We only had one night in Queenstown, and finding a place to stay the night there was my responsibility. Let me say that this is a major affair because Sara likes to have things planned out to the furthest extent possible, as far as possible in advance.
I am not the same way.
I prefer to take things as they come, and plan things as needed. For instance: to discover what I’ll be having for dinner on any given night, my preferred method is to wait until 4 or 5 pm and see what my stomach craves. I will then make a trip to the grocery and find those things necessary to fulfill my needs. Sara is different. Sara would much rather make a single trip to the grocery, once a week, and not have to return. This idea necessitates, of course, having a week-ahead plan of cooking needs.
I can’t tell you what I’m going to want for dinner on Wednesday. I just can’t. Nor could I tell you where we were staying in Queenstown last night. I figured, Hey, we’ll just step off the bus and find a hostel with some open beds, starting with one to which folks in Milford Sound pointed us. They would be staying at a particular hostel that night, and told us to check it out.
So we get off the bus in city-centre Queenstown. It’s about 8 pm; the downtown is alive and active. We get a tip from the bus driver that the hostel we seek is over a block, up a block, and over a few blocks. Good. No problem. Until we get over a block and up a block. Then there’s a problem.
It’s up hill.
For me: not a problem. But you see Sara does not do hills very well. She’s great with distance over flat ground (such as walking 13.1 miles on a beach next month), but incline does her in. So here we are, ascending this hill, and I can imagine the “I-told-you-so”s coming. We should have planned this in advance. That way we could be sure that we were climbing this hill toward two beds that actually exist.
They didn’t. The hostel’s manager had retired for the evening already, and the reception desk did not invite inquires after hours. Sigh. We walked halfway down the hill again (did I mention that the central southland is quite hilly?) and pulled out the guidebook. Aha! Here’s another option. It’s just—up that other hill.
So I left Sara sitting on a grassy corner, the sun setting behind the mountains, while I climb the hill and scout out our next option for a hostel. As I climb the hill, I reflect on our circumstances. Queenstown: the hottest tourist spot in the southland, catering especially to thrill-seekers (like bungee jumpers) who would rather spend their big bugs on experiences and stay in hostels at night. Summer: the busy season, when it’s warmer than the northern hemisphere and cooler than the miserably hot North Island. After 8 pm: after hours, when many backpackers and hostels close down their front desks.
I stop reflecting on our circumstances and keep walking up the hill. Enter Flo and Garlic, two guys with backpacks looking rather tired and walking in the other direction.
Emrys: Hey, are you guys looking for a backpacker?
Garlic: (in Down Under accent) Yeah! Have you found one?
Emrys: No, we’re looking for one, too.
Garlic: We were going to try Burly’s, this one up the street.
Emrys: [internal monologue] What’s that smell? Is that coming from this guy? [My hall director fifth sense kicks in] That’s not alcohol . . . and it’s not mary jane. What drug is that? [aloud] Yeah, we just tried that one. There’s no one on duty. Have you tried the Salty Dog?
Garlic: Yeah, we tried them earlier today. They had two beds in separate dorm rooms.
Emrys: [internal] Well, why didn’t you take them? [aloud] Are they still open?
Garlic: We don’t know.
Emrys: Well, I’m going to go have a look.
We wished each other luck and I proceeded to the next target. Full up. Sigh. They directed me to another one “right next door,” but I couldn’t find it. So I headed back to Sara’s location, wondering how she’d take it if we ended up sleeping under the stars in a public park. When I got there, she was sitting with these two guys I had met earlier. They’re all there on the corner commiserating about being homeless for the night.
We pulled out our guide, and Flo had a cell phone. So he called a hostel we had looked at much earlier in our travel planning, and they had four beds. Perfect! Flo booked them under his name (which is how I know it) and hung up. So, Flo, where is this place? “I don’t know,” he says. Thanks, Flo.
Garlic pulled out a tourist map and Sara found it: it’s down that street and . . . up that other hill.
On the way to the lodge, we found out that these two guys are labourers on temporary work permits to New Zealand. One’s from Australia, the other’s from Germany. They were working up north picking fruit until too much rain got them laid off. So they found a connection with a construction company in Queenstown, starting tomorrow. One of them, a guy pierced several times visibly and with tattoos on his neck and forearms, is carrying a blue bag.
“Mate, I’ve got to get rid of that smell.” “What is it?” I ask, sensing my opportunity to find out the name of some strange new mind-altering substance used in the southern hemisphere. “Garlic marinade. I had a packet of it that blew up in my bag. It reeks.” It sure does! Now I can place the smell and I know that I don’t want to be near it all night. I wonder if I’ll get the bunk right above this guy, whose bag (and everything in it) reeks of vinegar and garlic.
We show up at the lodge, and Sara asks if, by chance, they have a double or twin room available. Sure enough, they’ve got one twin left. So we take it, managing a little more privacy (for this night) than the dorm room bunk beds and escaping the smell of garlic marinade gone astray. It turned out to be a good evening, even if it was a bit hilly at the start. Still, Sara may not let me “plan” any more overnights. We’ll see; I’ll take that as it comes.
~emrys
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