The 90 Mile Bitch

In our last day in New Zealand we hired a private tour guide (Phil) to show us around 90 Mile Beach and Cape Reigna (the Northernmost point of NZ). Phil was a wealth of information having worked as a tour guide for 8 years and a rancher before that. So we got all our NZ questions answered and all our stereotypes corrected on this tour. [In reference to why things are named in miles, it was because Great Britain was still under the imperial system when these locations were baptized.]

90 Mile Beach had a pretty interesting backstory which I won't bore you with. The best part of the tour was the way Kiwi's pronouce E's and I's. They pronouce hard E's (like peach) with a soft I (like pitch). So the entire time Phil was telling us about 90 Mile Beach, it sounded like 90 Mile Bitch.

It's funny when the Kiwi's talk about their "history" because their nation is so young. When we sailed past the original capital of NZ, the tour guide told us this long and dramatic story of the first European born in NZ. Seriously, the creation story rivaled the Book of Genesis, until you find out the damn gringo was born in 1857.

Another instance of their delusions of antiquity was when Phil took us out to the Kerikeri forests to find "wild horses". Now I wasn't expecting the horses from those cave doodles in France but we found out that these "wild" horses got loose in the 1970s! That's just a sabbatical in my books. The wild equines of the Cheasapeake Bay at least swam ashore back in the 1700's. It's rare that US history can pre-date anyone else's so one point for the star spangled.

Phil also told us that the local ranchers try to round up the wild horses each year and bring them back to the ranches that they camp from. So really, these are horses that some idiot lost when he got too sauced one night and forgot to close the gate. Then the locals have this ingenious idea to call them "wild horses" of the Kerikeri Forest so dumb tourist such as myself will pay to trudge through the dirt to "spot" them. I think they might as well go a step further and krazy glue a horn on those babies and call them unicorns. Then sit back, relax and watch the Robert Jordan freaks arrive in hordes.

It is also worth noting that it poured the entire day which Phil says almost never happened in his 8 years of guiding. Ali and Matt slept for about 60 miles of the drive down the 90 Mile Bitch proving once again that yes Virginia, money does grow on trees.

Monkey See, Monkey Do the Nasty Nasty

At this point of the trip, it is probably appropriate to discuss our travel dynamics. As a previous wise traveler once waxed "when traveling with 3 people, its natural for 2 people to gang up on the 3rd". While we've been considerate and forgiving so far, Ali and I definitely gang up on Matt. The problem is Ali and I have an exceedingly high sense of urgency while Matt likes to take his time.

Matt first got a taste of what he was up against as Ali and I tore through the "ghetto" of Christchurch looking for our rental car company. Then Ali and I got our comeupence when we waited 30 mins for Matt to emerge from the bathroom the next morning. Honestly, I expected Brad Pitt to walk out of the bathroom with the amount of time he takes [Matt - Shit, Shower and Shave takes time bitches!]. By our 9th day together, we had perfected a system. When in motion, Matt would run ahead in bursts so the 3 of us can stay abreast for longer. When getting ready in the morning Ali sets 2 alarms; one 60 minutes earlier for Matt and one 30 minutes before our departure time for the two of us.

To be fair to Matt, Ali and I probably have our habits that he finds exceedingly annoying. For example, I don't like anything of mine touching what I call the "Nasty Nasty". The Nasty Nasty is the coverlet at hotels that I'm sure is never washed. It is the most disgusting thing in the room, bar none. So Matt is not allowed to put anything on the Nasty Nasty or something wicked will his way come.

Overall, we have worked out a system to get along. It's really hard to find time to bicker with our schedule and I've never found a sore spot that a nice bottle of Sav Blanc can't cure [Ali - Three!]. I'll probably end up being the odd man out in Australia as the two white kids play hide and seek from the sun. Should I tell them that in a competition with the Sun, the Sun always wins?

So Long, Farewell, Auf Weidersehen, Adieu,
Connie

If The Asians Won't Come to Me, I'll Go to the Asians

White water rafting was our chaser following sky diving. The river was low which meant less rapids so we signed up for the harder course to compensate. To get to the starting place, we drove down an extremely narrow gravel road with hairpin turns, which was more frightening than jumping out of a plane. After we finally got suited up and divided into boats, who do we end up in a raft with? The only other three Asians on the trip. They were a family from Hong Kong and apparently had experience in rafting in Alaska. Hong Kong Mom, had long acrylic Lee Press On Nails in irridescent gold, which it's better to paddle with I'm sure.

They spoke English quite well but I did have to break out the native tongue when our guide asked them obscure questions (our guide was one meth lab explosion short of crazy). The daughter behind me and got every paddling instruction wrong. When we were to row forward, she rowed backwards, when only the other side was suppose to paddle, she lent a hand. I was beginning to wonder if she was a communist sleeper.

Hong Kong Dad sat next to me and was too embarrassed to sit on my lap when we needed to dodge to prevent the raft from flipping. He very properly left a full 12 inches between us at all times. Had the raft really started flipping I would have hauled his polite Chinese ass over because I'm not looking to go down the freezing cold river swimming no matter how long HK Mom's nails are [Matt - I though the expression was Fresh OFF the Boat?].

I was very impressed with their sense of adventure and how well traveled they were. It's about time my people stopped working so hard and got out to see the world their ancestors built and laundered.

So Long, Farewell, Auf Weidersehen, Adieu,

Connie

The Air Up Here

Queenstown is the self described capital of extreme sports. So when in Rome, sky dive! In the moments leading up to the actual dive, I was more worried about how cold it would be and how safe the propellor plane will be. I'd hate to plummet to my death over the Remarkables* before I even worked up the courage to jump. I was also reminded of the Belgian sky diving team threesome who died due to a love triangle gone wrong. Prior to going up, I got all Dr. Phil on Ali and Matt regarding their undying love for me. Apparently the river doesn't run as deep as I thought so I was safe on that front.

* Ali told me there is actually nothing remarkable about the "Remarkables". It's basically named b/c it is the only moutain chain that runs north/south in South Island. That's basically like the parents giving more attention to the dumbest child.

My tandem sky divers name was Volker (nice German lad) and he used to live on 86th and Lexington (UES, ew!). Funny that's the last thing I'd know about the person I'm strapped to as we fall to our respective deaths (mine more important than his obvie!). Volker was very sweet and kept trying to point out interesting landmarks as we ascended (most likely to keep me calm). I told him the only place I wanted pointed out was where we'd land.

Out of luck, I was the first person to jump from the plane [Ali - I'm so jealous!] and I have to say all the banal metaphors about the first leap being the hardest is full of shit. Jumping out of the plane is the easy part. Realizing what you've just done and knowing you can't crawl back to the safe compounds of the aluminum harness of the prop plane is the hard part. Honestly kids, think about the dumbest, most unresponsible thing you've ever done. Wasn't the worst part the regret afterwards?

After I finally realized I'm no longer touching the plane I had the ultimate fight or flight moment and luckily my body decided not to soil itself. I also remembered that I paid a photographer $200 to go up with me to take pictures of me looking like a kewpie doll flattened by an 18 wheeler (trust me, Asian features and wind gusts of over 200 mph? Not hot). So I resolved to enjoy my freefall and make thost stupid faces and hand motions you always see in pictures of people sky diving (we get it, you're lazy ass is not doing anything. That's why you have 2 free hands to make dumb thumbs-up signs). I made a mental note to add more push ups to my pilates regime when I get back to NYC b/c the wind resistance was so strong that I could barely move my arms (honestly, carrying shopping bags works out the deltoids and biceps, not the pectorals).

All in all, I'm glad I jumped out of a plane at 12,9310 ft. Volker even let me do some spins in the air (yes Sanem, I did get disoriented), which gave me more street cred than the next guy (Matt) who just dropped from the sky strapped to his tandem sky diver.

I'm a little behind on my poetic waxing, which is primarily to blame on boozing. However, to whet the appetite of my loyal readers (Hi Mom!), the titles of my next entries are:

If the Asians Won't Come to Me, I Will Go to the Asians

Monkey See, Monkey Do the Nasty Nasty

Honestly, I'm too drunk to figure out German and French so goodnight kids,

Connie

Kiwi Love

Having been thoroughly disappointed to find out that there is no Zealand (it is almost as sad as when I discovered baby carrots are not really baby carrots but rather regular old carrots cut into bit size peices), I was determined to find fun attributes to redeem this country of 4 million people and 8 million possums [Ali - I ran over a possum and not a bunny goddammit!!].

1. I love that everything is a city to these people. It's a classic paradigm really. So long as a road sign exists claiming municipal jurisdiction, then you are a city even if your population consists of 1 kiwi (person), 10 kiwi (bird), 25 domesticated deer, 5o cows, 100 sheep and 125 roadkill. We went to Mt. Cook Villlage and assumed we'd find at least a Main St. equivalent but Mt. Cook Village consists of a visitor center and a hotel that frightening resembles the one in The Shining.

2a. They measure everything in kilometers except creeks. For some reason creeks are given names in miles. We drove by Four Mile Creek, Twenty Four Mile Creek, Six Mile Creek, etc. [Matt - And beaches! Aren't we going to 90-mile beach?] While this has nothing to do with New Zealand, I was thrilled to learn that I weigh less in kilograms than in pounds! We had to put our weight down for sky diving (for all the figure conscious girls out there, this really isn't the time to underestimate), and Ali told me the conversion is 2.2x. I assumed it's my weight in lbs multiplied by 2.2 and so I wrote down... let's just say I wrote down a high number. The sky diving woman came running into the room (btw fatties, there's a weigh limit of 220 lbs for sky diving) with a panicked look on her face and asked for "Connie". Let's just say she looked extremely relieved to see me.

2b. So long as H20 exists in it, the Kiwi's name it. There's even a name for every culvert [Ali - I know! I know! That's a man-made, under road, water diversion], which in the US is just a fancy name for overspill. I know the Kiwi's are fortunate to have the English language and the Maori language at their disposal for naming things but seriously, where do they find the time?

3. The Kiwi's are fabulously expressive and cheeky in their public service signs. The best ones I've seen so far are regarding sleeping at the wheel (something I'm sure they're prone to since you can literally drive 100 miles and see nothing but roadkill). When entering the town of Milton there's one that reads "Don't sleep at the wheel" followed by a very official Milton city sign that says "Milton - No hospitals, no doctors, one cemetary". Take that you non-caffeine drinking a-holes!

4. I've honestly never seen a country more uniquely beautiful and unharmed by tourism than New Zealand. Mt. Cook makes all the surrounding mountains look lazy and Lake Pukaki twilight seems like the place where everyone buries their most intimate secrets.

So Long, Farewell, Auf Weidersehen, Adieu,

Connie

Who's Church?

Christchurch is a cute little Kiwi town who's namesake leaves a little to be desired. It did get me thinking though, what if the first settlers were not Christians? What would the city's name be then? Here's a few for thought:

Mosestemple

Muhammadmosque

Koreshcompound

Hubbardspaceship

My personal favorite is Hubbardspaceship. It sounds like an 80's hairband which ironically was the height of Tom Cruise's popularity. What's your favorite?

So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, adieu,

Connie

Leaving On a Jet Plane

Since 9/11, airports and flying has become a guaranteed source of pain for most people. Who enjoys having their lives reduced to a quart-size plastic bag and having their dignity stolen by a buxom and onery TSA attendent? I may be the last holdout at the Alamo, but I still think airports and flying holds a certain thrill.

The only other man-made structure that can rival an airport for the range and magnitude of emotions that it houses is a hospital. While an airport doesn't usher in life and death, it is the current gateway for immigration and emigration, which from experience generally makes people a hot mess.

When the plane finally reaches its cruising altitude of 36,000 ft, on a clear day, you can see a whisper of the curvature of the Earth from your window. I don't know if this makes me feel very big or very small; if it makes man very insignificant or very magnificent, but it certainly is pretty.

It's true that airports bring out the worst in people, but more often than not, I've witnessed incredible forbearance, stamina and generosity in the waylaid traveler. Consider your average wait time for a flight from checking in to security to taxi-ing on the runway; think of the number of times you have to dig out your ID and boarding pass; think of the weight that you have to carry around while terminal hopping, and then think: do you put up with anything close to that during a typical day? I've seen the biggest egomaniac MDs wait politely and pleasantly as security officers chats about last nights game. Tell me that isn't bringing the best out of people?

Lastly, while I love traisping off to exciting places, nothing beats the feeling when those tires touches the tarmac at JFK and you know from this point forward, it's home field advantage again bitch.

If I Were A Hot Little Outfit, Would You Pack Me?

March 13, 2008. New York City women are better travelers than their counterparts from the rest of the country. In mathematics there is the Fokker-Planck equation which grossly (and probably erroneously) simplified, states that the path of an object will be guided by certain external forces that attract (worlds largest ball of yarn) and repel (border patrol when you’re packing heat) the object as well as by random “noises” such as fatigue and terrain. If that was too hard for you, just focus on what a shame it is that Adriaan Fokker did not team up with Raoul Bott to come up with what would definitely have been the GREATEST equation in mathematics* ever. My point is this: a NYCW, on any given day, has similar external forces and random noises that influence her path as compared to that of a traveler. Therefore, NYCW, by conditioning, are better travelers than a woman from Tulsa.

* Short Bus Monthly Passholders: equations in mathematics are generally named for their creators in alphabetical order. Ohhh, now you get it, you waste of a $36k-a-year private school education.

For example, a traveler is often in a country where his or her native tongue is not spoken and some form of exceedingly degrading pigeon English and gesticulation is used to communicate with the local. A NYCW on any given Sunday speaks “subcontinent” to her taxi driver, “Asian” to her manicurist, and “Hispanic” to her delivery man. A traveler has to navigate massive crowds to get to [David/Eiffel Tower/Temple of Heaven/Cinderella’s Castle] while carrying a bag that holds a camera, water, raincoat, baseball cap, wallet (fake), wallet belt (real), tissues, map, guidebook, sunblock, bug spray, and ugly overpriced souvenirs made in a factory in Fujian Province. Weight Tourist: 15 lbs. A NYCW every morning has to navigate the midtown rush with a bag that holds her blackberry, phone, day and night makeup, boring critically acclaimed book she pretends to read when hot guy’s looking in the subway, water (although scratch that now that drugs have been found in the NYC water supply. NYC Water Sewer’s new slogan should be New York Tap: Bringing Water to a Whole New High), pria bar (fake), black and white cookie (real), flip flops and an umbrella. Weight NYCW: 20 lbs (5 for just the $1,500 designer bag).

The greatest contributing factor to the success of a NYCW as a traveler is the random “noise” of luggage. Traveling with too much luggage and poorly packed luggage slows you down and hinders your mobility. I understand you need to pack for every climate but let’s be clear here; there is hot and there is cold; and neither require elastic-waisted pants and t-shirts that can fit the entire cast of The Biggest Loser in it. NYCW, by limitation of their closet to clothes-whore ratio, are the best packers in the world. If there is a 1 inch by 1 inch space in the suitcase, the NYCW has the perfect-for-layering-camisole to fit it. NYCW also have an exceedingly good memory as to where everything is packed after years of “my cashmere wraps are in the 2nd underbed box behind my collection of capris” training. If packing was a high-priced escort, we’d be Elliot Effing Spitzer (all over that foshizzle!).

So with my little red suitcase packed within a centimeter of its life [Ali – Is this a guilt trip for the TINY Longchamp bag I’m making you bring for me?] and my best “Matt this is soooo heavy, can you get it up into the overhead bin for me” look down, I’m ready to look fabulous on glaciers, in rivers, over mountains and between the sand dunes.

So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, adieu!

Connie

Best Laid Plans

March 1, 2008. Ali and I finally decided to stop talking and start charging our New Zealand and Australia itineraries. We realized that booking multi-city flights to destinations around the world one week before the intended departure date may not have been the most wallet-friendly strategy. I guess the last-minute discount flight market wasn’t created for impetuous, ex-investment bankers who are willing to pay out the ass to escape from our over-worked, under-appreciated, emotionally-unavailable lives in Manhattan [Matt – Speak for yourselves. I had trading hours and a double-swinging door for love sweet love]. We decided to meet up in Christchurch on March 18th and tour the South Island first. I have to admit, my geographic knowledge of New Zealand is somewhat non-existent. Since New Zealand is not the hub of pulsating financial activity, nor does it have a high-browed institute of higher learning, our paths never really crossed. So today, I introduced myself to the island-nation through Google Maps. Charmed, I assure you.

Ali was busy packing and cursing the obscene amount of taxes she has to pay this year [Ali – Why are tax laws never unfair in the favor of the over-privileged?]. So I began sifting through travel blogs and articles for places to see and things to do near Queenstown (South Island) and Auckland (North Island). Let me assure you, prose will never run out of crap so long as every Joe Douche is allowed to pen "travel-o-blogs" (gag me). What annoys me more than the banal rambling of their minute-to-minute movements are the ridiculous pictures. You spend the last three incessantly boring paragraphs droning on about the “soul changing beauty of the waterfall” so why the eff is your huge-ass head and your girlfriend’s fugly-ass head blocking the entire natural wonder in the only picture you post?! Unless you were the creator of said soul changing beauty of a waterfall, no one wants to look at a grinning headshot of the two of you and your faux-kleys secured by those ridiculous day-glo leashes. (Seriously? Will you really be sad to lose those shades of ugly?) Bitch being said, there are some pretty good bloggers out there who manage to not only capture the essence of each destination but frame it with perspective (shout outs to Jackie and Rose!).

So with our itinerary arduously devised over bottles of wine [Ali – Research!], here we begin our attempt to document our travels. We have no lofty aspirations to “discover” ourselves along the way. The discovered traveler never finds what he lacks most, a sense of humor, and is typically in dire need of a serious bitch-slap. So I hope to chronicle our travels a bit of elegance, a dash of insight and a load of levity.

Here's our “Oops, We Can’t Drive from Sydney to Cairns in 10 Days Itinerary”
[Ali – You’re the one making hot love to Google Maps, you should have figured it out!]

March 5th or 6th: Ali leaves for New Zealand (where’s regular old Zealand?)
March 6th to 18th: Ali wanders about New Zealand. Does not involve me so not much here to say.
March 16th: Matt and I leave for New Zealand
March 18th: Oh My Lord & Taylor, we don’t get to Christchurch until 2 days later!
March 18th to 24th: South Island (avoiding all tools on the Lord of the Rings Tours)
March 24th to 26th: North Island
March 26th: Depart for Brisbane
March 26th to 28th: Byron’s Bay
March 30th to 31st: Fraser Island
April 1st to 3rd: Airlie Beach
April 4th to 6th: Cairns (jellyfish, sting rays and sharks, oh my!)
April 7th to 9th: Sydney: Eat, drink and be merry in Outlaw City. (Soap on a rope for you Matt)
April 9th to 28th: Ali traipses around in Australia.

So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, adieu!
Connie