“30 years is not worth a night of misery,” I insisted, predicting a speedy transition from rustic to agonizing in this weather.
New Zealand had given me snow topped mountains for my birthday. An environment better spent in private chilly reflection, wishing for woolen socks and the chance to be 25 again.
How do you measure the smallness of a town? Count the blocks between its borders, the farm animals grazing in residential front yards? Or how often “the usual” gets ordered at the corner cafe?
So as December 25th looms in New Zealand, I wonder about traditions: about this invisible baggage that’s so often heavier than the backpacks we carry – and a thousand times more valuable than every personal possession inside.