with Mike Myers at a store called, "All Things Scottish," where the motto is, "If it's not Scottish, it's crap!" (make sure to trill the "r" on "crap.") Pass the haggis and show me to the kilts.
Fiona and Finley devour pancakes and bacon for lunch, while I dive into thick pumpkin soup. It's heaven in a bowl: steaming hot, orange, creamy - tastes and smells like autumn. I shuffle the kids to Picton's harbour park for pictures. Fiona says, "I wish Daddy was here." Me too, honey, He'd love it here.
I key our destination into Lucy, which is what Finley's named our new GPS (the first one I bought died after only a month, so the store replaced it with a new one – but only after sending it to Auckland for repairs and having their engineer write, "Screen black. Fails to operate," which is exactly what I told the guy at JB Hi-Fi). We take Highway 6 towards Blenheim, bound for Nelson. Suddenly, the car fills with the odor of vinegar and eggs. What is that hideous smell? "Finley, did you take your shoes off?" I ask. "Yes," he says. Who knew a 5-year-old's feet could smell so rank? I make a mental note to burn the shoes. Except they're Finley's only pair for the week. Bugger.
This is the Marlborough region – wine country, so I'm practically bound by law to stop at a winery or 2. We visit St. Clair, where the kids sprawl on a carpet inside the cafe while I stand at the counter, tasting wine with Canadian, French and American tourists. I buy a bottle of bubbly for our hosts in Christchurch. Afterwards, Finley helps me gather about 10 pounds of feijoas (an egg-shaped fruit related to guava the kids and I have become addicted to) that have dropped from trees outside. Fiona finds a large feijoa, bites off the top and starts sucking out the inside. I make another deviation to a winery called Cloudy Bay, where an employee with a Canadian accent pours a gorgeous ("gorgeous" is one of New Zealanders' favorite adjectives) Chardonnay, Pinot Gris, Gewurtraminer and 2 kinds of Pinot Noir. Bottles range in price from $25-$45. I pass on buying anything here. I collect the kids, who've started whinging: "I'm tired! When are we gonna be there?"
I tell them they can sleep in the car. "But I can't get comfy in the car," says Fiona. Both kids are asleep within 15 minutes of hitting the road. We drive an hour and-a-half to Nelson, winding through stretches of narrow, shoulderless road with 12 shades of New Zealand green on either side. Clouds blanket the mountains; gray carpets the ground. It's beautiful, even minus sunshine and blue sky. Leaves on the wine trellises are changing colors – from green, to yellow, to orange. Harvest time...
(cont'd. In next post)
It's 5:40 a.m., and my alarm is sounding. Actually, both alarms. I was paranoid about missing our bus which would mean we'd miss our ferry to the South Island. Not a chance. It's a 2-alarm morning. I dress quickly, and Finley stirs. "Is it morning?" he asks. "Yes, honey," I say. "Time to get dressed." It's early, but could be a lot worse. I'm always reminded, during these early wake-up calls, about the time I got the kids up at 3 a.m. to fly to Mallorca, Spain. We'd crashed on our friend, Anne's, couch for a few hours before driving a half-hour to the Geneva, Switzerland airport with our friend and nanny, Chelsea. The early morning air stung our noses and chilled our hands -it was about 30 degrees (Fahrenheit) outside. Fiona and Finley were such troopers – I'd warned them about the early alarm, and they popped up without a fuss. I was stunned. They can be such pills, I forget to give them credit for the many times they humor 'ole mom by being really good kids and good travelers. 3 a.m. drive to the airport? No problem. Wait in line a half-hour to check in? We'll just play on the luggage.We'll put a jacket on the carry-on bag's handle and pretend it's a person. No worries, mom.
After a quick breakfast of 'Bugs 'N Mud' (the kids' favorite NZ chocolate cereal), we walk 3 blocks to the Youth Hostel to catch our bus. Wellington's still asleep. It's Easter Monday and ANZAC Day and most Kiwis have a day off with family. Our Party of 3 quick-steps past shops and cafes, alongside the Subway sandwich shop, Burger King, and local Indian restaurants. Finley wheels our suitcase (we're sharing one for this trip), and Fiona carries a bag with a car seat. If you wanna be my kid, you gotta be a Sherpa. Only I'm pretty sure Sherpas don't complain like Fiona and Finley: "This bag is too heavy!" "Why does Finley get to pull the wheely one?" asks Fiona.
The 3 of us schlep 1 suitcase, 2 bags with carseats, plus purse and backpack to the terminal of the Interislander ferry, Kaitaki (which means 'Challenger' in Maori). The ship will take us to Picton, on the South Island. The crossing
traverses the Cook Strait for 92 kilometers (50 miles) and takes 3 hours. The ship has 10 levels, one of which includes a "Little Pirates Mess Room" - play area with inflatable slide. Fiona and Finn bounce around 20 minutes before I reach my below-deck limit. If I wanted to stare at bouncy slides and plastic play structures, I would've taken the kids to McDonald's. Scenery lured me to the ferry in the first place. We take the stairs from Level 2 to Level 7 and step outside. I ask a man if he'll snap a picture of the kids and I. He has an American accent. "Where you from?" I ask. "Washington State..." he says, and I can tell he's about to explain where that is, because you learn quickly after leaving the U.S. no one knows the difference between Out West Washington and Washington, D.C. (heck, we don't know that in the U.S., either). Even Finn's teacher said, "Oh, I've always wanted to visit the Smithsonian." I tell the picture-taker, "I know Washington. We're from Spokane." Picture-taker's from Seattle.
The kids and I settle into reclining seats on Level 7 and I give them my iPod to watch "Monster House." My plan is working so brilliantly, I doze off for a few minutes. I'm sleeping until a crew member blares a very important message over the intercom: "Good morning, passengers. We would like to advise you that the food court on Deck 8 is serving Hot Cross Buns." Thanks. Those buns might save our lives. I'll don a life vest and be right up. Fi and Finn aren't wild about the buns, because they contain raisins. They are, however, starving by the time we dock, grab our baggage from the carousel and collect our rental car, which will cost at total of $90 in junk fees: $45 for a holiday surcharge, because it's Easter Monday and ANZAC day, and another $45 for unlimited miles. Damn Pegasus rentals. Should've gone with another company. Clearly, I've slacked on the travel planning. Also, remind me never to travel in New Zealand on a public holiday. Everything costs more. Damn holiday surcharge.
We order lunch from the Dog & Frog cafe on Picton's main drag (another place with the dreaded 15% holiday surcharge). I take the kids into a gift shop next door while we wait for our food. It's chock full of Kiwi bird souvenirs, fern leaves, All Black logo apparel...the usual Kiwiana. The owner's a middle-aged man with a heavy Scottish brogue. He asks where we're from and tells us his children lived on 5 continents before becoming adults. "It's been great for them," he says. I resist the urge to ask the Scotsman if he's ever seen the Saturday Night Live comedy skit with Mike Myers at a store called, "All Things Scottish," where the motto is, "If it's not Scottish, it's crap!" (make sure to trill the "r" on "crap.") Pass the haggis and show me to the kilts.
Fiona and Finley devour pancakes and bacon for lunch, while I dive into thick pumpkin soup. It's heaven in a bowl: steaming hot, orange, creamy - tastes and smells like autumn. I shuffle the kids to Picton's harbour park for pictures. Fiona says, "I wish Daddy was here." Me too, honey, He'd love it here.
I key our destination into Lucy, which is what Finley's named our new GPS (the first one I bought died after only a month, so the store replaced it with a new one – but only after sending it to Auckland for repairs and having their engineer write, "Screen black. Fails to operate," which is exactly what I told the guy at JB Hi-Fi). We take Highway 6 towards Blenheim, bound for Nelson. Suddenly, the car fills with the odor of vinegar and eggs. What is that hideous smell? "Finley, did you take your shoes off?" I ask. "Yes," he says. Who knew a 5-year-old's feet could smell so rank? I make a mental note to burn the shoes. Except they're Finley's only pair for the week. Bugger.
This is the Marlborough region – wine country, so I'm practically bound by law to stop at a winery or 2. We visit St. Clair, where the kids sprawl on a carpet inside the cafe while I stand at the counter, tasting wine with Canadian, French and American tourists. I buy a bottle of bubbly for our hosts in Christchurch. Afterwards, Finley helps me gather about 10 pounds of feijoas (an egg-shaped fruit related to guava the kids and I have become addicted to) that have dropped from trees outside. Fiona finds a large feijoa, bites off the top and starts sucking out the inside. I make another deviation to a winery called Cloudy Bay, where an employee with a Canadian accent pours a gorgeous ("gorgeous" is one of New Zealanders' favorite adjectives) Chardonnay, Pinot Gris, Gewurtraminer and 2 kinds of Pinot Noir. Bottles range in price from $25-$45. I pass on buying anything here. I collect the kids, who've started whinging: "I'm tired! When are we gonna be there?"
I tell them they can sleep in the car. "But I can't get comfy in the car," says Fiona. Both kids are asleep within 15 minutes of hitting the road. We drive an hour and-a-half to Nelson, winding through stretches of narrow, shoulderless road with 12 shades of New Zealand green on either side. Clouds blanket the mountains; gray carpets the ground. It's beautiful, even minus sunshine and blue sky. Leaves on the wine trellises are changing colors – from green, to yellow, to orange. Harvest time...
(cont'd. In next post)
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