Temporary Kiwis

Historically stormy weather caused 500 of us to pile up waiting to fly out of New Zealand.  This triggered contractual spoils: paid-for hotel + per diem (that’s per diem, mind you, not per weekum).  After sitting through eight hours of PowerPoint about repetitive motion injuries, trash-sorting protocol, and “harassment training” [sic], I whiled away a few days with brunch and botanic gardens.  And then, just after reuniting with old pals, we were torn asunder—supposedly, Christchurch ran out of hotel rooms.  With no room left at the inn, a select group was deported an hour away to the backwater of Methven.

The Methven 66, as we now call ourselves, were paired in tiny rooms with naught but a sliding wooden rectangle for toilet privacy.  At first the mood was grim: we scoffed at our white-bread-and-marmite continental breakfast, and the mountains taunted us far, far in the distance.

But we rallied like fucking champs.  I mean, really, things aren’t so bad when you’re being paid to hang out in a hotel.  And then you discover Tony’s Unlimited and Well-Worn Rental Cars and start hiking anywhere and everywhere.  How about a nice communal picnic on Sheep Poop Ridge?

photo credit: Tim Wenzel

Or an easy walk up Peak Hill, with just a dusting of snow?

After 12 days of fresh air and sunshine, more and less successful horse track betting (Abiento for the win!), dolphin viewing, hot pool lakeside lounging, dark sky star gazing, fierce Special Edition New Zealand Trivial Pursuit battles, and so very many meat pies, it was a shock to abruptly transport to Antarctica.  That’s right, I am here, please send mail, and remember our internet bandwidth = two cell phones’ worth of data.

This year I will make choral music happen.  This year I will unwind from a long day’s work not with a Coors Lite shower-beer but instead sip a thimbleful of chartreuse while luxuriating in my Parisian eveningwear.  With luck, there will be ancient glacier ice in my glass.