From Our Adopted Nephew

Dorian was a student of mine. He loved practicing his English and we loved having him around. After a few years, we just adopted him as a nephew. He is now in Germany in a PhD program. This is shared with his permission.

Dear Uncle Ryan,
First of all, I am sorry for your loss. I have just read your blog post and seen the pictures you posted on Facebook.

I know I can't offer much consolation to you in this time of grief, but your blog post touched me so much that I decided to write to you more than just to say I'm sorry for your loss.

I know that we get along well again, that I don't live in Budapest, and that's always a good excuse not to keep in touch better, but I have to say when I read your blog post I had this heart-wrenching feeling that's been with me ever since. I realized that so often we don't say the things we should to the people that are important to us. When you wrote "dad, I wish I'd loved you better" it made me think of a million things - how often I do not tell people how much I appreciate them only to regret it when it was too late. Well, I hope that you are going to be around for a very long time, but I thought I would take this opportunity to tell you just that: how important you have been in my life. It is crazy when I count the years that I have known you - how I went from a student, to assistant, to nephew. I have always wanted to tell you, but I never knew how that for years you were and still are the father figure and role model that I never really had in my life. You know how my dad and I never used to get along and we had next to no contact for years. Yearning for any kind of example or role model, I joined that Christian organization where I found people who got very close to me - not realizing their hidden agenda.

You helped me a lot in realizing that I wanted to accept who I really was... and I wanted to surround myself not with people who made me feel different and guilty about myself every day, but rather with like-minded people, people who have experienced a lot of things that I was/am going through, who accepted me and didn't judge me unfairly.

Some of my fondest memories of Hungary are the times when I would sit in your office, work as your TA, hang out with you and Ron, go on missions with you to translate/find some furniture stores, etc. Our conversations about the university, life, people; when we went shopping for my Kellner interview together, or when you gave me your tie to wear for the interview. I will never forget when you guys gave me my bon voyage gift before I shipped off to college.

I appreciate and remember very fondly those times we spent together in your kitchen talking about anything and everything - those times you invited me over to introduce me to your friends - when you helped me with the invoices so I could teach... thank you!

In retrospect I also deeply appreciate your insights into my failed relationship with Z, and even more so your advice in the summer not to break up with Martin. Each time I did the opposite - call it rebelling against "parental" authority if you will - only to discover later that I should have listened to my Uncle Ryan's good advice. I guess what I am trying to say is this: I appreciate you a lot more than I have been able to express it.

I am really sorry for when you felt hurt that one time I visited Budapest and Zsolt and I left early to go to the movies, and I regret having that dumb fight with you over my grade etc. in the critical thinking seminar the year before I left Hungary.

I have learned so much from you: when I was teaching that Language Practice class at ELTE I modeled my class entirely on the ones I'd had with you, and it was only then that I realized that your teaching style affected me so profoundly that I wanted to emulate that in my own classes. Maybe I succeeded to some extent - only my students could tell. You inspired me to do a PhD (I never received any encouragement from my family to pursue advanced studies, and they never really appreciated my efforts to find my footing in another country where I didn't speak the language, that I found a job here, managed to eke out a living, got into a PhD program and can finally say that I have accomplished something although the cards seemed stacked against me the whole time) - you actually told me in an email that you guys were proud of me to have accomplished this (something I have never heard from my parents), and of course you helped me along the process with advice, and letters of recommendation.

And last but not least, you didn't treat me like an alien when I was going to change my name. It was comforting to know that I'm not the only person on the face of the earth who's ever done that!

I am really sorry for your loss! And I am so happy that you I know you, that you've been in my life, that you've been a father figure and a role model to me, and that I can tell you this!

Condolences to you and your family!
Dorian

PS: hugs to Ron whom I miss dearly as well! I will write more about what's going on in my life soon.

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The Bizzarro Curse

My grandmother used to say her side of the family had the Bizzarro (her maiden name) curse, not being able to sleep through the night. She and her ten siblings were renowned for being up and ready to start their day by 4 or 4:30am. Sleeping an 8 hour night was not in their DNA; it confounded them trying to comprehend why everyone else was not accepting phone calls by 5:15am. I have inherited the curse. Regardless of what time I go to bed, by 4am, I am as wide awake as if I had slept a full night, but I know better than to start making calls.


What do you do in these wee hours of the morning? Usually, I first check e-mail and then read a book. This morning's e-mail set me off on a different path. My brother sent me a link to the virtual obituary for my father. If you are curious, you can find it here. Coincidentally, I woke up thinking about technology and condolences, particularly the lack of them I have received from family members. 


Technology has gone beyond the boundaries of death. We can pay our respects, pay for a virtual candle to be lit, and share photos of the loved one. What we cannot do yet that I am aware of, but will most likely be the next step, is having an Internet funeral. With video cameras and high speed Internet, you can have 24/7 viewings. Why bother leaving home or Starbucks when you can pay your respects while sipping your mochachino. 


I received a few condolences via Facebook, and even fewer directly through e-mail. Yet only one was from a family. First it makes me wonder about how personal relationships have changed with the advent of social networking sites. If people had to actually shop for a card, write on it, buy stamps, and mail it, how many condolences would I receive? Today, I would guess the answer would be none. 


When I look at my brother's FB page, he has dozens more condolences than I do, but what is strange to me is that many of the people posting them are locals. Is it more publicly advantageous to post a condolence rather than make a phone call or send a card? What I think is it let's us off of the emotional hook the easy way. Take the 3 minutes to type a note and call it a day. I know I am not going to see the bereaved until long after the funeral and by then it will be a forgotten topic, so I can avoid any emotional outlay.


What really made me wonder was the post by one of our aunts. She is not some distant aunt, but the wife of my mother's brother. She posted on my brother's FB page that her daughter "happened to see something" and told her. OMG, she lives twenty miles from my brother. A phone call is local, without any toll charges, yet she posts a note? The clincher is that she knows that I am on FB, yet didn't bother to exercise her tendons long enough to send a note to me too. While I am on that topic, only one relative, a second generation cousin, sent a note. Other cousins are "friends" on FB, but not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.


Okay, call me a hypocrite if you like. I am not returning to the US for the funeral either. What I may have spent on travel and so on I sent to the funeral home to cover expenses of a funeral that was no longer covered by any insurance policies. My brother paid half too, so it was not like I had to foot the entire bill. Regardless, I am going to be curious to see who shows up from within a 25 mile radius. This is where you test the waters of family values in a life and death situation.


As coincidences go, this article popped up as I was typing. I am not alone in this thinking. 

Related articles

• Social Networking: Blessing or Curse? (pcworld.com)

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KooBits For E-Books

As many of you know, I haven't been around for a few days because my father passed away a week ago yesterday. However, I am trying to get back in the saddle emotionally now. 


On a different topic, I am not a fan of e-books per se. I love holding a book in my hand, flipping the pages, seeing them collect dust on the shelves, arranging rearranging them according to different categories, and pulling them down again to refresh the memories of the pleasure it brought when I read it the first time. 


However, over time, somehow I have managed to collect some e-books that people have shared or I have downloaded from various sites. They all sit in a computer folder that is cumbersome to search through, although I do have them categorized into genres.


Today, I discovered a free program called KooBits. This nifty little program takes most formats of e-books on your hard drive and gives them covers like a real book and places them on library shelves. You can create categories, genres, and rearrange the books to your heart's content. The only thing missing is virtual dust, which is a great savings on having to pay a virtual housekeeper to keep the shelves clean.


As an added bonus, there are hundreds of free e-book downloads in numerous categories. Many are classics like Mark Twain's titles, Bulfinch's Mythology, and plenty more. Once you open your book, you can bookmark pages, highlight text in different colors and even put in "rubber" stamp markings to highlight different sections. 


If you like e-books at all, give this a try. You will need to register, but it is free thereafter.

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• KooBits - A Simple But Cool Digital Shelf For Your Collection Of eBooks (makeuseof.com)

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In Memory of Richard James French Sr.

There is a large stone sitting on my heart, staunching the flow of emotions for the time being. The stone has an inscription that says "I wish I loved you better."


This is in memory of my father, Richard James French, Sr. born January 22, 1928 and moved on to a better life on January 18, 2011. Growing up in Michigan, my dad was called "Dick", a name he despised and started using the nickname "Jack" once he enrolled into the army. Why he chose Jack, I will never know. The only people ever allowed to call him Dick were relatives when we visited Michigan. 


Those Michigan visits to the old farm house were when he reached full bloom. Retracing his childhood steps recreating his youthful adventures seized creative spirits making me lust for more of those vacations. I learned to drive a stick shift by learning to drive the farm tractor when I was eleven years old.  Even when I almost maimed my father, my brother and myself by barely capsizing all of us into a ditch by the road, my father remained calm.


When we moved into our first house of our very own, the neighbors and even my teacher thought my father was my older brother. He was younger looking than his years and I was taller than mine. This may have been why he and I were more like brothers than father and son. There was nothing I couldn't tell him without knowing that I would be unconditionally accepted. Alternatively, he too confided in me, but I had some deficiencies in being as all-embracing as he. 


My dad was not the most emotionally demonstrative person, so you had to read his actions to know what he felt. I will never forget the day when I was twenty-nine years old. He hugged me, kissed me, and said he loved me. What prompted it escapes my memory, but the my reaction doesn't. It was such an unexpected action, the floodgates of emotion cracked through the dam, causing me to bawl like a newborn. That was the first time as an adult he had done that. 


When I told him I wanted to change my name from Richard James French, Jr. to Ryan James, there was no ego defensive reaction, but only "Regardless of what you call yourself, you will always be my son." 


My father never finished college, but he was one of the most intelligent people I knew. He was infinitely curious. I remember his continually researching anything that peaked his interest. He tried teaching me French verbs while toilet training me. He himself had just learned them from a Berlitz record. Although my mother pushed me all the way through Cub Scouts, I went all through Boy Scouts enduring weekly meetings and hateful weeks of camp every year just so he had an excuse to be the Assistant Scout Master. If we could only trade places, we would both have been in our glory. 


My father was the most patient man I have ever known. The only time he really lost his temper was when I accidentally almost killed my brother. His rage at the time was most likely a fear reaction of having to face my mother when she returned home. 


My father demonstrated qualities that were so admirable to me; I could only wish they had passed from his gene pool to my own. I had often said that my father was the most androgynous man I knew. He could sew on a sewing machine as well as he could weight lift or throw a football. He was the original metro-sexual. Nothing interfered with his self-esteem and confidence in his humanity. It would never occur to him there was a need to prove his masculinity. Whatever needed doing, Jack was there, willing to be of assistance.


No one was more tolerate of others than he. As cliché as it sounds, Jack would give you the shirt off of his back, proving it to his financial ruin, but that was who he was and there was no changing him. He was blind to race, religion, or sexual orientation.


Regardless of these positive attributes, I still muddled through trying to figure out how to get closer than I felt we were, but I always knew it was my thinking not his. 


Dad, I wish I loved you better, but I know you loved me with all of your being. 

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Timing is Everything

Writing for me is a healing tool, so with that in mind, I am sharing this personal event. Yesterday, my father died. We were in transit from Tokyo, Japan back to Budapest. If he had lived until January 22nd, he would have been 83 years old, but that was not a milestone he felt a need to reach. When he turned 80, he shared with me how surprised he was by the fact that he made it that long. My mother had died years before.

Each time we traveled, I had this sinking feeling that this time would be the time that my brother tried reaching me in vain. Today was that day. Getting home at midnight last night, I was too overstimulated to sleep, so woke at 4am. I had to be at school at 9am and was there most of the day. After feeling like a success by making it home with my eyes open, I succumbed to a rest. Still it took me quite some time to doze off and when I did, I thought I heard the phone in my hazy state. Thinking they would call back, I let it go. Then my mobile started ringing, but I could not make sense of the sound through the groggy web of thought. 

When I finally conceded that there really is no rest for the wicked, the e-mail was the first thing I checked. Just spotting the Facebook message from my brother was enough to put me on high alert. We are not casual communicators. Just as I was trying to call him, he tried successfully to reach me. 

Dad died in his sleep yesterday morning. Though a stroke had paralyzed his one leg in a permanently contracted position, he was still in great spirits. According to my brother he was loved by all of the staff. Knowing my father, it is not difficult to believe. In fact, only the contrary would be unbelievable. Everyone knew him as "Good Guy Jack". 

I tried calling him before we left. His room in the nursing home didn't have a phone. I called the nursing station repeatedly asking if they could get him to the phone, but each time they claimed they were too short handed or he was complaining about not feeling well. I knew if he knew I was calling, he would have made it to the phone. We never did get to say our good-byes the way they should have been. 

He was in New Jersey and so is my brother. Dad will spend his eternity there next to my mother. My brother said, "I am not sure I know what to feel." I am kind of the same way at the moment. There was the expectation every day, but now that it is here, I am not certain how to feel. But writing about it is healing at least.

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Brought to You From Narita, Japan

Last night was one of those stressful sleepless nights. Having dinner too late in the evening, I had acid reflux when I went to bed. It kept me up until 1am when I last looked at the phone. The alarm was set for 4:50, our taxi was coming at 6am. Just as I fell asleep, I heard that distinctive beep signaling that my phone is almost out of juice. 

With my phone also being our alarm clock, we were dependent on it to ring at the right time and not die out during the night. With Ron sleeping, I had to root around looking for the charger PLUS the electric adapter. Our adapter is a bit boxy, so the weight of it sometimes pulls it out of the wall socket. I had to create a blind balancing act to keep the charger happily connected to the wall, while the phone was happily suckling on the charger. All appropriate lights were lit, so I could get back to sleep. 

An hour into a deep sleep, my subconscious shoved me awake. Check the clock. All is well at 2:45am. Falling back asleep, again that feeling thrusts me into having to think. Look at the clock 3:34 am. Try it again, thinking 3 is the charm, but not so. The third awakening was at 4:45am. Why bother trying to get a few minutes sleep now. Just out of curiosity and lack on energy, I did maintain an inert status long enough to see if the alarm would go off. It sure did. Now that I had this extra time, I could pack the charger, the electric adapter, and the phone. 

When we checked in for our flight, there was still some anxiety over the luggage, though I had given away the third piece yesterday.  No worries, both bags came in under the maximum allowed, though my backpack is stuffed. They would only check it to Japan. We have a twenty-one hour layover, so we will need to collect it and put it through again when we check in again. They could not give us boarding passes through.

Air New Zealand did a nice job with the service from Auckland to Tokyo, but damn if the weather was not cooperating. Almost immediately they gave us immigration papers to fill in for Japan as well as Customs Declarations. With the plane shaking like paint in a mixer, I thought it is a waste of time to fill out those papers until we are sure we will survive the flight. If anything, we needed to amend our wills. 

Yet, we landed fine. We could have taken the shuttle to our hotel if we wanted to wait 1 1/2 hours, so it was a taxi instead.  Don't even get me started on the cost of the taxi. However, the airline gave us breakfast and dinner, so we did not need to venture out for dinner; that was a savings. 

Japan is 4 hours different than NZ, meaning we gained 4 hours. Too bad, because by 8pm, Ron was ready for bed. I have to stay up later or I will be up at 3am. I should take a pill, but they are packed and I am not touching those bags. 

Tomorrow, we will be home again. After a week or two, it will be like we had not had a vacation at all. The photos will have to become our computer slideshow screensaver to refresh our memory of the fantastic times we had, the places we visited, and the people we met.

Related articles

• Japan on $10,000 a day (theglobeandmail.com)

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Photos Uploaded

All of the photos are uploaded in the Ryan and Ron Do the World blog. The link it to the right.

Auckland - The beginning
Rotorua
Napier
Wellington
Ferry to train Wellington to Kaikura
Kaikura
Christ Church
Franz Josef
Bus from Franz Josef to Queensland
Queenstown
Queenstown to Te Anau to Milford
Te Anau
Dunedin

Auckland - The end will be uploaded later, but there are not too many of them.

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What Now My Love?

What Now My Love? Now that it's over...Snowy, cold Budapest, that is what is next.

So today is our last day of vacation. Tomorrow morning, we fly from here to Christ Church, Christ Church to Tokyo. There we have a twenty-one hour stop-over, where the plan is to leave staying overnight in a hotel and returning the airport to continue the journey. We will then fly from Tokyo to Munich followed by Munich to Budapest. We arrive in Budapest at 10:30pm. I have to be at school the following morning at 9am for State exams. In some ways, I am happy to be going home. I need to be assured where the bathroom is during the middle of the night. When you move around as often as we have, in nighttime sleepy coma, it seems like someone is pulling bad trick by moving the bathroom around the building.
 

We won’t have much to report today. We are getting laundry done, hoping clean laundry packs easier that dirty to fit it all into our allocated two suitcases. That third suitcase is still sitting in our room. It is like an unwanted animal that is left along the roadside that keeps finding its way back home. Well, if I am honest, I have yet been able to set it free into the wild with hopes that someone will adopt it, giving it a good home.
 

Unfortunately, this hostel does not use the Internet service that I have credit with. All of the YHAs use Global Gossip, but this is not a YHA hostel. To find locations where I may be able to use it, I went into an electronics store to ask. Better yet, they have just received the iPad, so they were available to try out. I had an opportunity to try the iPad, do a web search and found that the hostel two doors down from our hostel uses Global Gossip. I am going to try to see if they will let me use their lobby for an hour.

Chances are nothing special is going to happen today, but if it does, it will appear here later as a separate posting. This trip, we have traveled on jets, planes, cars, shuttles, vans, trucks, ferries, and trains. We missed bicycles, horses, skateboards, and helicopters. Always leave wanting.
 

Now, before I sign off from Auckland, I would like everyone to get up and give Ron a standing ovation for his perfect planning on this trip. Every time someone asked me anything about it, I had to defer to him. He did it all, researched it all over months, made all of the reservations, in essence he did the entire thing without much input from me. I make the last comment only on a positive note. Usually, I am overwhelmed with school; Ron will run things by me, but I generally nod my head, say “whatever you think” since he had researched the ins and outs, so in reality the entire trip is a surprise. He did a superlative job, though I admit I did have my doubts when I learned how many bus rides we would be taking, how many cities we would be at, how many one night stands were involved, but it all turned out excellently. Kudos, Ron and thank you for another fantastic vacation adventure.    

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May Old Acquaintances Be Reunited

Five years ago, when we first went to South Africa, we met this woman on one of our multiple day tours. She was traveling with the daughter of her good friends. We were a captive audience for hours on end, but enjoyed each others’ company immensely, so we exchanged e-mails. She was originally from South Africa, but had moved to New Zealand years prior. As many of those exchanges go, we e-mailed sporadically over the years and then lost touch. Coincidentally, when we first arrived here, I found a Christmas greeting from Margosia. I responded sharing that we were in country if there were any chance of getting together. She lives in Wellington, but was going to be in Auckland when we where there. Hoping to another chance, we looked for a chance at the end of the trip. As luck would have it, she is housesitting for her sister in Devonport, a suburb of Auckland, so dinner was possible.

Using our past knowledge of the city, we bought a Discovery Pass allowing us unlimited transport on all city buses with the bonus of free ferry transport to Devonport. Perfect! We rode the link bus circling the city, using it as a hop-on hop-off bus, stopping in neighborhoods that looked appealing. This makes for a real conundrum, though. Why would we want to stop in appealing neighborhoods, read here – good shopping, when we are restricted with the luggage? 

This makes me curious how merchants who are dependent on tourism are getting by? Do tourists buy less knowing they may potentially have to pay extra fees at the airport? Even the vast number of cruise passengers will need to fly somewhere once reaching the home port again. I have to admit, it has curbed my spending a great deal. As expensive as the books are here, there have been a couple on sale by authors I follow, so would snap them up in a second, but then the airline agent appears in front of my face saying “That will be $75 for Air NZ, but we don’t know if Lufthansa is going to charge you more for the rest of your trip.” Codesharing is great when the airlines cooperate, but they should all have to agree on luggage limits. It is schizophrenic for everyone to have their own rules when they are shifting luggage from one airline to another. So I send my regrets to the booksellers who did not get my cash as well as to the souvenir stores where I did not buy the impulsive trinkets. Complain to the airlines. It is their fault. It was my intent to be a good shopper. 

One of our stops was for a Burger Fuel lunch. Burger Fuel is a chain where they serve the best hamburgers I have ever tasted. With strange combinations, you can also get sweet potatoes French fried. What a treat it was. After lunch, we found the War Memorial Museum, but only made it into the lobby. They wanted $10 p/p entry. There was nothing showing to entice us to pay it; it seemed it may have been repetitive of Te Papa in Wellington. 

The ferry ride to Devonport was only a half hour and included on our pass. It was a delightful ride, but Devonport itself is charming. A lovely beach rings the edge; a shell collectors’ delight, so I had to restrain myself yet again or I would have stuffed a suitcase.  Close to 7pm, the stores were still greeting the last minute tourists hoping they will temporarily forget arrogant airline regulations. We met with Margosia going for drinks at one restaurant. Later we moved on to another restaurant where she had heard they had a good reputation. The evening was delightful due to the company and the food. Reuniting with someone you have shared some brief memories and experiences with is a little bonus gift of traveling.

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The Party is Coming to an End

When you start approaching the end of the trails, you have bopped around from place to place, and you know you only have one night in a place, there is no real incentive to “do it” right. Alternatively, you want to avoid traveler’s remorse later when you think back to say “I really should have done this, that, or the other while I was in XYZ.” Whether you travel solo or with others, there is still someone to contend with, even if it is yourself.

Tonight, we fly from here in Dunedin to Auckland on Air New Zealand. What can we do that is not going to be painful, exhausting, or take up the entire day? The Cadbury factory has tours. Perfect, we book a tour, go for a coffee, and then to the factory. Anyone who has been to Hersey, PA or Oakdale, CA where there are Hersey factories may think they can pass this one by. Not so! Although now owned by the British company, the factory was started by a local NZ, went through a number of incarnations and then was bought out by Cadbury.

There is a multiple room visitor’s center where you are allowed to roam before and after your tour. Here you will see the history of chocolate as well as that of the factory. Most displays are animated to attract the attention of children as w ell as adults. Pictures are allowed throughout here, but nothing is allowed once on the tour. Not only did we have to store our bags, but also our watches, jewelry, cameras, plus we had to don head coverings and for the men with facial hair there were special “snout” masks. Julia, our guide was lively and full of information; each of us was given a plastic bag with a candy bar. We were instructed to carry it on the tour. 

The disappointing part was that different parts of the factory tour, the machines had either just finished a batch of product or was closed down for maintenance. One example was the Easter chocolates. They had just finished production the day before. They make ten Easter bunnies for every person in NZ and sell out every season. That is forty-five million Easter products. Seasonal items are for the NZ market only and the chocolate has a fifty-two week shelf life. This was disappointing to children and adults combined. We wanted to see the full process. As we went along, Julia asked quizzing questions for which we were rewarded with different Cadbury products. Outside they had some of the old Ford trucks that were actually used by the company early on for milk and product delivery.

The train station in town is old, historic, and looks like a gingerbread building. The tiles and stained glass inside are worth a look. They run a number of scenic train trips day trips or longer. One of the trains was in the station; it didn’t look much different than what we had been on, but the scenery may have been magnificent. I love train trips like this.

We went to the Museum of Art. They offer free admission. The collection is quite eclectic with modern mixed with a smattering of classical styles. With our flight not getting into Auckland until after 10pm, we stopped at the grocery store for an early dinner. Most grocery stores have the prepared and hot roasted chickens, which has been a staple of our diet. With a couple of salads, we had the makings of a picnic. One of the salads was a mix of kumara and apricot with penne pasta. The other was pumpkin sesame.

Those last hours between not having enough time to do anything and nothing really special to do, we sat around the hostel waiting for the airport shuttle. At least it gave me time to write, sort pictures, catching up on neglected things. 

It seemed like we were never going to arrive at the airport. Driving around for what seemed like forever, I kept wondering how long they will hold a flight for those with paid for seats. I did not realize the other two in the shuttle were on our flight. They were Aussies, but did not seem at all concerned. Checking in was a breeze, because there was only one person ahead of us. Still having the emotional attachment to the extra suitcase, it came along. What I had read on the Air NZ website was that it would cost us NZ$10. It seemed for moments we were going to get away with it for free. The three carry-on sized bags were less than 44 kilos, the allotment. No, the agent asked for a NZ$20 bill without any sign of friendliness. What happened to this laid back country? I didn’t have the energy to fight with him over what their website said, so paid it, but asked about the international flight since the first part is with Air NZ. Well, isn’t this special for this part of the international ride home, it will be NZ$75. 

Well so much for sentiment; this bag is getting lost really soon. There really is no place to store it at home anyway, but I have traveled with it for over seventeen years and it has seen many countries. It is like putting an old animal companion out of its misery, with the exception that it has years of life still, so maybe someone can make use of it.

Flying from Dunedin to Auckland was only 1 ¼ hours, so they served snacks. We had a choice of air puffed veggie chips or dried fruit pieces. When they announced this, we thought we misheard what they said. Within minutes of arrival, the airport was like they had done evacuation procedures; there was not a soul around. Ron’s bag was the last to come out on the belt; the belt chugged along empty of cargo, stretching for what seemed like miles, before eventually his bag appeared, looking lonesome and afraid of abandonment. Had it not shown, there was no one around to whom to complain. A call to the hostel, they said to call this particular taxi company. A ride will cost us NZ$35. Calling from the mobile did not work, because they have a toll free number, which does not work with mobiles. We had to find a pay phone. They are few and well hidden.

The taxi, not being authorized, had to meet us away from the taxi stands. When we were on our way, the meter was running like it was competing in a marathon. The regular taxis quoted us at $60, but this meter was quickly approaching that. Why we were taking all of these back roads was beyond me; the only conclusion was to beef up the meter. By 11:15pm we finally arrived at the hostel. With a meter illuminatingly brilliant numerals showing $54.60, the “we have been had” feeling was rising to my temporal region. Just as it was reaching the peak, the driver turned around and said “That will be NZ$35.00 thank you.” Relief, regret, resignation about running to unfounded conclusions.

It is really interesting to me that everywhere you go, when you buy something, they will tell you the amount followed by thank you. “That will be $29.50, thank you.” Then you give them the money, if they need to give you change or not, they say thank you again. Quite civilized. Thank yous are used on buses too. Each time someone disembarks from a bus they say thank you to the driver. If they get off of the back door, they make sure to yell it so the driver can hear it. 

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Dunedin is C-H-O-C-O-L-A-T-E-L-Y Rich

When you start approaching the end of the trails, you have bopped around from place to place, and you know you only have one night in a place, there is no real incentive to “do it” right. Alternatively, you want to avoid traveler’s remorse later when you think back to say “I really should have done this, that, or the other while I was in XYZ.” Whether you travel solo or with others, there is still someone to contend with, even if it is yourself.

Tonight, we fly from here in Dunedin to Auckland on Air New Zealand. What can we do that is not going to be painful, exhausting, or take up the entire day? The Cadbury factory has tours. Perfect, we book a tour, go for a coffee, and then to the factory. Anyone who has been to Hersey, PA or Oakdale, CA where there are Hersey factories may think they can pass this one by. Not so! Although now owned by the British company, the factory was started by a local NZ, went through a number of incarnations and then was bought out by Cadbury.
 

There is a multiple room visitor’s center where you are allowed to roam before and after your tour. Here you will see the history of chocolate as well as that of the factory. Most displays are animated to attract the attention of children as w ell as adults. Pictures are allowed throughout here, but nothing is allowed once on the tour. Not only did we have to store our bags, but also our watches, jewelry, cameras, plus we had to don head coverings and for the men with facial hair there were special “snout” masks. Julia, our guide was lively and full of information; each of us was given a plastic bag with a candy bar. We were instructed to carry it on the tour. 

The disappointing part was that different parts of the factory tour, the machines had either just finished a batch of product or was closed down for maintenance. On the bright side, we had a demon spawn on the tour who managed to raise the ire of a seemingly unflappable tour guide. No parent came to intervene. These are the children every teacher dreads. At the end of the tour, we assured the guide she was a saint for handling the child as she did. She said in all her years touring, this was the worst kid she has ever had.

One example was the Easter chocolates. They had just finished production the day before. They make ten Easter bunnies for every person in NZ and sell out every season. That is forty-five million Easter products. Seasonal items are for the NZ market only and the chocolate has a fifty-two week shelf life. This was disappointing to children and adults combined. We wanted to see the full process. As we went along, Julia asked quizzing questions for which we were rewarded with different Cadbury products. Outside they had some of the old Ford trucks that were actually used by the company early on for milk and product delivery.
 

The train station in town is old, historic, and looks like a gingerbread building. The tiles and stained glass inside are worth a look. They run a number of scenic train trips day trips or longer. One of the trains was in the station; it didn’t look much different than what we had been on, but the scenery may have been magnificent. I love train trips like this.
 

The Museum of Art offers free admission and was recommended, so we ventured over. The collection is quite eclectic with modern mixed with a smattering of classical styles. With our flight not getting into Auckland until after 10pm, we stopped at the grocery store for an early dinner. Most grocery stores have the prepared and hot roasted chickens, which has been a staple of our diet. With a couple of salads, we had the makings of a picnic. One of the salads was a mix of kumara and apricot with penne pasta. The other was pumpkin sesame.

Those last hours between not having enough time to do anything and nothing really special to do, we sat around the hostel waiting for the airport shuttle. At least it gave me time to write, sort pictures, catching up on neglected things.
 

It seemed like we were never going to arrive at the airport. Driving around for what seemed like forever, I kept wondering how long they will hold a flight for those with paid for seats. I did not realize the other two in the shuttle were on our flight. They were Aussies, but did not seem at all concerned. Checking in was a breeze, because there was only one person ahead of us. Still having the emotional attachment to the extra suitcase, it came along. What I had read on the Air NZ website was that it would cost us NZ$10. It seemed for moments we were going to get away with it for free. The three carry-on sized bags were less than 44 kilos, the allotment. No, the agent asked for a NZ$20 bill without any sign of friendliness. What happened to this laid back country? I didn’t have the energy to fight with him over what their website said, so paid it, but asked about the international flight since the first part is with Air NZ. Well, isn’t this special for this part of the international ride home, it will be NZ$75. Well so much for sentiment; this bag is getting lost really soon. There really is no place to store it at home anyway, but I have traveled with it for over seventeen years and it has seen many countries. It is like putting an old animal companion out of its misery, with the exception that it has years of life still, so maybe someone can make use of it.

Flying from Dunedin to Auckland was only 1 ¼ hours, so they served snacks. We had a choice of air puffed veggie chips or dried fruit pieces. When they announced this, we thought we misheard what they said. Within minutes of arrival, the airport was like they had done evacuation procedures; there was not a soul around. Ron’s bag was the last to come out on the belt; the belt chugged along empty of cargo, stretching for what seemed like miles, before eventually his bag appeared, looking lonesome and afraid of abandonment. Had it not shown, there was no one around to whom to complain. A call to the hostel, they said to call this particular taxi company. A ride will cost us NZ$35. Calling from the mobile did not work, because they have a toll free number, which does not work with mobiles. We had to find a pay phone. They are few and well hidden.

The taxi, not being authorized, had to meet us away from the taxi stands. When we were on our way, the meter was running like it was competing in a marathon. The regular taxis quoted us at $60, but this meter was quickly approaching that. Why we were taking all of these back roads was beyond me; the only conclusion was to beef up the meter. By 11:15pm we finally arrived at the hostel. With a meter illuminatingly brilliant numerals showing $54.60, the “we have been had” feeling was rising to my temporal region. Just as it was reaching the peak, the driver turned around and said “That will be NZ$35.00 thank you.” Relief, regret, resignation about running to unfounded conclusions.

It is really interesting to me that everywhere you go, when you buy something, they will tell you the amount followed by thank you. “That will be $29.50, thank you.” Then you give them the money, if they need to give you change or not, they say thank you again. Quite civilized. Thank yous are used on buses too. Each time someone disembarks from a bus they say thank you to the driver. If they get off of the back door, they make sure to yell it so the driver can hear it. 

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The Last of the Bus Rides

The absolute last bus ride for this trip was the one we took today from Queenstown to Dunedin. Five and a half hours on the bus with one stop for coffee, lunch, and a bathroom break. Grueling, but the scenery did not disappoint us at all, once again keeping us glued to the window.  Ron kept mentioning that we arrive at 12:30pm and had a wildlife tour booked for 3:30pm. Although he repeated this multiple times both in Budapest and as we traveled, the information sat on the surface of my thinking like oil sits on own water, never mixing.

When we arrived in Dunedin, the hostel turned out to be farther than we wanted to walk with suitcases. Dunedin is so hilly, laying claim to having the world’s steepest street; the city makes San Francisco look like Iowa, flat as a pancake. My idea of fun has never included carting luggage up mountains, but then again I am not into sporty events. TAXI!! The taxi must charge by the hill. We were shocked at the cost/distance ratio, but again the hills are significant, so it was that or hitchhike. 

Our room was ready upon our arrival, so we had time to stretch before climbing into another motor vehicle. Good thing, because the information that really did not penetrate was the fact that the tour was for 6 hours. They will get us at 3:20pm and not return us until 9:30pm. What seemed highly unlikely was that Ron planned this. He who is against all forms confinement made these plans, booked and paid for them before we left Europe. What has gotten into this man? He was like a little kid, really looking forward to this. I could go either way. Seals and penguins are fun, but we have seen both in South Africa multiple times, Australia, and Tierra del Fuego at the tip of Argentina. Could these seals and penguins be that much different? 

Ride around, ride around, picking up others along the way really cuts into the “tour” time. When a tour operator tells you this is an 8 hour tour, you have to cut off an hour for picking everyone up and an hour for letting everyone off at the end of the day. During this ride around, one of the two guides informs us that they hope we have good shoes, because we are going to have to do some climbing up and down steep hills. Whoa, Buster! Hold it right there. Now that we are in the van is not the time to tell us that we needed good hiking/climbing shoes. I look at Ron and ask him “Did you know we were supposed to have good hiking shoes?” I am still not sure whether or not I believe him, but he said “TripAdvisor said to have comfortable shoes.” We are both wearing Crocs, which are fabulous for everyday wear walking. They are not suitable for mountain climbing, at least not the style I brought with me.

Panic starts to set in. Not only do I not have appropriate shoes, we have been warned that hiking is involved. I take to hiking like a duck takes to quicksand. No one that knows me well has ever associated me with heavy physical exertion for work or for fun. Everyone who knows me well knows that I believe the devil is behind that E word (whisper it – exercise). Though I may be build like a Mack truck, I don’t have any horsepower; I can’t even claim pony power. I am a thinker, not a do-er. This is the main reason I don’t watch any sports either. All of that exertion being displayed just wears me out.

Tim, one of our guides is at the front of a twenty-three person van shouting out “If anyone thinks they may have problems with this ‘walk’ let us know now.”  We are sitting in the absolute last seat in the back of the van. Like I am going to announce to the masses that I am an exercise wimp, who is not certain about survival during this field trip; I think not. The penguins and seals in all other countries had the decency not to make us go over hill and dale to view them. They were all within easy walking distance. How rude New Zealand wild life is. 

We drive through a sheep ranch to finally reach this cliff where Mexican cliff divers could practice from it is so high. Masses of sheep are all around us, but there are gates to keep them from throwing themselves to the rocks and waters below. They are all going baaaaaaa in unison. All I hear is a chorus of BAAAAAAAD as in bad news for you bucko. This is not the event you have been living for. With great stoicism, I follow the leader, thinking “This is not so bad.” However, what goes down, in this case must come up again and since no escalator magically appeared, I am in big trouble. Glacier experiences are rushing past my eyes. I envision a scarlet letter on my chest, a big S for Slug. Snap, snap, snap, the guide is speaking, but I am busy getting all of the pictures I think I will ever want, need, or care to have. When he takes a breath, I inform him I am getting a head start on the return journey. It seemed likely that even with a twenty minute head start; the tail end of the group could still by-pass me on their return. Wow, I made it up before they did. Pat me on the back. It only two times to stop to gasp for air. This outdoor activity must be improving my breathing. 

The group finally returns. Gosh, they were so slow getting back. One of the guides unlocks the van, causing a knee-jerk reaction for me to climb in. He stops me, telling me he only needed a hat, but we were not ready to go yet. The Yellow-Eyed penguins were down another cliff on the opposite side of the car park. Near them, but not living with them were the Blue penguins. What a rainbow assortment of penguins they have here. What the hell, can’t they just get along with the seals congregating in one viewing area? Sean, the second guide looks at me and says, this hill is not as steep a slope, so it should be easier for you. With some bravado I started down the hill. It was like descending the seven layers of hell, but by level 4, ultimate and everlasting misery, I had had enough. Not only were there 3 more layers to descend, but what I didn’t know at the time was that then a trek followed covering another mile or more. Yellow-eyed penguins are only found here in New Zealand. Could I live without ever seeing yellow-eyed penguins? You bet I can. Prompting Ron to continue, I was standing on the hill in a 45 degree angle now certain whether which direction I was going fall in. It was either going to be flat on my face or my ass.
 

Climbing back up was worse the second time around. Ten steps, stop, rest, gasp for air, think about whether or not my travel insurance covers cremations or not. Ten more steps, same routine, but wonder if I have told Ron where I hid the travel cash. Finally reaching the top of the hill, there is a small herd of sheep waiting to greet me. They all look up, stare at me and flee like they had a premonition I was a butcher or one of THOSE types of shepherds, if you get my drift. 

I am up at the van waiting for the others, thinking how long could they possibly be. Hmm…I seem to remember one of the guides saying something about us being there for 2 ½ hours. That was forty-five minutes ago. The sun was shining, but the wind was blowing furiously. If I stayed warm in the sun, the wind was pushing me around like a bully on the playground. A shove in the back with an “I dare you. What are you going to do about it?” There were enough boulders that I was able to make a makeshift seat with the sun shining, but with a smidgen of shelter from the wind. It was so windy that one of the guides left with brown hair only to return with it white. He said he could see the color flying into the air as the wind blew it out of each hair shaft. 

So it is me and the sheep and I have to pee. Sean, the guide announced we could leave what we wanted on the van since he would lock it up. He said it is only us and the sheep up here and the sheep are fairly honest. The last I looked, the group was down the mountain and about ¼ mile down the beach. With my telescopic lens on my camera at the highest power, they still looked like ants marching to their hill. No one around, I didn’t think the sheep were going to care if I peed in front of them. Checking to make sure the group is not returning in some unexpected direction, I finally decide it is okay. Half-way through the euphoric I have been waiting too long to pee pee, two new tour groups show up out of nowhere. From the dance I did, if they were not paying full attention, they could very well have thought they caught me in the act being baaaaaad in public. Regardless, I kept a low profile behind the van.

When my group returned forty-five minutes later, it was like having angelic visitations. There is nothing I wanted more than to get out of there. Ron loved the Yellow-eyed penguins; they never had any sighting of the Blue penguins that burrow in the ground, but did not make a showing. All of this fun, yet the tour was still not over. There was still a visit the albatross research center to see albatross. Arriving at the center fifteen minutes before closing was perfect. See the center, read the info, witness an albatross flying around, get on the van and go away, far away where there is less wind. We close the center, but Sean has a lecture to give on the albatross outside on the cliff with 50 mile an hour winds blowing us around as if we were tottering bowling pins during an earthquake. After twenty minutes, Sean announces that Tim will unlock the van for those of us freezing and the rest can stay with him to listen to the rest of his monologue. He is left with 3 people while the rest of the horde was smart enough to get shelter.
 

As they are dropping people off at their preferred stops, the two guides said “Thank you for coming. We hope you had a good time.” They repeated this for each small group they dropped off. We asked that they leave us at a bar. I for one needed a beer to shake off the day. As I got out of the van, I waited for the “Thank you for coming. We hope you had a good time”, but all I received for my troubles was “Bye!”. The beer that followed was excellent, though.

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Hello, Intuition Calling

Each time we travel, there is at least one instance where my intuition does its little niggle nudging to make me aware of something, but I just brush it aside in total ignorance. You would think that the two times I did just such a thing and was attacked twice in Santiago, Chile, a lesson would be learned. I have trust issues. What can I say and my intuition is right up there with all of the other trust issues. Fortunately, this time was not a major issue. 

Hence, when we went to bed last night, as customary, I set the mobile phone as an alarm clock. Ron will sleep until the very last milliseconds before he absolutely needs to get out of bed. He has perfected the three minute shower to the point you can calibrate your egg timer by him. His usual last communication at night is “I don’t need to get up until ____” . This is my signal that I need to be up and ready to go before I wake him. Last night, I thought he said “I don’t need to get up until 6:30.” With that in mind, I set the clock for 6am. However, that little voice in my head kept trying to pass messages through the synapses, but there must have been too much traffic at the time with all of the “To Do” lists racing through my mind. The intuitive messages never cleared the stop sign.

As most mornings, I am up before the alarm. I was showered, dressed, had my bed stripped of linens and ready to get breakfast ready when I wake up Ron. I am fixing tea, sharing the kitchen with four Asian women who are already eating bowls of noodles that are permeating the air with a luscious aroma making me now despise the English muffin I had been craving only thirty minutes earlier. Breakfast was ready: two cups of tea made, two muffins toasted and buttered, but no Ron.  

After traipsing down the long hallway grumbling under my breath about his sense of time, I found he was still wandering aimlessly in a room the size of a large closet. “Breakfast is ready.” I say with the best non-irritated tone I can muster at that hour of the morning.  “What is the rush? We have an hour before we need to catch the bus.”  he questions. Finally that repressed thought comes to the surface. “What time is the bus again? “ I ask. The bus is at 7:05am, it is now 6:57am. Yesterday when we timed the walk, it took fifteen minutes to get to where the bus will pick us up. Being conscientious of hostel rules, plus having this complex about being the best boy in the world, I cannot leave our teacups unwashed. I dump the tea, toss the bags, wash the cups, dry them and have them arranged neatly on the shelf. I accomplish the same with the muffin plates and the butter knife.
 

Ron has already left me behind, which is fine. He is taller, but I am a faster walker, so I catch up and overtake him within minutes of my rushing out the hostel door. Thankfully, I had taken all of our linens down earlier and put them in the proper receptacle or I would have had a day long anxiety attacks over being a bad commune-ist.
 

If you remember my bout with the glacier, I can now confirm that it is not icy conditions that make me winded and wheezy. Flat, warm, dry land is just as unsatisfactory in stressful conditions. As I am racing to the bus stop, which happens to be another hostel, I am starting to resemble the offspring of the Pillsbury Doughboy and Huff’ N Puff the dragon. The Amazing Race has nothing on me; I am halfway to the bus stop when I see the bus pull around the corner. There are still 3 blocks to go, but the bus has the advantage over me. I weigh the options. I could say screw the bus and we stay another night, but then the domino effect would come into play. We would then miss our bus tomorrow. Option 2 – jump in front of the bus to slow it down. The final option – give the driver some signal that we should be on that bus, so wait for us. We will be there once I am fully resuscitated again. By divine intervention, the Asian women did what I could not manage. They stopped the bus. The driver let us on. It turned out it was not their bus, so they had to get off.

We made it back to Queenstown, moved to the YHA Central, because our bus leaves early tomorrow; this is right downtown, where the other YHA is not. Check-in is not until 2:30, but our suitcases are still locked away at the Lakefront property. After getting some breakfast, we dropped off what we felt comfortable leaving in long term storage at our new place and went to rescue our bags from the old one. Once we were downtown, we locked them up in storage too. That is where they will live until we leave for the bus.

There is so much beauty here in Queenstown; it is a thrill to be back. Good, now what do we do? Shop, we will shop for the things we did not get before. Sheep puppets are on the list for our friend’s children. Two sizes are perfect for the two small sized children, but both are under five years old. The same store and many others sell some rather queer products that even some of our bus drivers have mentioned as being best sellers here and in the Asian market. Two that I find particularly attention grabbing are the Green Lip mussels and sheep placenta. Reportedly, the Green Lip mussels restores joint tissue and is used for arthritis. Sheep placenta comes in several forms to fight aging. Choices are creams and capsules, Which is least tempting, to smear placenta on your face or to ingest it in capsules?  In the short time we are in the store looking a the puppets, a drove of Asian pile into the store and plunk down the sheep placenta by the shrink wrapped 6 packs.

I looked at a bottle of sheep placenta capsules. The label states two pearls a day will meet your daily recommended requirements for sheep placenta, but possible side effects could be: wanting to graze, rather than eat full meals, turning sheepishly shy, continuing to believe the grass is greener in other pastures, your hair my need shearing more frequently, but if you feel baaaaad in anyway, stop taking them regardless of how young you may look. One thing is for sure, this is one factory tour I don’t mind missing out on. Just imagine, a slew of sheep lined up all giving birth at the same time, while they are collecting… well you get the idea. We are considering getting into the sheep ranching business after we heard it can take years off of your looks. 

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