Here Comes the Sun

Remind me never to stay at Mountain View Backpackers in Wanaka again. The queen-size bed is a double, the room not much larger with a low acoustical tile ceiling, bare grey walls and a musty smell, and there are no towels. Outside my door, a group of young people is smoking, drinking and shrilling. The living area is minuscule and inhabited by a sneezing, coughing, nose-blowing young man who is blasting germs throughout the whole place including the adjoining kitchen, where there are bugs in the sugar container. And the mountain view is a 2-inch square. For $60 a night, I expect a little more (and have been getting more). I don’t even want to open my suitcase to expose the contents to such an environment. On the bright side, the bed is comfy and the room warm. On the dismal side again, we have the share the bed. Syd and I have nothing to do (no Internet!) but lie around and try to plan our route for the remaining trip. We’re halfway through the journey already, and feeling the pinch of limited time.

. . .

Next day

Last night I took a picture of the alpenglow on the mountains around Lake Wanaka.

And here is the same scene this morning.

After the usual coffee and muffin, we drove toward Queenstown, past a historic cemetery where someone from County Cork lay in eternal sleep.

We wended our way over the icy, snow-dotted Crown Range Summit, the sun making a rare appearance, giving us a taste of New Zealand’s mountainous splendor.

The road surface was quite grotty with grit and gravel, which improved traction. Off in the distance you can see Lake Wakatipu, and woodfire-smoke-blanketed Arrowtown lies down in the valley, the valley so low.

Arrowtown is an 1860s gold mining town that is the Southern Hemisphere’s version of Nevada City. We dipped into numerous pricey shops along the burg’s main street, Syd looking for a merino shirt and I seeking nothing in particular, enthusiasm crushed by the prices.

There are more clothing boutiques per block here than in Maiden Lane. If my mommy were here, I suspect she would have bought me the warm, well-fitting pants I desire. There was also a rose-colored possum-merino knitted scarf that I adored. Mommy, where AH you???

Language lesson: When someone wants you to wait, they might say, “Just two wee seconds there.”

I’m at an Irish pub now, drinking earl grey tea and waiting for a roasted potato, kumara (sweet potato), pumpkin, feta, pumpkin seed, cashew and mozzarella pizza, sitting by a gas fire and writing five postcards. I just got an email from Eleni saying a child was murdered and three others shot in the apartment across the street from her. The media have been swarming the neighborhood.

. . .

Now I’m at our hostel in Queenstown, 1000 times nicer than last night’s, with this view from the deck and a pleasant living area and pleasant people.

Mabbie will be here any minute and I’m nervous. Will we have anything to talk about? Will we have an enthusiastic greeting and then look at each other blankly for two days? With the help of the hostel manager, I’ve hung some decorations and made a ¡Happy Birthday, Mabs! sign, for her birthday is today and that is her name. I am a logical person.

As I wait I’m watching mist drift in across the lake, hiding the mountain-feet but leaving the peaks untouched and brilliant.

. . .

I saw a taxi pull up the hostel and ran to tell the manager to get ready to sing. So as Mabbie walked in, she got a rousing chorus of Happy Birthday from all assembled guests. She laughed and we exchanged hugs. We sat on the sofa and talked and talked. She remembers what I remember: that we weren’t really friends—we never went to each other’s house—but we liked each other. In ninth grade we were assigned seats next to each other in homeroom, and used to pass notes back and forth. Not notes, really, but massively imaginative short stories. And here’s the amazing thing: in our school, children were divided by perceived scholastic ability: the A, B and C sections. I was always in the C section, deemed academically mediocre. Mabbie has a PhD in philosophy and music and is extremely bright and articulate. I asked what section she had been in. She was in the C section too. So who were the people in the A and B sections? Some are surgeons and university professors, but others are real boneheads, I know for a fact. It was a revelation that someone so smart was considered as un-achieving as I. I asked why she had been nice to me way back when, when the other popular kids weren’t. “I had nothing to prove,” she said. She was someone who was blessed with confidence.

The three of us went to dinner at an Indian restaurant. Syd took this picture. Look at the person photo-bombing us in the middle.