Check my nails/Baby how you feelin’

Spring and fall, tiny daisies cover the botanic garden lawns.

I miss you, brunettes with glasses! (pictured without glasses)

3/22

I was an intense nail-biter as a kid.  At some point in 7th grade I decided that as part of my plan to not be such a weirdo I’d have to cut it out.  I steeped myself and did so, one fingernail at a time.  (I started with the left thumb, then the right thumb, working toward the pinkies.)  I know the process was complete by the end of high school because I granted myself a reprieve for AP exams, during which I bit and chewed through the strenuous hours.  I still often distractedly pick at my nails and cuticles, and it’s a tell that something is up when I trim them obsessively, seeking to perfectly control the contour, or length, or evenness.

It’s especially important to tidy things up before flying.  Any hangnail or jagged morsel of skin will be bloodied and/or obliterated.  All those lines to wait in, people to put up with, and pent up tension from delays and bad smells and invaded personal space makes me desperate to gouge my eyes out; as that has its downsides, I make do with destroying my nails.

Maybe alcohol or sedatives would help, but I’m kind of stubborn—stoic? masochistic?—about maintaining outward calm on my own steam.  Wish me luck, if the planes even fly, on 30+ hours of travel.

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I apologize for that gross digression.  NZ continues to be fabulous and is also clamping down in response to that thing everyone is talking about.  It is just the beginning of autumn, with leaves parting from their branches, the evening sun slanting impossibly golden on the fading flowers, and thick clouds shrouding the mountains and valleys well into the morning.

I would like to report that I ate two oysters, and they were okay.  They started off the “trust the chef” tasting menu at my favorite restaurant in the world.  Not normally my thing, these guys were pretty mild and went well with my Sauvignon Blanc.  The subsequent garlic baked mussels, salmon carpaccio and tartar, brown butter filet of sole, crisp pork belly, and braised short ribs, all with their accompanying garnishes and mosaic of flavor, were fantastic.  (And sticky toffee pudding!)  Stay safe and stay in business, Boatshed Cafe.  

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3/23

Well that was quick.  My chances of being marooned indefinitely just significantly increased.  Not great for the psyche, but a relief for my fingernails.

Valderee Valderah

The concrete tent in Arthur’s Pass.

me and a glacier

Is it glamping if you make satay noodles with fresh veg?

In the last few weeks I’ve fended off giant mountain parrots, twice eaten braised beef cheek, crept through caves, boiled noodles in a field of sheep poop, and washed my hair once.  I’m pleased to report that my natural greasiness can quickly recover even the most frozen-desert-damaged hair.

There was also a day when I got a massage and read a (year-old) New Yorker magazine.  But the really luxurious experiences are gorgeous lonely beaches with rock outcroppings and the rare moments beside water when you’re not being eaten by sand flies.  Tonight my travel buddy and I are living it up like thousand-aires and sleeping in a hut rather than our tents.  Both provide refuge from asshole insects, but the hut features a large picture window that looks out on the lake and mountains beyond, and provides the light by which I write this (sparing my janky headlamp that’s on the fritz due to previously dampened, three-year-old batteries).

I’ve got one week left before I return to virus-hysteria world.  Don’t worry, I’ve got my own supply of toilet paper already.