On the road again

Our lovely car Smeagol, a.k.a. The Miracle Machine, a.k.a. The Mystery Mobile, at our camp site outside Aoraki Mt. Cook. One week into the camp-a-thon road trip and life is good, my friend.

The art of waiting

Take a moment to refer back to my list of goals, specifically the item known as “practice free-spiritedness.” If you’d like to, you can also take a moment to mentally assess, on a scale of 1 to 10, just how free spirited you believe me to be. If you’ve spent time with me in a time-sensitive situation (catching a plane, getting the last bus home, or showing up to a movie in time to see the previews) then you’re probably more likely to rate me at the low end, somewhere between “trying hard to play it cool but exhibiting some pretty questionable facial tics” and “your nail biting is getting fairly annoying for everyone around you.”

Week two in New Zealand: I have unexpectedly found myself in just such a time-sensitive situation. Tommy and I arrived in Christchurch a week ago, met up with our two lovely traveling companions, Devon and Ross (www.devonitelyrossome.com), whom I lured to us with the promise that we had a car. And I really thought that we did. My generous friend Juliette had already offered me her car for the duration of our stay in New Zealand. But I was about to be blindsided by one of those big scary words (like “mortgage” or “tire pressure”) whose meaning I have been so studiously avoiding learning for years: insurance. One of those grown-up Achilles’ heels.

For days we only know that Tommy and I still need to be added as drivers on the insurance policy and so the car isn’t ready for us. Then for a few more days, complete loss of communication. Radio silence. Devon and Ross have now paid for several nights at a hostel, and my guilt-o-meter is rising steadily. We start kicking around the idea of just buying a car to speed things along. We visit the backpacker’s car market, and it’s like leaving an animal shelter without a puppy: cars parked everywhere, their owners seemingly living out of them, waiting every day to swarm the few buyers who come in and to beg them to please buy their cars so they can make their flights home. I have a very un-free-spirited vision of us at the other end of our trip when we need to resell the car and we move in with these people, who might still be here for all I know, drinking 40s and heating soup on the radiators of their sad station wagons.

Then yesterday a moment of hope: we make contact with Juliette’s mom and things seem to be moving forward. But alas…the insurance company isn’t sure that they want to add two non-residents to the policy, sensing the potential for an international-scale hit-and-run. We have to look into finding a different insurance company, but in the meantime there’s nothing much that I can do. Just wait and see.

Based on the “free spirit” number you gave me at the beginning of this post, you might now have a pretty accurate idea of just how well I’ve been handling these developments. The answer is: “not entirely gracefully.” I’m surrounded by truly, beautifully easy-going people. Devon says that this is the way things are supposed to go this week. It’s meant to be. She’s some sort of a zen master. A river can flow through a straw, if only the straw points itself downriver. That kind of thing.

I say: another glass of wine, please.

“Que sera, sera” is a mentality that’s a lot easier to embrace when things are going your way. Or when there are steps you can take to herd things your way. But it turns out that free spiritedness under fire is going to be something I actually have to practice. Like exercising. Which for me means that the first couple of repetitions might be a wee bit painful - they might even involve some dramatic groaning/curling into fetal positions and whimpering.

So here’s the exercise for these next few days. Yoga, gardening, writing in cafes, reading Rumi, taking walks. I am missing my Routeburn track reservations, but I am loving life. Insurance is a river and I am a straw, baby. Yeah.

Thanks for waiting with me.

The bright side of life

I've been feeling lately that I owe a profound apology to any loyal readers still out there continuing to put up with my lazy posting. Friends who have started blogs recently have already put me completely to shame with their punctuality and reliability. Speaking of which, if you'd like a more constant correspondent from New Zealand, you can check out Tommy's blog for updates as well.

Reliable blogging may in fact end up being put on Tommy's list of delegated responsibilities. It's one of the nice things about having a travel partner - the opportunity to share the load and play to each other's strengths (or, in my case, obsessive-compulsive tendencies). For example, my list of responsibilities currently involves keeping track of all paperwork, making budgets that are promptly blown on Wellington's cornucopia of vegan cupcakes, and secretly making plans behind Tommy's back. Tommy's list of responsibilities includes having a positive attitude.

And let me tell you, I never really appreciated before how useful it can be to put someone else in charge of your positive attitude. I'll illustrate with an anecdote. A week ago, visiting Tongariro National Park, Tommy and I decided to attempt the Tongariro Alpine Crossing (they added the "Alpine" a year ago to dissuade foolhardy hikers - read, us - from taking it lightly) in weather that the locals descibed as "absolute shit." Despite the increasing numbers of hikers warning us to turn back as we journeyed upward, and despite the complete saturation of our clothing and the total depletion of my limited muscle strength, we kept on keeping on all the way to the topmost volcanic ridge of Mount Doom, where we truly began to appreciate the meaning of "high velocity winds." Picture, if you will, a thin ridge of volcanic rock, Tommy trying to convince me to keep walking, and me hunched over in downward dog, clinging to the ground to keep from falling over, snot literally being ripped out of my nose by the wind, wondering if this falls under the heading of "poor life decisions." This is a spectacularly good moment to have delegated your positive attitude. With Tommy in charge of finding silver linings (I bet this would be a really terrific view in the sun!), I was free to continue muttering my stream of expletives and imagining the headlines of tomorrow's paper: "Delusional Americans Blown Off Volcano on Second Day of Vacation."

The rest of week one has been slightly less intense, though equally invigorating. Wellington's vegetarian cafes are pleasantly munching away at my bank account (with my full and enthusiastic consent), the hole in the ozone layer is chipping away at my pasty Michigan-winter skin, and so far the "ugly island" continues to impress with gorgeous green hills, turquoise beaches, and surreal volcanic valleys. Tomorrow we're off to the South Island and Christchurch, where we will be enjoying the hospitality of yet another incredibly gracious friend. I'll try to be more worthy of your readership with more attentive blogging. Cheers, mates.