Wellington

In this year of staying with random contacts, I find that I win some and I lose some. In Wellington, I was supposed to stay with a friend of my aunt, who is a renowned NZ actress (the friend, not my aunt, although she's pretty cool too). After receiving an initial email from this Dame (in the OBE sense, not the Bogart sense) in October saying she looked forward to welcoming me, I got no further responses from her. So I figured that my Wellington experience, which had promised to be a winner, might turn into a loser.

Luckily, not too long ago, a family friend from home said that one of her old college friends lived in Wellington, so I sent off a quick email, and invited myself there. Like all Kiwis (that I have experienced), these people said they would be delighted to have me.

Let me tell you, these few days were seriously in the "I win" column. I was a bit disgruntled initially that they told me to get taxi from the ferry (are there no buses?). I had to shell out $25, and we couldn't even find the house. Her directions gave me the street number of the house opposite, but not theirs. It turns out that the block of flats that we kept driving by in the taxi was actually their house. The first thing I noticed (once out of the rain and inside) was that they had an amazing art collection to go along with their amazing house. The second thing I noticed was that my host (probably about 60) was really, really interesting. I loved that the 30 year old daughter lived in a flat in the basement with her husband, and the 23 year old son was coming in and out. It felt just like home.

In talking with him, Ian, the father, would mention things like, "When I was the head of TV NZ... When I ran the NZ division for Expo 92..." I nodded and smiled and listened to the interesting stories. But on my final day there, when I noticed all of the large framed political cartoons featuring my host, I finally asked him, "Who ARE you???" He said he had thought about it, and that he was NZ's version of Ted Koppel. That would have explained the photographs of him shaking hands with Nelson Mandela and Prince Charles (not at the same time). Huh, go figure. And here I am imposing myself upon them. (No, I'm not going to give out their contact information, for I'm going to keep it all to myself so I can invite myself there again and again!) I had just as much fun with them in Wellington as I had with the lovely little old lady in Sydney! (But they had a puppy to boot, so maybe they win.)

Wellington itself was great. A very liveable city, if a bit steep. (That would be putting it mildly. My calves actually became numb one day walking up the hill to their house.) I had a nice wander around the city for a few days, once getting a bit lost and ending up actually standing in front of the American Embassy, where I was quickly met by a guard who hastened to guide me on my way... away. (Stupid paranoid Americans. The other embassies had no guards running out to meet me as I passed, and Cuba even had their gate standing wide open!)

I went to various museums, including Te Papa, which is their national museum. One of the exhibits was a set of videos of New Zealanders talking about their favorite places. There was one Maori (which is pronounced kind of like 'moldy' here) who talked about his 'fakapapa'. (I eventually found the word written, "whakapapa"-- but remember the /wh/ sounds like /f/-- and it means 'genealogy' or 'family story'.) In the movie, someone said, "When he whakapapas..." I spent the rest of the afternoon (and actually many successive days) saying to myself "fakapapa", for it is just so much fun to say, especially quickly as they do. (If you are feeling blue sometime after I get home, give me a call, and I will just say the word to you a few times, and I'm sure we'll both feel much better.)

I was very sorry to leave Wellington, but I figured if I didn't force myself to leave, I might not ever do so, and I would turn into one of the house guests my family has had who was meant to stay for three weeks and stayed for two months, 8 months, and in one case, about 7 years! (If you haven't seen the film "You Can't Take It With You", you should. I'm pretty sure it is written about my family. I'm the one in the tutu.)