A little advice: When you visit the shower stalls on the Manly Quarantine Station Ghost Tour, be sure to mind the 6 inch drainage gap between the stall wall and the floor.  I received this advice myself from the tour guide. But if you’re anything like me, you’re not listening anyway because all you care about is which stall you’re most likely to have a supernatural encounter in.  And if you are me, what you are is the American tourist who does not mind that gap and falls spectacularly into the stall. It was the loudest noise in the history of Australia and scared the living shit out of my fellow ghosthunters. My brother snapped this picture right when they realized it was me, “Oh Goddamit, Sarah..really?!”

We’ve moved into that post-production phase of vacation.  My brother and sister are back in New York  recovering from jetlag and sending the higher res photos I demand because I can’t stomach Facebook’s crap compression.  Meanwhile, I’m waking up to notes from every single person we convinced to participate in our comedy shorts throughout the country, because normal people shoot scripted movies on vacation.  And by “comedy” I mean a series of quick jokes that are so inside, a note saying, “We should add the Perfect Strangers theme song!” makes perfect sense.

Aaron and Bekah have used one word over and over to describe this trip to friends; epic. Going through all of this media in the quiet of a hotel room for my last few days in Australia, I couldn’t agree more. We have very different epic tales to tell, however.

Snorkeling on the Reef, the Great Ocean Road, Double Coat Tim Tams… their photos make up the classic first Aussie vacation which is a mind-blowing, jetlagged blast. Since I was just tagging along for the ride and skipping sights I had seen, my album is made up of all the people along the way who I had more time to spend on during this second trip to Oz. The first stop on my first trip was Port Douglas as it was this second time around..and will be on the third, fourth, and fifty-seventh trip to Australia. Now that I’m an obnoxious world traveler who calls her home country, “The States”, I can officially say that Port Douglas is one of my favorite places in the world.

Picture an Upstate NY or New England small town with a typical Main Street. Now imagine a marina with boats heading to the Great Barrier Reef at one end, and the Coral Sea with a gelato stand that sells the best flavor ever, Burnt Toffee, at the other.  That is Port Douglas. And because I was on my second visit, I was able to spend some quality time in the middle of Main Street with the people who live, work, or just meander through there.

The number 1 person being Conan, the Mayor of Port Douglas. Not really… but really, he should be. I have never met anyone who is so up for anything and everything. When you get to town, text him and ask him out for coffee or a beer… or a bike ride or tango lessons… or a police car chase or nude modeling… or a sleepover party or salon day. His answer will always be the same, “Fuk yeah! Where are you?” No “C” in the F word ever. Probably because it takes too much time to type and Conan just wants to get down to business.

This is our third visit together and it was most definitely a charm. The longer you know Conan, the better the texts get. “Right..went to karaoke tonight and sang ‘If I Could Turn Back Time by Cher’ didn’t turn out as great as I thought. BULLSHIT, IT WAS AWESOME!” Or after my family left Port and I had a few extra days on my own, “Dinner party tonight at an unreal apartment. Get dressed up and bring your swimmies!”

No explanation as to why we were getting dressed up, what this party is for, whose place this is, or what the hell swimmies are. For Conan, these details don’t matter; it was simply happening now, and I just needed to be there.

…Because the views of the ocean and forest are unreal and the table was set beautifully.

And we didn’t go to jail for breaking and entering, because our friend Guy was actually living here for a few weeks before he moved to Melbourne and wanted to share the awesome space with his friends.

And I met French Canadian Nancy, who regularly uses the word “destiny” in conversation and was willing to walk home from the party with me because I was terrified of being attacked by a crocodile on my way down the hill.

And Chrissy from New Zealand, aka “Big Red”, was more than up for dancing to Arrested Development with me in the living room. I was on my own for “O.P.P.”, though.

Conan would say that all of my questions are proof that I worry too much. It’s difficult not to when he does stuff like arrange a party at your hotel room, and then sends five guests whom you have never met before in your life an hour before he arrives.

One of those guests is Jai, an artist who sells his excellent work at his own shop in Port Douglas. The minute he arrives he’s nicer, funnier, and cooler than anybody you have ever met. You want to marry him, or make him your maid of honor, or produce a television show all about him called, “Jai: The Musical”. He is a wonderful person, who told one of the best party stories I ever heard about dancing in clubs at Bali. There’s no way I could possibly do justice to it here, but suffice it to say I will never hear the song “I Know You Want Me” and not see Jai dancing in the middle of our room cracking us all up.

Once again, Conan was right.

Of all my people pictures, I hate and love this one the most. The lighting is crap and does not do the Port Douglas Crew justice. There are at least three other awesome people in that picture that I would love to introduce you to, but they just melt into the shadows. But I also love this picture because it was my last day at Port and Conan had arranged for everyone to meet for lunch. It’s crap because I set it up as quickly as possible, knowing I was going to take off early to avoid crying in front of everyone. I got the shot and cried anyway, hugging everybody and saying, “Ok Ok… love you guys.” That’s a Sarah term of endearment, reserved for only my absolute favorites in life. I hadn’t said it since I left New York and said goodbye to my family at Comedy Central, and here I was saying it in the middle of Port Douglas.

Jai took this picture in his shop when I popped in to say goodbye and I have a similar love/hate relationship with it. I could do without the crazy circles under my eyes which Conan caused by waking me up at 1 am after he was done with work just to hang out in the living room. And a shower would have been nice, but was pointless because I had get one last ocean swim in before leaving Port Douglas.

But I love it because I look more like myself than I have in a long time. I ain’t Halle Berry, but I look like I’m breezy and at home. A 20 plus hour flight away from a life I spent 10 years building back in New York, and I feel at home in a town with jellyfish warning signs.

It’s my connection to these people, Port Douglas, and Australia that is epic. I still have no idea why I feel so strongly about this place, but it doesn’t matter.

It’s simply happening, and I just need to be here.

I’m in that pool of adult children whose parents have embraced technology just enough to keep in touch with their kids, but could never be confused with Steve Jobs. They overindulge in emoticons, write entire messages in ALL CAPS, or send blanks messages with no note because they hit send too fast- which is totally freaky because the email feels haunted.

My father’s particular quirk is that he uses the same title for every email he sends…Checking In. Whether it be to see which bus I’m catching home for Thanksgiving, forward my Uncle’s email address, or to suggest adding Shanghai to my travels because he saw a very interesting documentary on PBS-my father is always only ever “Checking In”. His standard greeting is always “Hello Dear Daughter” and he always post scripts with “You are the best. Did I ever tell you that?” So, ya’ know..I can’t be too mad.

Still, it’s very difficult to find those two or three key pieces of information when I actually need them when every email has the same heading. Messages from 5 years past or 5 minutes ago pile up and overlap when you sort by sender. As I was sorting through the check-ins trying to respond to my father’s latest email asking how his children were doing in Australia, I realized I owed you guys a massive Check-In of my own, because..did you know that, orrrr..no? I’m following my younger brother and sister around on their first international trip and falling back in love with my adopted ancestral homeland, Australia.

Ok, you didn’t know that. Sorry. Consider this your one all-mighty check-in, bringing you mostly up to date with my goings-on in Australasia.

Hello Dear Reader:

Remember when I saw that dog driving in Auckland? Well, I was waiting for a bus to get to an interview for my first job in New Zealand; filling in for an interactive producer at an ad agency in while he was away on leave. Funny how a two week job in the middle of extended travel can feel like another one of the excursions. It felt great to use my corporate marketing muscles again, and just as great to move on when the tour was done. Work holiday, indeed.

Then two days after I finished that gig, I got on a flight out of Auckland wearing a pea coat and switched into my over-worn travel hoodie in slightly warmer Sydney. I met up with my brother’s good Aussie friend Matt who took me out for an excellent Thai meal, not because he’s a good person but because he’s on a mission to prove that Australia has better food than New York. I don’t trust that guy for a second. The next morning, I valiantly fought alongside my sister, brother and family friend as they battled outrageous jetlag sightseeing in Sydney for two days and eating amazing tapas at this joint called The Passage. It would have been more delicious if I knew it wasn’t more evidence in Matt’s case against American cuisine.

Then we hopped a flight to Cairns…
to get to Port Douglas…
to visit our friend Conan…
..who arranged a good old-fashioned house party in our hotel room with old friends from my last visit, and new friends who took us out on boats for barbecues and humored us when we made them participate in our amateur short film which I am currently editing. One of our stars and new friend Mark says, “oh my god, that was so much more fun for no reason.” I agree. Think “Inception” meets “Australia”

What else? I re-connected (and by “re-connected”, I mean french kissing)with a blast from Port Douglas past, which was fun… but kinda weird to return to old Summer Lovin’. Grease 1 was better than Grease 2 for a reason. And my brother went jet skiing. And my sister got obsessed with George the Groper, because how could you not be once you seen that massive fish being fed slightly less massive fish.

Once my family left for the next part of their trip, I went to a dinner at a beautiful house on a hill that looked out over the Coral Sea and I tried to remember a time that I didn’t know Conan or this wonderful town or amazing country. Impossible.

Now I’m sitting here at Conan’s place early Thursday morning on my last full day in Port Douglas before I meet up with my family again in Melbourne, trying to shake off the damp weather that’s descended upon us and updating you all without even one drop of coffee in my system. I must tend to that right away.

Sorry to have checked out for a month, but as you can see I’ve been pretty busy. I promise to check in more regularly and to use a different blog title every time so as to avoid any confusion.

Love,
Sarah

p.s. You are the best. Did I ever tell you that?

p.p.s. A sneak peek of some of the footage from “Port Douglas, The Movie.”

I keep forgetting to tell you…
Marshmallows in New Zealand are always pink and white. Always.

At the cafe, in the supermarket, the ones that I pretend will come to life and be my friends right before I cook them…pink and white. So cute my brain melts and I wish I had a million baby bunny rabbits to feed pink and white marshmallows to. That’s what they eat, right?

In other news, dogs can drive here. I swear.

While waiting to catch a bus in Auckland the other day, I looked up from my purse to see a large dog drive by in an SUV. Of course, I had forgotten for the one millionth time since I’ve been here that both the cars and their steering wheels are on the opposite side. So for at least a minute and a half my mouth was wide open marveling at this miracle. Then another minute of doubled-over laughter because I remembered where I was, and a dog on the wrong side of the car doesn’t look like a dog anymore. He’s just some dude on a road trip with a human through the North Island, hoping to discover himself.

Marshmallows are pink.
Dogs can drive.
Traveling really does open your mind.

This is my first blueberry pie which was supposed to be my world-famous peach pie for our Independence Day dinner party.

It’s kind of a big deal for me, because as a rule I avoid murky foods. Nothing freaks me out more than sticking my spoon, fork, or spork into a deep, dark dish not knowing what might come up. What lies beneath the calm surface of Miso Soup? Did they tuck a disgusting date into that bottomless morass of stew? God knows what has been packed into that terrine!

Rules are meant to be broken when you’re in New Zealand standing in front of a peach-less frozen fruit section, and you’re the only American at a July 4th dinner party held on July 3rd because Saturday was easier….

…And on July 2nd your flatmate’s mellow wine and cheese with the girls turns into a dance party in the living room with special guest stars, your 20something neighbor and his friend, who literally climbed over the patio walls to join the party.

…And after talking for way too long with the 20something friend about how in love you are with Tom Petty lately, you find yourself frenching a college student goodbye on his way back home over that patio wall…

…or Uni student, whatever. We definitely made out.
And pie plans changed.

I had to work with what was available to me at the moment, and against a slight hangover. No peaches in sight, but frozen blueberries as far as the eye could see and two kiwi flatmates at home napping, cleaning, and preparing for a party of 10. Throw excellent material for dinner conversation into the mix about our previous night’s shennanigans, “Oh, I did not ‘pash’ or ’snog’ him! It was a good old-fashioned American french!”. How could any pie with all of that inside be that bad?

My trusty-rusty crust recipe with a new murky blueberry filling, topped with a coconut almond crumble. Served in New Zealand, where the girls dance in living rooms and the boys climb over walls, to fantastic people I did not know existed 2 months ago who were all there to celebrate my independence.

Let freedom ring, and never fear the murk.

Remember when I told you I ate a chocolate bar in the bathroom?

Alright. That was not the coolest shit I ever did. But seriously, that was unavoidable. You have to do half of your business (don’t be gross!) in the bathroom to avoid disturbing your roommates with a light. And I got news for ya’, what I’m about to tell is way uncooler. I’ve decided I don’t care, though. Beause I’m traveling, and I can do whatever I want

So my friend Pooja turned me on to this particular variety of Whittaker’s when we stayed one miserable night in the worst hostel on earth. I tell you, this was the creepiest place I have ever been. If someone had told me it was haunted, I would have said “Oh my God, do you hear them too?!” If someone had said this was the Happiness Hotel from The Great Muppet Caper I would have said, “I love that movie. It’s so great to be on location.” And if someone had said we were in The Shining I would have been careful to not trip over that kid on the big wheel. If someone had said anything of these things, I would have believed them in an instant because it was that terrible.

The one bright spot that night was the lovely meal Pooja and I shared of potato chips, red wine, and a Whittaker’s Ghana Peppermint bar for dessert. It was embarrassing, delicious and a matter of emotional survival. Imagine the freshest Junior Mint you ever had at the scariest movie you’ve ever seen. That’s what the Ghana Peppermint Bar tasted like that night.

So flash forward to last week when I was at the end of my rope in hostel life. I was back in Auckland where I will be based until I meet family and friends in Australia in August. This hostel was decent, my last roommate however was not. She was either 20 or 80, I’m not sure. She may have been waiting for a work visa in New Zealand, or looking for flights to Perth so she could get on a boat that would take her to Indonesia, (or “Indo” as the most hardcore of backpackers call it), to continue her bike trip around the world. Again, I’m not sure. She was very confused and confusing. What I WAS sure of was that I couldn’t spend 10 minutes alone in the room with her because she gave me a good old fashioned case of the heebee jeebees. The minute she walked in, I walked out to do..something… every single time. Even if it meant leaving a bar of Whittaker’s Ghana Peppermint behind on the sunny window sill.

The thing is Whittakers chocolate melts beautifully because there is no weird waxiness or preservatives.
And there was more than half a bar abandoned that day.
And it was still chocolate even though it melted!

Soooo…maybe…I..ummm..
scoopedthemeltedchocolateoffthewrapperwithmyfingersandatethewholedamnthing.

I’M SORRY! It’s so shameful! And so good!!
SEE WHAT HOSTELS HAVE DONE TO ME?!

You’ll be happy to know that I have moved into a proper condo with two wonderful roommates who brew coffee in the morning, leave fruit in a bowl, and aren’t planning any long term bike trips through Indo. There’s a gym membership on K Road with my name all over it and a brand new running playlist with Jay-Z all over it….at least for a month or so. There are more destinations in the near future, which means more hostels, and definitely more Whittakers.

Because I’m traveling.
And I can do whatever I want.

This is Winston Reid You may have heard of him. He scored New Zealand’s first ever World Cup point.

He is also my fiancee.

I proposed to Winston right after he scored, via text of course. Couldn’t really justify a trip to South Africa. I don’t get soccer, but Winston and I still have lots in common. For example, Winston likes taking his shirt off. I like when he takes his shirt off.

The hearts wants what it wants, ya’ know?

My heart also wants a huge kitchen fully stacked with Crown Lynn a New Zealand ceramics company that is no longer in business making it collectible. Winston joked that his Mom probably has tons of this stuff in her attic. I still dragged him down to the Aunty Mavis shop on Karangahape Road so we could register.

Ladies, don’t ever take your men shopping with you. Am I right or am I right?! Even if they are soccer superstars!

Try explaining to Winston why you need so many coffee cups. I mean, duh, you obviously use these for cute hot chocolate…

..and this one for a cute Flat White!

And good luck trying to get Winston to pick out a platter.
“Do you like the blue or the sea green?”
“I don’t know. They look the same to me!”
“What are you… color blind?!”
“I’m sorry, Sarah. Let me hug you with my big arms.”
“I forgive you, Winston.”
“I really like you in this backpacker outfit.
“I still can’t believe you’re into that! Hahaha stop..we have to keep shopping!”

Winston does like these bowls because he thinks they will be perfect for cereal. Meanwhile, there is no way I’m letting him use these for anything besides soup. But I’ll tell him that after I move all of my stuff in..am I right, Ladies?! What is it with guys and cereal? Don’t get me started. Do not EVEN get me started.

You are all invited to attend our wedding, of course. The ceremony will be here in New Zealand.

If you promise to buy us Crown Lynn, Winston promises to take his shirt off at the ceremony.

I remember when I was a human being.
That was fun.

Right now I’m a backpacker who packs bags on the bathroom floor in the wee hours of the morning, so as to avoid disturbing her dorm-mates. And maybe while packing I found half a bar of Whittaker’s Chocolate that I ate as a snack on the bathroom floor before the sun came up. And maybe, just maybe, I ate Ramen Noodles for dinner at a hostel once.

Ok… Maybe twice.
Fine…THREE times! Happy now?!

It just happens, man! You get to the supermarket and you realize you haven’t cooked a proper meal for yourself in 10 years, so you have no idea how to shop. (That’s what happens when you live in a city where every food imaginable can be prepared for you at a drop of a hat. Why the hell should you cook it?) You’re not broke yet, but you’re terrified of being broke. Plus, everyone else is eating them and you don’t want to be a party pooper. Also, you remember Ramen being good in college. Also 2, you had a special cooking technique back then that involved half the seasoning packet and a pat of butter. (Yes, BUTTER in a bowl of deep friend noodles and MSG). Before you know it, you’re searching for scissors in the community kitchen to open the flavor packet.

It’s mortifying…and delicious.

By the time I got to Wellington, I was more than ready to accept Tranzit Coaches invitation to join them on their Gourmet Wine Escape Tour of the Martinborough wine region in the Wairarapa Valley.

All I had to do was show up at the train station with my ticket, and “sit on the right side of the train for the best views on the way to Featherston.” So happy that my mama raised me right, and I do what I am told.

Our guide Naomi was there to pick me up with detailed knowledge of this area famous for its Pinot Noir, a legit Kiwi accent, and breezy attitude that makes the New Zealand countryside so special.

We also picked up Terry and Judy, an excellent couple from my home away from home…away from home, Australia. They own a Butcher Shop in Victoria and couldn’t believe when I told them that Americans are not as into lamb as this area of the world. Just another one of the great discoveries of travel. My mind is still blown by the fact that Brits call Jell-o, “Jelly”. Sorry, that grosses me out. I keep picturing little English kids eating spoonful after spoonful of Smuckers.

One of the benefits of off-season travel are smaller groups on these tours, which means you have time to chat with Bruce at the Pallister Estate Winery about something other than wine. We talked about Dick Frizzell, an artist I love who I had no idea was from New Zealand until I got here. He’s convinced I could go to his house on the North Island and just have a chat. They’re breezy here, but I don’t know if they are that breezy. I don’t want to be deported.

Then there was a lovely lunch at a local cafe. “Lovely” is a word I have definitely picked up in the last month here. You can’t help it when the food is as good as this and thankfully, not Ramen.

This is the view from the back deck of the final winery on our tour. The usual here in NZ.

And this is the winery’s dog, Winston Churchill. Below are some muddy gumboots left outside the entrance. I love this area of the world’s attention to detail when it comes to wine and food, without all of the high falootin’ fuss about it. I found the same thing when I did my wine tour in the Barossa Valley last summer.

But I don’t know if my last tour guide would have been as obliging as Naomi was when I asked her to slow down so I could catch the cows we had to yield for as they were moved to another field. You’ll notice some poor grammar in my little voiceover there. That was after the third winery..so sue me.

Back to the train station and Tui beer at the hostel at the end of the day; a belly full of fresh vegetables, cheese, and wine, contact information for the best butcher in Victoria, and a few squares of Whittaker’s chocolate left in my bag for the ride home.

A lovely dessert at the end of a lovely day eaten in a lovely location…
…on the other side of the world.

When you get to Memphis Belle in Wellington, make sure you’re at the front door and not the full-length window. Don’t be the cranky New Yorker in a rush to get out of the rain who spends at least a full minute pushing on a solid pane of glass, totally confused as to how everyone else got inside there and you’re stuck on the outside looking in. Don’t be that girl.

Do tell them that you are from New York, however, because you will receive a warm and genuine, “Ohhhh cool!” from the manager Nick Clark. Don’t bother explaining why it took you so long to get inside because you’ll just ruin the moment.

Do order the hot chocolate if you like hot chocolate because it’s good hot chocolate….

But do not not order a Flat White because you think should be over Flat Whites by now, because Flat Whites are good…and a Memphis Belle Flat White is great. This is how it will go…

When Nick asks if you would like to take a picture of something more interesting, say yes.
When Nick asks if you like coffee, say yes.
When Nick asks what kind of drink, please-for the love of God or at least me -say a Flat White.

Drink this uniquely Kiwi/Aussie coffee drink down…

…one beautiful cup…

…right after the other.

Talk to Bink when Nick steps out because he’s got the information.

Bink will tell you a good Flat White has two shots of espresso with the cream being “pulled from the bottom” with less foam than a latte and more coffee flavor. He will tell you that Nick placed 2nd in Wellington at this year’s New Zealand Barista Championship and 6th in the country. Bink will answer any question you ask mostly because he’s nice, but a little because he knows you’re tripping balls from two flat whites.

Don’t be afraid to dig deep and find out that the beans come from a boutique roastery in Napier. You’ll be in the South Island when the weather gets warmer which is in October or November… which is crazy…because you’re in New Zealand now.

If you’re meeting a friend from the UK the next day to see how he’s adjusting to his new life in Wellington, I suggest moving it from a bar at night to Memphis Belle in the afternoon. Nick and Bink will greet you by name and ask what you’ve been up to. Introduce your British friend to your new Kiwi friends over a couple of Flat Whites and chat each other up a bit. Of course you will have to tried to get in through the window again because you will always be that girl. But talking to three people you didn’t know existed a month ago drinking over the best coffee you have ever had, you will feel warm and comfortable on the inside looking out.

Or at least that was my experience.

My friend Lesley asked if I had started dreading my hair yet.

This is a fair (and funny) question since I seem to have taken to the backpacker lifestyle pretty quickly. I wear only 2 outfits now, the brown t-shirt number with strategic layering and the purple t-shirt number with strategic layering. I eat a lot of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and fight with the Brits when they call it jam. And despite my best efforts, I engage in endless debates with my fellow Stray-ers about what tours are worth going on.

We are all in New Zealand to see some of the world’s most beautiful scenery, and we are all here on a budget. So it’s not uncommon to see a group of backpackers sitting down to a breakfast of toast and instant coffee, tour brochures and and Lonely Planets strewn about, arguing over which experiences are worth paying the full price for.

“The skydive was awesome, but do NOT pay for the DVD.”
“..It was absolutely not worth $100! The free breakfast they promised sucked. I’m so pissed.”
“Does anyone have any milk I can borrow? I can give you some money when we get to an ATM.”

These conversations always close with the wisest backpacker in the bunch stating, “Look, you have to pick and choose. You’re not going to be able to do everything.” who then passes their milk to the most annoying backpacker in the bunch.

I took this advice to heart when I decided to stay back in Tongariro to wait for some fine weather to tackle the Crossing. The few extra days I would stay at the Park Lodge meant no South Island for me in this first month of travel. It also meant saying goodbye to the first group of travel buddies I was crazy about who would be moving on to Wellington without me. There is nothing like those first belly laughs with new friends who are sharing an absolutely ridiculous life experience with you, and it was hard to let that go. But when the clouds finally cleared and I caught my first sight of Doom the morning I saw them off, I knew I had picked and chose wisely.

The Tongariro Crossing is one of New Zealand’s Great Walks- a 20K plus hike through crazy volcanic terrain at the foot of Mount Ngauruho, aka Mount Doom from the Lord of the Rings trilogy. You can do this 6-8 hour hike unguided, I guess. But based on my experience with “the walk” in Raglan, I decided I couldn’t be trusted in the bush alone. Besides, if I paid the good people of Adrift Outdoor for some real gear and their expert advice along the way, it gave me that much more time on the walk to think up Lord of the Rings references.

For example, “The Eye of Sauron was fixed upon me” as we began the Devil’s Staircase about an hour and a half in.

That’s clear in this self-portrait during the first challenging bit of the hike. Tongariro is not a super technical hike. But believe me when I tell you that running up and down subway stairs for the last 10 years is not enough practice. Layering was not necessary over the purple t-shirt number when I was huffing and puffing.

The guides let us break to eat a little lunch and to start gearing up for the winter part of the show. We laced up those crazy snow shoes, crampons, and they taught us how to use ice picks to stop ourselves if we fell and slid back down the mountain. In retrospect, I probably should have stopped taking photos in front of Doom and listened a bit more closely.

Luckily, I made a new German friend named Rochus who always stayed just ahead of me to lend a helping hand when I almost toppled over at least 5 times.

Rochus’ lifesaving count slightly differs from mine. But what matters is that he’s hilarious and an excellent person to share that moment with. His favorite expression is “YAY!” which is absolutely appropriate for the view here. Lake Taupo in the distance, turquoise crater lakes in the foreground. Thanks to the beautiful weather that I chose to stick around for, the guides told us you could basically see from one end of New Zealand to the other.

Crampon CrampOFF for our descent down the mountain and into the Red Crater. “Crampon Crampoff…the Cramper!” would be a great jingle for how sore I would feel from this hike the next day.

The guide asked us all to pause here in silence to take in the moon like eerie-ness of this section. Then the guide farted. Typical Kiwi sense of humor.

The landscape changes completely on the other side of Doom- rolling greens, blues, golds, and browns that you we easily strolled through on a clearly marked path for an hour and a half until we all met up again at the parking lot. I didn’t hear one car or electrical hum. Just the occasional hiker passing by or Rochus singing national songs with a couple from the Netherlands who are gearing up for the World Cup.

There are great hikes all over the world, many of which are in my home country. But what makes New Zealand’s nature so spectacular is how varied it is and how it’s all stacked together. Where else could you wield an ice pick 20 minutes before hopping and skipping through country like this? If you had dropped me off here blindfolded, I would have said my little brother was close behind me on the Appalachian Trail.

The beauty is disorienting in a way that every good thing that’s happened to you before and all of the possibilities going forward exist in the same space. My new travel friends may not have been able to cross Tongariro with me, but they were warming up the rest of the country for me, partying in Wellington and skydiving in Queenstown. All of my people in New York continue to do their thing in the greatest city in the world and wait for me to post new pics. And Conan texts me from Australia to make sure I’m settling into the backpacker life, and to tell me he can’t wait to see me there. There is no need to pick and choose. You can have it all in perfect moment here.

Rochus and I had some dinner afterward. Satisfied and completey exhausted, the only thing I could get out in between bites was, “I can’t believe that happened. I honestly think that was one of the best moments of my life.” And Rochus had only one reply which was all that was necessary to sum up Tongariro.

YAY!

No one told me that blowdryers are actually nuclear reactors.

Every other electronic device is fine here in New Zealand with a travel adapter. But when I plugged my blowdryer in, I nearly caused a blackout. Ok, not a blackout…but there was definitely a sonic boom-like pop, a weird smell that I imagine can only be found in the opening scene of Terminator 2, and an audible “Ohhhhhhh shiiiiit” from my hotel room in Auckland.

So please try and focus on the view of Cathedral Cove in Hahei on the North Island and a few stories from New Zealand. Not the frizzbomb with eyeballs in the foreground in the pic above.

The blowdryer is only one of a million surprises within these first two weeks in New Zealand. Wait..two weeks, right? Yes, two weeks. Do you know I had to double check my calendar to make sure that was right? God almighty… that’s what I’m talking about, man! Who knew that a trip half way around the world would be so disorienting?

You can really only prepare so much for your first bug working travel holiday thing-y. My plan of attack was to create as many options for myself as I could before I arrived. I am in New Zealand on a working holiday visa which means I’m eligible for any job available, Prime Minster or sheep shearer. That visa required buying a more flexible roundtrip ticket back to the US, which means I can go back pretty much whenever I want within a year. And thanks to the good people of Stray Tours, I have a bus tour which allows me to get off in any town I want and st(r)ay for however long I want.

Options are surprisingly terrifying.

I knew it would be beautiful. I heard people were nice. But not this beautiful, not this nice. My requests for coffee with some business contacts in Auckland that first week were met with invitations to dinners, a lunch, and a trip to the Farmer’s market; Great conversation, awesome food, and over the top generous people. My Stray pass covers both the North and South Islands, which turns out to be a whole lot of New Zealand to see in only a month’s time. My jet lagged brain turned options into life and death choices.

I finally pushed through in Raglan, because staying there was the best choice I’ve made in a long time.

I got to spend some time with Erin, an American ex-pat who owns and runs the Karioi Lodge and the surf school attached with her husband Charlie and their friend Rock. She and her husband were traveling through New Zealand a few years ago and never left. Apparently, Karioi means “to linger” in Maori. I believe it since I stayed for two extra days..then another two days.. and then another two. How can you leave when the first thing you hear in the morning is the ocean? Or when you listen to one of the employees practicing that song from Once on their guitar in the the other room while you’re fixing your morning toast?

I, of course, broke that silence cursing and praying to the heavens during the most terrifying hike of my life around the lodge’s property. Please know that when Kiwi calls something a “hike”, it’s more like a journey into the heart of darkness. I am not exaggerating when I tell you I slid down muddy hills and broke my fall only by grabbing on to massive tree branches with both arms fully wrapped around them at least five times.

More loud and less dangerous times were to be had at the local rugby match where the Karioi staff came out to cheer on their home team, and at Freddy’s housewarming party the night before I left. You know, Freddy… my surf instructor.

You may not come to Raglan to surf, but it’s kinda impossible to leave without having tried it. So Freddy taught us all about the tides, and what’s so special about a left hand break. He was so breezy explaining how to pop up on your board and how to position your hands just so, that for two minutes I thought that I could secretly be great at this.

Then two minutes later I got into the water.

I added some bruised left toes and butt cheek to my list of injuries at Karioi, and swallowed so much salt water that I’m pretty sure I will never need sodium again. But I stood on that damn board two times, came up from underwater to see full-on rainbows over the black sand beach three times, and turned around to see Freddy waving me back into the ocean to try and catch another wave every time.

I’m writing this now from a lodge in Tongariro National Park in front of a fireplace. I can see massive trees and a little barn ahead of me, and can hear a bunch of backpackers watching Lord of the Rings behind me. I am only thinking as far ahead as 7 pm tonight where I’m meeting this hilarious Irish couple and British guy who I’ve been straying with for the past few days for some mellow beers before they continue on to Wellington. I’ve decided to add a few extra days here to do the Tongariro Crossing, and because I really love this place. Those are the only choices I have to make right now.

Unlike my blow dryer, I seem to be adapting.