AUTHOR'S NOTE: I have divided my chronicles of my trip to the South Island into multiple posts in chronological order. I know that many of you are eager to hear about my experience in the Canterbury Quake (that is what the news called the earthquake that hit Christchurch while I was staying there), but for the sake of my memory, that particular incident will have to wait. I have a number of posts saved up that I will post throughout this week, and hopefully by the end of the week I should have the events of the great earthquake immortalized in print. I also recognize the irony present in the ending of this particular post (I wrote this particular one a week before the earthquake).
Christchurch is the largest city of New Zealand’s South Island. I currently have a perfect view from my lodgings of the huge cathedral in the city’s center. I don’t know if it is the eponymous church of the city, but it is still impressive. When I woke up this morning, my mind was flooded with thousands of possibilities of how my trip here could go wrong. I could have lost my passport (possible), my baggage could have been lost (more likely), I could have been robbed by gypsies (less likely), or the train could have been rigged to explode had it decelerated below 55 mph (since I am, thankfully, not Keanu Reeves, well outside the realm of possibility). None of these things happened. But here’s what did.
The morning started out cold and brisk in Wellington with an ATM run and a quick nutritional investment (a Cadbury chocolate bar tucked into my inside coat pocket for later) before my cab showed up at good ol' 11 Landcross Street. I pressed my forehead against the window as we approached the docks in the hopes of seeing my ship, Arahua. The Arahua is one of two ferry boats that takes passengers between the straits of the North and South Islands and to Picton in about 3 hours. What a ship she was. Among the many facilities included on the ferry were a bar, a cafeteria, a movie theater, a salon, and an anti-gravity chamber if I recall correctly. But out of all the places in the ship a young man could choose to spend his time (not the bar mainly because morning drinking didn’t seem especially appealing… and their selection was pitiful), I found the observation deck to be the most entertaining. The wind in my hair and the smell of the ocean, it was all terribly exciting. I felt like I imagined my ancestors did crossing the Atlantic, headed for the New World with packs on their backs and a pocket full of dreams. Then, unlike my ancestors, I was smacked in the face the by a wind-blown pink hat belonging to a nice lady from Pennsylvania. She took my picture for me as an apology.
Three hours, several hundred pages of a Bill Bryson book, and one fish and chips later, the Arahua greeted the shores of Picton. My fellow passengers wordlessly formed a mindless herd and milled towards a stairwell. Out of lack of any sense of direction, I followed them. The cattle drive eventually brought me to a lower deck that I imagine would have made a pleasant home for Plague-carrying rats. I gingerly stepped over pulleys as large as infants and great rotting wooden beams littering the floor, instantly regretting my decision to follow the horde. This was probably how my ancestors actually felt.
Unlike my ancestors, I managed to get off the boat and enter the new land without having to change my last name or anything like that. In fact, as soon as I got off the gangway, I was pretty much forgotten about. I stared helplessly up at the numerous signs indicating all manner of services, railway station not included. I swallowed my manly pride (I would have preferred a beer) and asked for directions. Apparently the railway station was literally next door to the ferry dock. Way to go, Max. So three minutes later, I was tucked away in car U of the Tranz Scenic with minutes to spare.
The train departed from Platform 9 (3/4 more and a boyhood dream would have been fulfilled) at 2:00 for a five-hour journey down the South Island’s scenic eastern coast. I often promote myself as a cynical optimist or sometimes an optimistic cynic (there is a subtle but distinct difference between the two), but there is something about train travel that brings out the romantic in me. In the literary sense at least. I pictured myself right in the middle of Murder on the Orient Express as the train rumbled along, just waiting for the conductor to call upon my sleuthing prowess to solve a ghastly murder in the first class compartment. The next moment I was James Bond dodging assassins in train cars while hightailing it out of Russia.
Meanwhile, back in reality, I sat in a bright blue seat, my focus alternating between my book and the landscape. Watching the scenery blur by like it did, I could have easily been in a very advanced Disneyworld ride. Certainly this wasn’t reality. The landscape would change from luscious beaches to rolling pines straight out of Yellowstone, and then back again with some jungle ferns in between. I am pretty sure we went straight through Narnia.
I would have asked the young Indian couple sitting directly across from me if they had seen any lions, witches, or wardrobes, but thought better of it. They were actually very pleasant travelling companions. They had been living in New York for the past two years where the woman (I never got her name) was studying to be a dentist (she had been one in India and was getting her degree Americanized) and her husband Ahmed was attending law school. They politely asked me about myself, but due to their incomplete grasp of English, I’m pretty sure that they walked away with the impression that I was a PhD student. I was too flattered to argue. We spent most of the time in contented silence, however. Normally I am not a supporter of public display of affection (I have been known to use a water gun to make my views known), but I had to make an exception for these two. The two of them seemed so happy together, so happy to be in New Zealand, so happy in general. Also the fact that they we would be sitting within five feet of each other for five hours forced us to accept the situation. They had each other and me…. well, I had my book. A little sad, yes, but definitely not the most pathetic event of the evening.
The train creaked into Christchurch at about 7:00 to the general relief of all. I caught a shuttle to my hotel and settled in without problems. An apologetic smile and a slightly befuddled, yet still earnest, expression works wonders over here. The concierge even gave me a voucher for a free drink at the hotel bar (I guess I looked like I needed it?). For frugality’s sake, I decided to eat there to save some much-needed money. Remember when I said that the saddest part of the night was yet to come? It showed up at dinner. I was literally the only patron in the entire restaurant. I think the maître de was embarrassed. As was the bartender. Pretty much every employee there felt awkward as I shuffled over to one of the several dozen empty tables. The redeeming feature of the meal, if you could call it that, was the style of the food. The place was a Scottish restaurant, and Scottish food, like all of Scottish culture, was created based on a series of escalating dares. So when my eyes came across fried Haggis balls on the menu, the Braveheart theme started playing and my vision went tartan. And so my first act on what promises to be a weekend of daring and adventure was eating fried sheep innards. My Celtic forbearers, though they wore skirts in freezing weather and played an instrument that looks an awful lot like a handheld vacuum my family owned when I was kid, made a pretty decent dish. Maybe it was the combination of haggis, a margarita, and penne pasta (some food connoisseur is rolling over in his grave right now), maybe it was the five-hour train ride, but whatever it was, it had me exhausted by the end of the meal.
Tomorrow morning begins my odyssey into all that is awesome in southern New Zealand. With the picturesque cathedral outside my hotel room window looming over me like a sober judge, the idea of cavorting about town suddenly lost its appeal. An omen, perhaps? God, I hope not.
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