“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?
“Doesn’t look so bad,” Mom shouts over the motor, though she and I are obviously thinking slightly less confident thoughts about parasailing. The curse of the Adrenaline Amateur is to always hope something natural will cancel your adventure, before your terrified bladder does.
“Is this yours?” The Customs Officer held the croissant between two distasteful fingers, as if pastry was only slightly less contraband than digested balloons of heroin. Gulp. “Are you aware that bringing illicit food products across the border is considered bio-terrorism?”
Gone are the rowdy days of Arrowtown’s mining past. The footsteps of frantic gold hunters have faded into the gentle patter of families with prams; espresso has replaced moonshine as […]
Flying into Queenstown airport – ZQN – gives new solemnity to the invention of arm rests. Wobbling through cloud-hatted peaks, the plane searches for that tell-tale paved strip at the base of the Remarkables, while rows of pale fingers clench the sides of plastic seats.
Five…six…seven… the flat stone skips from circle to circle, dancing across an otherwise untouched surface. Rings spin outward like ladies’ dresses, swirling, then subsiding into silence…
Too Mutch For Words 