A few pictures to give you a taste of Dunedin. The old buildings are beautiful... photo album to be posted this weekend with lots more :)
Monday, January 09, 2006
Sunday, January 08, 2006
Ingredients: "Hokey Pokey"
So we Americans usually hear the phrase "Hokey Pokey" and see a bizaar little dance in our heads, here New Zealanders know the term as an iconic candy that is somewhat native to the area. When Emrys asked a convenience store clerk for a description she replied "It's like, you know, hokey pokey!" I really didn't care what it was because it seemed, according to Cadbury's description on the label to be covered in chocolate. I found it to be very similar to that sugary sweet that we Americans call "divinity" around the holidays-you know the stuff- spun up sugar that you can feel going straight to the roots of your teeth as soon as you take a bite. Regardless- the candybar was great and sated the sweet tooth that was running out of control!
Saturday, January 07, 2006
Sick in the Southern Hemisphere
In spite of having little room left in which to collect souvenirs, my body has decided to collect one very costly piece of memorabilia: an energy-draining bug that has spent the last two days of my verve. Discovery of New Zealand and Dunedin in earnest shall begin after I’ve eaten and slept this thing off. Until then.
~emrys
~emrys
Friday, January 06, 2006
Trip to Dunedin
As the last post said we did arrive in Dunedin safe and sound but we did have an adventure. After our original flight was cancelled we were rebooked and everything looked great on paper. We boarded our plane with tons of other people and settled in for a LONG flight. While our original seats would have been two together -window and aisle, we were rebooked as two middle seats in the middle of the plane. Rather disappointing for such a long flight but alas, it got us here. After takeoff dinner was served and the flight was updated on the status of the Rose Bowl Game and about 3 hours into the flight the flight attendants called for any doctors on board to identify themselves and about 5 hours in we were told that our flight was being redirected to Honolulu for and emergency medical landing. This little diversion added 5 hours to the original flight time. Almost 18 hours after we finally landed in Auckland, very happy to be on the ground. We had been rebooked on a flight that left 6 hours later to get to Dunedin. So we gathered our luggage and went to check in with Domestic Transfers for the remainder of our trip. The angel of a ticket agent was able to get us on an earlier flight route so we then went to Christchurch and finally Dunedin. Our shuttle was waiting for us at the airport and we happily settled in for the 20 minute ride into town. 26 hours of travel later we dumped our stuff, headed for the showers then to dinner.
Dunedin reminds us a lot of Avalon, CA with houses built up on hillsides and the type of humidity found only in coastal towns. This morning we went for a walk and visited the local farmer's market. Now Emrys is off crashing again to sleep of some bug he caught on the plane. Not sure what I'm up to yet.
Safe, Sound, Tired & Hungry
Well that pretty much sums it up. Lots of adventures getting to Dunedin... more details after we've eaten and slept!
~sjt &e
Thursday, January 05, 2006
In (and Over) the Southland
We’ve arrived in Christchurch with only one more flight to go. When we reach Dunedin at 5:00pm, we shall have logged over 27 hours of travel time today. (Can we say that: "27 hours of travel time today"?) It feels like one wretched, horribly long day, but two days have passed on the calendar, and we’re almost finished with the second one. I’m terribly glad we’re getting ten weeks of travel out of these flights!
We took off from Auckland for our one-hour flight to Christchurch, the Sea of Tasman on our right and the flat bright green of the Northland on our left. That green gave way rather quickly to the wide blue Pacific. Soon we were over the Southland, the sky thick with Colorado clouds flying high in the bright blue. The terrain below is unique to my eyes: a carpet of various and melding blues covering the sea and the 10,000 foot peaks still capped in white, both visible in one turn of the head. The foothills north of Christchurch remind me of the Rocky Mountains. They have the sharp contours of etched stone at the base of pyramidal greying peaks. But the nature of the fabric is subtly different. The soft deciduous felt of the New Zealand mountains differs from the napped coniferous velvet of the Rockies.
They like hedges here. Bright green pieces of property—or perhaps parcels separated for different uses—are marked off on the landscape by dark green lines that, as the aircraft descends, resolve into tightly cropped bushes, high proud hedges, and neat rows of trees. The layout reminds me of the perfect square stone hedges of Scotland. And I’m not so sure the resemblance is coincidental. To hear tell of the heritage of the Southland, the similarity may be familial.
~emrys
We took off from Auckland for our one-hour flight to Christchurch, the Sea of Tasman on our right and the flat bright green of the Northland on our left. That green gave way rather quickly to the wide blue Pacific. Soon we were over the Southland, the sky thick with Colorado clouds flying high in the bright blue. The terrain below is unique to my eyes: a carpet of various and melding blues covering the sea and the 10,000 foot peaks still capped in white, both visible in one turn of the head. The foothills north of Christchurch remind me of the Rocky Mountains. They have the sharp contours of etched stone at the base of pyramidal greying peaks. But the nature of the fabric is subtly different. The soft deciduous felt of the New Zealand mountains differs from the napped coniferous velvet of the Rockies.
They like hedges here. Bright green pieces of property—or perhaps parcels separated for different uses—are marked off on the landscape by dark green lines that, as the aircraft descends, resolve into tightly cropped bushes, high proud hedges, and neat rows of trees. The layout reminds me of the perfect square stone hedges of Scotland. And I’m not so sure the resemblance is coincidental. To hear tell of the heritage of the Southland, the similarity may be familial.
~emrys
Emergency Landing
1200 kilometres south-southwest of Hawai’i
5 January, 2006, 6:30 am PST (which is 2:30 am NZ time on 6 Jan)
As we were taking off from LAX, the captain informed us that our estimated flight time from Los Angeles to Auckland was 12 hours. We were pleased especially since our own calculations estimated our flight time to be 16 hours. Four fewer hours in the livestock hold (those two seats smack dab in the middle of the centre row of a 747 jumbo jet) was good news indeed.
After three hours in flight from Los Angeles to Auckland, the head of the flight crew came on the intercom with the following announcement:
"Ladies and gentlemen, one of our passengers is feeling unwell. If there is a doctor somewhere in the cabin, would you please make yourself known to the flight crew. Thank you."
Not good news.
Is there a doctor in the house? It’s something you expect to hear in a film or on TV, but never in real life. Do people get suddenly, tragically ill on plane flights? Of course they do—and the longer your plane flight, the more likely someone is to do it on yours. Does someone ever really get up and shout, "Is there a doctor in the house?" Apparently they do. Do doctors then arise and exclaim, "Why yes, I am a doctor!" Well, they didn’t exclaim, but by my count of people hustling down the aisle our flight had two physicians and an EMT on board. They made themselves known to the flight crew and the murmur of curious and half-sleeping passengers died away.
Things moved along as planned (bearing 225 at about 40,000 feet) until an hour or so later, when the captain came over the intercom and informed us all that it had been decided the ill passenger in our midst required immediate medical attention. (Apparently two physicians and an EMT huddled together in cramped quarters at 40,000 feet and hurtling across the globe at hundreds of miles per hour did not count as "medical attention.")
So we went to Honolulu. That yellow line on the movie screen in front of my seat made a right-angle turn and headed for Oahu. Numbers changed: distance to our immediate destination fell precipitously as time to our intended destination climbed inexorably. And we saw Hawai’i again, or at least the portion of Honolulu international airport that is visible through the window (at night). We sat on the tarmac and waited while the medics got the unfortunate passenger off and refueled the jet. Meanwhile we breathed some more recirculated air and tried to stretch our legs.
I should have taken that Ambien like Sara did.
Well, the crew managed to get the passenger off to a hospital and the doctor returned to his seat. (I’m glad they made that emergency landing. It meant quick help for our unlucky passenger; and if I were the one falling ill on a trans-pacific flight, I’d want them to stop for me.) They got us refueled and in the air again. Now we’re approaching the equator with about seven (that’s four additional—but who’s counting with this groggy brain?) hours of flight time remaining. We’ll get to Auckland a little late (after 16 hours in the air after all), but we’ll get there. And that’s the important thing. Sometimes you just have to take a little detour, that’s all.
~emrys
5 January, 2006, 6:30 am PST (which is 2:30 am NZ time on 6 Jan)
As we were taking off from LAX, the captain informed us that our estimated flight time from Los Angeles to Auckland was 12 hours. We were pleased especially since our own calculations estimated our flight time to be 16 hours. Four fewer hours in the livestock hold (those two seats smack dab in the middle of the centre row of a 747 jumbo jet) was good news indeed.
After three hours in flight from Los Angeles to Auckland, the head of the flight crew came on the intercom with the following announcement:
"Ladies and gentlemen, one of our passengers is feeling unwell. If there is a doctor somewhere in the cabin, would you please make yourself known to the flight crew. Thank you."
Not good news.
Is there a doctor in the house? It’s something you expect to hear in a film or on TV, but never in real life. Do people get suddenly, tragically ill on plane flights? Of course they do—and the longer your plane flight, the more likely someone is to do it on yours. Does someone ever really get up and shout, "Is there a doctor in the house?" Apparently they do. Do doctors then arise and exclaim, "Why yes, I am a doctor!" Well, they didn’t exclaim, but by my count of people hustling down the aisle our flight had two physicians and an EMT on board. They made themselves known to the flight crew and the murmur of curious and half-sleeping passengers died away.
Things moved along as planned (bearing 225 at about 40,000 feet) until an hour or so later, when the captain came over the intercom and informed us all that it had been decided the ill passenger in our midst required immediate medical attention. (Apparently two physicians and an EMT huddled together in cramped quarters at 40,000 feet and hurtling across the globe at hundreds of miles per hour did not count as "medical attention.")
So we went to Honolulu. That yellow line on the movie screen in front of my seat made a right-angle turn and headed for Oahu. Numbers changed: distance to our immediate destination fell precipitously as time to our intended destination climbed inexorably. And we saw Hawai’i again, or at least the portion of Honolulu international airport that is visible through the window (at night). We sat on the tarmac and waited while the medics got the unfortunate passenger off and refueled the jet. Meanwhile we breathed some more recirculated air and tried to stretch our legs.
I should have taken that Ambien like Sara did.
Well, the crew managed to get the passenger off to a hospital and the doctor returned to his seat. (I’m glad they made that emergency landing. It meant quick help for our unlucky passenger; and if I were the one falling ill on a trans-pacific flight, I’d want them to stop for me.) They got us refueled and in the air again. Now we’re approaching the equator with about seven (that’s four additional—but who’s counting with this groggy brain?) hours of flight time remaining. We’ll get to Auckland a little late (after 16 hours in the air after all), but we’ll get there. And that’s the important thing. Sometimes you just have to take a little detour, that’s all.
~emrys
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Leav-vin' on a Jet Plane! What? Flight Cancelled?
Our time in Pasadena has been a wonderful flurry of activity, visiting and sharing meals with our friends that are still in the area. Finally our departure day has arrived. Sara, being the planner went online this morning to check the status of Air New Zealand Flight #3- our passage to Auckland. AirNewZealand.com promptly informed us our flight was cancelled!
So, as Pasadena gears up and thousands assemble for the Rose Bowl Game, we will flee to LAX, leave on a an earlier flight and arrive in Dunedin via a more direct route, earlier in the day on Friday, losing Thursday entirely to the crossing of the International Date Line. Let the international portion of the adventure begin!!
So, as Pasadena gears up and thousands assemble for the Rose Bowl Game, we will flee to LAX, leave on a an earlier flight and arrive in Dunedin via a more direct route, earlier in the day on Friday, losing Thursday entirely to the crossing of the International Date Line. Let the international portion of the adventure begin!!
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
Smells
1 January 2005
When you step off the plane onto the jetway, or climb down from the train, or clamber out of the car into a new place, the first thing you should do is to take a deep breath. You may know about the therapeutic effects of a deep breath especially if that inhalation accompanies a good long stretch. You may know how a rib-expanding breath can crack the spine that has known only a poorly-cushioned seat for the last eight or ten hours. You may have your own experiential reasons why you would, as I do, take a deep breath in a new place. But I have a different (if not exclusive) reason for taking that breath. Smell.
In spite of our cultural addiction to coffee and bathroom candles, the human sense of smell seems to be one of the lesser developed and appreciated of the five senses. Visual and auditory stimuli take front and centre in our media culture. Tactile sensations beckon from massage parlours and the front of stadium speakers. Glottal impressions imprint their values upon us at least three times a day—often more frequently. But the sense of smell receives a second place to the firsts of the other four. Televisions and computers neglect it; masseurs cannot finger our olfactory nodes; and the speed of our culture whisks food past the nose and into the stomach. Only the Body Shop and les entrepreneurs de parfum (who peddle aroma in a clumsy attempt to abstract its allure with screen and speakers) seem to receive the gift of the nose with proper respect.
This neglect strikes me as counter-intuitive. The sense of smell has some of the strongest attachments to the profound unspeakable emotions of the soul; it is capable of conjuring images in the mind by a single waft that would require a thousand brush strokes or a hundred spoken words. The scent of cologne can invoke the full depth of a child’s relationship with his father. The aroma of meatloaf can enfold the heart with a sense of home and a mother’s love. The smell of a hospital hallway can shock the heart to palpitations and the flesh to a nervous sweat. The scent of a first girlfriend’s hair or of the intimacy of a spouse can bring whole relationships to the surface with a thousand memories and a hundred emotions. Of the five senses the sense of smell holds the most secret power, able to brush the core of human being as a breeze brushes the cheek.
Yet the olfactory function of the nose and brain persist as profound and powerful interpreters of our environment. And so, I say, as we arrive in a new place we should take in a deep breath and all the scents such a breath will bring. For places have their own scents, so complex and intimate that we may perceive another dimension of our lives by paying attention to them. And the time passes so quickly in which these scents are new, for so rapidly our nostrils become accommodated to the slight nuances of aerial flavour and harmonies of aroma fall into a flat monotone backdrop. Take the opportunity, early on, to catch the scent of a place.
We arrived in Burbank, California today, to stay in Pasadena for three days before our flight to New Zealand. As we left the sterile environs of the airport terminal I took a deep breath. There was moisture in the air, wetness from the winter rains of southern California. The wetness bore the rich, strong leafiness of this plant-filled state, an odour of soil and chlorophyll. Woven into this tapestry of phyllophilic essence was the greasy aroma of petroleum emissions and vulcanized rubber that accompanied humanity into this once-desert environment. Burbank has its own smell, as distinctive as a Calvin Klein parfum but with deeper images than the model-studded billboards can offer.
Burbank is not like Kona, Hawai’i. Taking a deep breath on the Big Island fills the lungs and caresses the soul with a different aerial poem. The air in Kona hangs heavier about you, laden with the broad moisture of humid tropics. The leafiness is there, but darker, thicker, and more robust yet with thin threads of light fruitiness woven in. The aroma of that island is seedy, pregnant with coming growth like fresh potting soil though more colourful than that of any garden store. It is a mother-land in which the ever-ready rain in the air tells of warm fertility.
Neither of these two places is like the scent of New York City. There the sticky odour of asphalt and rubber tickles your nostrils with a sour overtone of hot steel. Invisible clouds of exhaust assault your glands with pockets of acrid bitterness. Eastern Pennsylvania farmland is still different. In the summertime the rich coolness of grass massages the nostrils with a soft welcome. In the autumn sour swirls arise from wet brown leaves and the winds carry the dry bland sweetness of cut cornstalks.
You must listen to your nose to catch it all, though. As I step out of the terminal in Burbank, California I wonder what the scent of New Zealand will be. For all the pictures I’ve seen, nature programs I’ve heard, and travel book restaurant reviews I’ve read, I have no idea how the place will smell. I can’t wait to step off the plane and take that first deep breath.
~ em
When you step off the plane onto the jetway, or climb down from the train, or clamber out of the car into a new place, the first thing you should do is to take a deep breath. You may know about the therapeutic effects of a deep breath especially if that inhalation accompanies a good long stretch. You may know how a rib-expanding breath can crack the spine that has known only a poorly-cushioned seat for the last eight or ten hours. You may have your own experiential reasons why you would, as I do, take a deep breath in a new place. But I have a different (if not exclusive) reason for taking that breath. Smell.
In spite of our cultural addiction to coffee and bathroom candles, the human sense of smell seems to be one of the lesser developed and appreciated of the five senses. Visual and auditory stimuli take front and centre in our media culture. Tactile sensations beckon from massage parlours and the front of stadium speakers. Glottal impressions imprint their values upon us at least three times a day—often more frequently. But the sense of smell receives a second place to the firsts of the other four. Televisions and computers neglect it; masseurs cannot finger our olfactory nodes; and the speed of our culture whisks food past the nose and into the stomach. Only the Body Shop and les entrepreneurs de parfum (who peddle aroma in a clumsy attempt to abstract its allure with screen and speakers) seem to receive the gift of the nose with proper respect.
This neglect strikes me as counter-intuitive. The sense of smell has some of the strongest attachments to the profound unspeakable emotions of the soul; it is capable of conjuring images in the mind by a single waft that would require a thousand brush strokes or a hundred spoken words. The scent of cologne can invoke the full depth of a child’s relationship with his father. The aroma of meatloaf can enfold the heart with a sense of home and a mother’s love. The smell of a hospital hallway can shock the heart to palpitations and the flesh to a nervous sweat. The scent of a first girlfriend’s hair or of the intimacy of a spouse can bring whole relationships to the surface with a thousand memories and a hundred emotions. Of the five senses the sense of smell holds the most secret power, able to brush the core of human being as a breeze brushes the cheek.
Yet the olfactory function of the nose and brain persist as profound and powerful interpreters of our environment. And so, I say, as we arrive in a new place we should take in a deep breath and all the scents such a breath will bring. For places have their own scents, so complex and intimate that we may perceive another dimension of our lives by paying attention to them. And the time passes so quickly in which these scents are new, for so rapidly our nostrils become accommodated to the slight nuances of aerial flavour and harmonies of aroma fall into a flat monotone backdrop. Take the opportunity, early on, to catch the scent of a place.
We arrived in Burbank, California today, to stay in Pasadena for three days before our flight to New Zealand. As we left the sterile environs of the airport terminal I took a deep breath. There was moisture in the air, wetness from the winter rains of southern California. The wetness bore the rich, strong leafiness of this plant-filled state, an odour of soil and chlorophyll. Woven into this tapestry of phyllophilic essence was the greasy aroma of petroleum emissions and vulcanized rubber that accompanied humanity into this once-desert environment. Burbank has its own smell, as distinctive as a Calvin Klein parfum but with deeper images than the model-studded billboards can offer.
Burbank is not like Kona, Hawai’i. Taking a deep breath on the Big Island fills the lungs and caresses the soul with a different aerial poem. The air in Kona hangs heavier about you, laden with the broad moisture of humid tropics. The leafiness is there, but darker, thicker, and more robust yet with thin threads of light fruitiness woven in. The aroma of that island is seedy, pregnant with coming growth like fresh potting soil though more colourful than that of any garden store. It is a mother-land in which the ever-ready rain in the air tells of warm fertility.
Neither of these two places is like the scent of New York City. There the sticky odour of asphalt and rubber tickles your nostrils with a sour overtone of hot steel. Invisible clouds of exhaust assault your glands with pockets of acrid bitterness. Eastern Pennsylvania farmland is still different. In the summertime the rich coolness of grass massages the nostrils with a soft welcome. In the autumn sour swirls arise from wet brown leaves and the winds carry the dry bland sweetness of cut cornstalks.
You must listen to your nose to catch it all, though. As I step out of the terminal in Burbank, California I wonder what the scent of New Zealand will be. For all the pictures I’ve seen, nature programs I’ve heard, and travel book restaurant reviews I’ve read, I have no idea how the place will smell. I can’t wait to step off the plane and take that first deep breath.
~ em
Monday, January 02, 2006
Raining on the Parade!
We arrived in Pasadena yesterday to cloudy skies and drizzle. Sophie and I walked at the Rose Bowl and finished out the 8 miles in the rain. Today for the first time in 55 years, those sitting three blocks away from us to watch the Tournament of Roses Parade are doing so in pouring rain. Don't think I'll be going out for that this morning!
~sjt
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