Byron Bay (March 19-21st)

The bus ride to Byron Bay was long and boring, but I'd missed getting the chance to write between destinations when I was in New Zealand, so I enjoyed the chance to do that. We stopped at a McDonald's on the way, and I disappointed myself by succumbing to the siren song of not one, but two McCafe blueberry muffins. Again, hadn't been to a McDonald's in 12 years before NZ. The need for Kiwi internet ruined me!

I arrived at the hostel amidst intemperate weather and couldn't hit the beach. I wasn't feeling very social, and I again found myself surrounded by British gap year students and recent college grads, so I got myself some groceries, worked out a bit in my room, and settled into reading "Clash of Kings." I had wanted to walk to the nearby lighthouse at sunset, but the weather prevented me going.

The next day was raining again, so I spent most of the day Skyping my family and planning my trip to Fraser Island later that week. I also thoroughly assessed my budget and came up with an end date for my trip. I found a flight from Bangkok to the New York on July 26th for only $650 and bought it, giving myself four months in which to do Asia and resigning myself to cutting my trip short and not getting to Europe, Egypt or the Middle East on this trip. But the decision felt right, and I had no regrets about the money I'd spent.

That night I bonded with four other girls from my hostel over our shared irritation with asshole hostelers who don't clean up after themselves in the kitchen. And their covetousness of the salmon salad I had made for myself that night.

One of the girls was from Denmark and the other three from England and we had what must have been at least my twelfth conversation of the trip about the differences btwn England and the U.S.. (And just for the record: To all of my Brit friends out there who always ask, "Why do you say 'aluminum' and not 'aluminium'? There's an 'i' at the end!" Um, no, there's not. Not the way we spell it anyway. And as far as television goes, I love British dramas. I enjoy your high comedies. The surrealist stuff? "Spaced"?Not as funny as it is to me as it is to you, but again I enjoy them. The slapstick, though? Mr. Bean? Sorry; don't get it at all. And yes, I have become inured to how casually and often you use the words 'cunt' and 'twat', but I will never do so myself. Thank you. That is all.)

The next day, I awoke to the sun shining in my window and so rushed to the beach.


Franca had given me a copy of "The Time Traveler's Wife" before we'd parted, so I started in on that as I vainly attempted to brown my untannable hide. Once I felt properly baked, which didn't take long, I went into the water, which was refreshing but a bit rough where the waves broke. I was repeatedly bashed by the surf so intensely that I almost lost both my top and bottom. I retreated back toward the shore where deep dimples in the sand formed pools right by the water's edge. I sat and enjoyed the sensation of the water turning cold, then hot as the waves ebbed and flowed. I walked to a nearby sushi restaurant for lunch but returned shortly to read and people watch some more.


Byron Bay's reputation as a new-agey hippie mecca led me to believe that yoga classes would be good here, so when I left the beach, I set off for one of the local studios. I arrived in time for the cheapest class, during which teachers-in-training rotated while instructing us, and got a pretty decent workout. Not quite challenging enough, however. I had decided that 12-15 lbs of weight gain exceeded even my tolerance for my own self-indulgence, and I needed to lose a few.

That evening the weather turned foul again, but I decided to walk to the lighthouse anyway, since I intended to leave the following day and wouldn't have another opportunity. I started walking along the beach and stopped to watch the surfers at the Pass.


They twisted and turned with balletic grace, sometimes shuffling their feet up their boards as they rode, often changing directions mid-barrel, cork-screwing and carving foamy slices into the swells.


I stood upon the lookout, mesmerized by there skill and dexterity, not to mention their audacity at paddling so far out and riding so close to the rocks.


I lost track of time, and only when the rain started coming down did I realize how little daylight remained and how far I still had to go. The wind and rain blew fiercely as I set off up the path and along the coastline. I had seen so many beautiful ocean vistas, but this one-- so grey and malevolent, the sea thrashing, the clouds foreboding-- had its own dangerous beauty.


I went into and emerged from a forested section of the path to find myself on a bluff marking the...


Here, the storm raged at full force. And still, a local fisherman sat perilously perched on the edge of a rocky outcrop, his line whipping about in the wind. I hardly dared to take a photo of the Winslow-Homeric scene, having nearly ruined my camera in the rains on Franz Josef, but just before I moved on, I chanced it. Bringing my jacket up by my sleeve, I darted my hand into my pocket, snatched my camera, and hid it under my jacket. There I set up the shot, and when I was ready, dropped the jacket front and snapped the photo, before yanking my jacket back up.


As I approached the lighthouse, thinking how lovely the scenery must appear in better weather, I resolved to return in the morning if the sun shone, simultaneously acknowledging to myself the unlikelihood of such a scenario manifesting. A change in weather seemed doubtful, for one thing, and for another, I know myself well enough to know that in the cold light of dawn, I often think worse of those ideas I formed the prior evening.


As I started down the return track, darkness began to fall, and I realized that I hadn't brought my flashlight. "Lin: always prepared," Franca had chorused on multiple occasions during our jaunt around New Zealand. Yes, I thought. Always. Except in the most obvious of situations.

The path became trickier and more slippery just as the beam from the lighthouse fell from view, so I removed my flip-flops and followed the shoulder of the road as best I could. Animal noises I couldn't identify echoed all around me. I had just started imagining any number of ridiculous life or death scenarios, most involving being bitten by one of the poisonous snakes or spiders James had told me about, when a car passed by, illuminating the road ahead of me and showing that only 50 meters or so remained until the main road began. I then felt rather silly about my flight of fearful fancy; I was in Byron, for goodness sake, not the outback. I made it back to the hostel without a scrape, tucked into some dinner, and called it an early night. The next day, I was off to Hervey Bay and Fraser Island.

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Location:Byron Bay, Australia

Sydney with Ian and Tim (March 14-18th)

I spent the remainder of my birthday in bed, nursing my ailing stomach and responding to the many kind messages I'd received on Facebook. I felt damn lucky to have such good friends thinking of me--- and so many of them from all over the globe! But I still felt a bit lonely. I missed my family. And Franca. I'd had a great time with James, and it had been great having someone else take the reins for a while, but I missed my girl!

Anyway, by the following day, my health had improved significantly. I had made arrangements to surf the couch of a London expat for a few days, starting that evening. I spent the meantime at the Museum of Sydney.


They had a great temporary exhibit on offer, all about the history of surfing, particularly in Australia.


Afterward, I met up with Ian, my CS host, in front of the the Queen Victoria Building in downtown Sydney. Then I proceeded to walk his far-too-polite self all the way back to my hostel, where we picked up my bags, headed back to the QVB, and hopped a bus to his house. I felt awful at how inconsiderate I'd been, but he told me that if I apologized again, he would kick me out.

Back at his house in the suburb of Drummoyne, I met his amazing Aussie roomie, Tim, and the three of us got on like gangbusters. I found out that my CS request had been selected amongst a large number because of my musical taste, which endeared them to me straight away. We immediately moved to conversational topics I wouldn't broach with most people for weeks and had a good laugh at our easy familiarity. Tim drove me to the supermarket, where I picked up supplies for the dinner I intended to cook them that night. I made my fish curry, but this time it turned out far better than it had with James. The boys positively gushed over it, saying it was the best they'd ever had. I found that hard to believe, but it did go quite well with the wine I had bought in NZ for my birthday, but had been unable to drink because of my food poisoning.

The next day, I decided to check out Paradise Point and Ku Ring Gai National Park, one hour north of Sydney, which James and I had meant to see together before running out of time. I had plans of setting out terribly early, but of course I overslept. Then Tim and I ate breakfast together, and by the time I left, I had barely left time to see everything in one day.

Or I would have, had I not encountered travel snafu after snafu. First, the bus I needed ran late. Which meant that I missed the connecting bus and had to wait for it. Then once I got to the peninsula, the stops were poorly marked and I got off two stops after the one I needed. Little worry, since they were so close together, and I had wanted to check out the beach at which I had disembarked anyway. But of course, I spent too much time on the beach and missed the bus headed back to the pier where I needed to catch the ferry across to the Park. So I ate the snacks I'd packed and waited for the next one. Two ferries pulled in at once. I got on the wrong one. An hour later, back at the pier, I found out that the late ferries didn't run that day, so I would only be left with one hour to explore the island once I'd arrived there before the last return ferry departed. The incredibly sweet ferryboat captain convinced me that I shouldn't have come all that way for nothing, so I sighed, climbed aboard, and headed across.

Once there, I only had time to race up the small mountainside, take a quick look at the aboriginal carvings at the top, and literally run the 2 kilometers back to the pier. Never having been much of a runner, I thought I might have a heart attack. When I got to the bottom, I learned from other waiting passengers that the boat hadn't arrived yet, and I plopped down to watch the wallabies hop around the nearby campsite. I hadn't seen any kangaroos in Oz yet, so I delighted in watching their smaller, furrier cousins bound about, completely indifferent to me and the gaggle of school children playing in the yard.


Back on the mainland, I chatted with Eden, a local tattoo artist, while we waited for the bus, watching the start of the sunset.


Once on the bus, we chatted for almost 45 minutes before he reached his stop. Hell of a nice guy and couldn't talk enough about his kids. He had several tattoos dedicated to them, one of which snaked around his neck and up on to his skull, which was entirely shorn except for a long braided ponytail at the crown. (I also learned from him that you should never guess whether or not someone is Kiwi or Aussie, lest you say the wrong one, at which both sides are generally offended. "It's like if I asked if you were Canadian or American," he said. I didn't realize that that was a "thing" either, but apparently it is.)

That night I shared some of Tim's stir fry, took some mocking from the boys at having thought that Ku Ring Gai was Chinese rather than aboriginal, and finally passed out early, exhausted from my earlier bout of hauling ass down across the Park.

Tim had invited me as his date to his work's 1920's Speakeasy-themed party the following night, so I spent most of that day running all over Sydney looking for a costume and for a new bluetooth keyboard for my Ipad. (Mine had broken, and I felt completely at sea without it.) I found one costume store, but didn't like the selection. But after trolling what seemed like the whole of Sydney for better options, I ended up right back where I started. Unable to find an actual flapper dress that wasn't completely sleazy or intended to be worn as underwear, I resigned myself to purchasing a hodge-podge of accessories to put over the one fancy dress in my backpack.


I met Ian at a bar near his office where most of his coworkers were getting the party started, fully decked out in mobster gear, much to the amusement of our fellow patrons. Ian loved the fedora I'd found for him, which luckily matched perfectly with his pinstripe suit. After one drink, we headed back to their office, where the party was being hosted.

I was stunned by the lengths to which his employers had gone to for the party. Cocktail waiters greeted us at the door and circled around the fete with top-shelf drinks and mouth-watering hors d'oevers ; the film "Cotton Club" ran on one wall, and a truly excellent '20's-style band serenaded us with tunes from the era.


The party seriously swung. Ian's boss and coworkers knew how to have a good time and make fun of it all at once. Everyone danced and competed in the limbo and costume contests, the latter of which was deservedly won by a guy in a straw hat and seersucker suit.


Halfway through the night, Ian drew on a Salvador Dali mustache and then I really knew it was on.


We closed the place down before making for the bar around the corner with the other late-nighters.


The bouncer wouldn't let Ian at first, taking one look at the mustache and the pink feather boa he'd bogarted from another girl at the party and judging him to be inebriated. On his instructions, we walked down to the gas station, bought some water, and returned 15 minutes later to join our friends. We stayed at the bar for an hour before catching a cab back to Ian's place, where we stayed up, enjoying the pyrotechnic spectacle of a sudden late-night lightning storm.

I'd intended to go into the city the next day for the St. Paddy's festivities, but Ian and I both felt a bit worse for the wear, so we slept in and spent most of the next day watching episodes of a crazy British show called "The Mighty Boosh" and resting up before the night's revels. The only time we left the house was to refill Ian's bike tires, an outing during which he showed me some of his professional-level BMX skills.

That night we went with Tim's cousin Kareeem to check out a friend's DJ set.


We stayed there for a while before meeting up with some of Ian's expat London friends-- including a Noel Gallagher look-a-like Scotsman-- elsewhere. Only one problem, Tim had a few more than the rest of us that evening and it was showing on his face. We walked up to three different bars only to be turned away. Finally, in a last ditch effort, I sent everyone else in ahead, held Tim's hand, and told the bouncer that my boyfriend had bad allergies and looked drunk even though he wasn't and that I would take responsibility if there were any problems. Shockingly, it worked; we got in, and had a damn good time. And Ian arm-wrestled a chick, so there was that.


We moved on to one more bar, but our time there was short-lived. We were all standing around a table when one of Tim's friends suddenly looked down then swung around and shoved another patron standing beside him. A fight broke out. We had no idea what had set things in motion until Tim's friend shouted, "He peed on my leg!" None of us could argue with that. The fight eventually broke up, and we left. With that bit of excitement passed, we walked back to Craig's place, which had a pretty fantastic view over the city.


Craig and I drank wine and saki in the kitchen and talked about life in Oz until I'd had enough and fell asleep on the couch. I woke up to the sound of the boys chuckling at me and jokingly debating what to do with me, "Should we leave her here?" In my inebriated state, I got disgruntled in response, and they laughed even harder. We caught a cab home as the sun was coming up.

I woke up Sunday to the smell of Tim cooking the best brekkie sandwiches I've ever tasted. We ate and watched "Romeo+Juliet" while I reorganized my stuff. "Wow," Tim said, "You are the slowest packer I've ever seen." This comment was later followed by, "Man, you really are a geek," as we got to talking movies and TV. "Yup," I replied proudly.

Later, I tested out my new Ipad keyboard only to find I'd been sold a faulty product, so I spent a good deal of the day sorting that out. On the way back, I hit up the grocery store for some kangaroo steaks for Tim to barbecue for us.


Turns out I quite like kangaroo. It's delicious! It's tender like steak, but much leaner and healthier. And Tim grilled it to perfection. Paired with sweet potato fries and beer, it made for a perfect last meal in Sydney, after which I said my goodbyes to the boys and hopped an overnight bus to Byron Bay.

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Location:Sydney, Australia

Sydney with James (March 6-13th)

I couldn't check in to my Sydney hostel when I first arrived because the room wouldn't be ready until the afternoon, but they let me use the shower, which I desperately needed after my long night in the Christchurch airport. When I finished, I found James waiting for me. It took me a moment to recognize him, since he had his back to me and sported a much shorter haircut than when I'd last seen him. Apparently, he had taken the gamble of going to a Chilean barber the previous month and had gotten a mullet for his trouble. He'd responded by shaving his head, and by the time I saw him, only about half an inch of his hair had grown back.

We decided to catch up over coffee and tea while we waited for our room to open up. I told him about my time in Brazil and New Zealand, and he entertained me with other tales from Chile and the 3 weeks he'd spent in Oz before I arrived. He'd also already lived in Sydney for a year back in the early aught's, so he made an excellent tour guide-- a fact confirmed as we took a walk through the Domain, filled as it was with bizarre local birds...


... and the flying foxes that had recently infested the area.


These ginger-haired bats had only shown up in Sydney a few months before we arrived, and the local government couldn't figure out what to do about them destroying the plant life. Aussie law only allows forceful removal of animals whose migration was caused by humans. Shame about the plants, but I admit to being highly entertained by the antics


At check-in time. we returned to the hostel, got settled into our room, lamented the lower quality of Australian and New Zealand hostels compared to those in South America (despite higher prices), and headed right back out into the city. Our first stop: Sydney Harbor and the Opera House.


We went inside to check the performance schedule and were dismayed to find that we had only just missed both Bon Iver and Eryka Badu. Back outside, we loped around the building, examining the "sails" up close.


The complex truly is every bit as impressive a feat of architecture as I'd heard. Gorgeous and surprising from every angle, fluid and functional and complimentary to the landscape, it exemplifies the very best of that art form. Not only do the concert halls look like the sails of a ship from the outside, but when looking up at them from inside and beneath, they look like the hulls of ship themselves. Remarkable.


We ventured down to the Opera Bar at the water's edge just below the House itself and toasted our reunion as the sun set.


Afterward, we ambled along the water's edge for a better view of the Memorial Bridge and continued on to Darling Harbor, where we had some sushi followed by ice cream and drinks.


By the time we returned to the hostel, we had walked several miles and were properly tuckered out as a result.

The next day, we awoke to overcast skies and the imminent threat of rain. So we chose to make the best of the weather and check out the pool at one of Sydney's ubiquitous aquatic centers. James did some laps while I swanned around in the open pool and used the gigantic jacuzzi to stretch out. Then we checked out the duly impressive Art Gallery of New South Wales inside the domain. After that we took a walk down along yet another inlet along Sydney Harbor with yet another fabulous view of the Opera House and Bridge.


That night, as we walked back through the domain, the flying foxes we'd seen the previous day flew between the trees, ducking a bit too low to the ground for my tastes. I would have no problem with touching one, if not for the risk of having it touch my hair and the consequent need to shave one's head. (Such a necessity is a myth, by the way.) James might have been able to pull off the bald look, but I didn't think it would work on me.

As we headed back toward the hostel, moonlight broke through the cloud cover and the orb itself hung picturesquely above St. Mary's Cathedral.


Eager to practice (and show off) my newfound cooking skills, I made us a fish curry that I was pleased, although not overwhelmed, by. For dessert, James introduced me to the dangerously delicious (and, of course, appallingly fatty) favorite cookie of Oz: the Tim-Tam.

Our prayers for fine weather were answered on Thursday, so we bussed it out to James's beloved Bondi Beach, which might as well be called "Body Beach" for all the well-toned figures strutting about.


We spent a few hours laying out, watching the local surfers, going for swims, and having lunch on a knoll above the beach. After the midday sun had abated, we set off toward Coogee Beach, several miles to the south, walking the trail that runs along the coastline.


We passed beach after beach-- one actually nicknamed "Glamour-ama" for it's usual bevy of pose-striking beach bunnies-- and looked over half a dozen cliffside, ocean-water pools as we went.


Between the beaches, we crept along the tops of jagged promontories, battered repeatedly by great waves. James said that in all the time he had spent there, he'd never seen breaks so high or powerful.


When we reached Coogee at last, we clambered onto a bus back into the CBD. Back in the hostel kitchen, I again competed with about five other cooks for use of the stove, as well as an annoyingly agressive member of staff on kitchen duty, who would sigh with irritation as he tried to clean up and take away bits of crockery that I was still using. I prevailed, however, and managed to make us a baked ziti that turned out quite well.

The next morning I awoke just as James returned to the room after fetching his early-morning coffee. He stood over the bed looking down at me and said, "There's a ridiculously drunk 18 year-old Frenchman on the roof and shit in the stairwell." This was typical of our hostel at 7am. I'd known that average age of travelers in Australia ran younger than it had in South America (and even New Zealand), being the gap-year destination that it is, and that far more of them would be native English speakers. And I'd done more than my fair share of partying on my trip so far, so I had no room to judge. But somehow, I hadn't anticipated how different the travelers would be; how much less adventurous in general and yet so much more boastful of their travels in a country that doesn't even present the challenge of an unfamiliar language! I'd also underestimated how much older I would feel amongst so many recent high school graduates, how irritated I would get with them-- particularly when they were inebriated, and how skeevy the whole situation would feel set amongst the glorious backdrop of King's Cross, the decidedly low-rent neighborhood in which our hostel sat.

Let's put it this way, the faces of the slavishly regular patrons of the open-fronted, open-all-day bar beside the hostel became so familiar that I nicknamed one of them Yellow Beard, for the gangrenous pallor of his skin and stained facial hair. Most mornings when James went for his coffee, he had to step over a pile of junkies passed out on our stoop. Once, at three in the afternoon, we had to step over a girl who couldn't have been more than eighteen and might even have been pretty were her face not sallow, were her mouth not wide open and dripping with drool, and were she not wearing red fishnet stockings, glass platform shoes, with a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel's tucked under her arm.

Little wonder that we left the area as soon as possible each morning. On Saturday, we were bound for the purportedly best of Sydney's many municipal beaches: Manly. We'd walked to the ferry dock and nearly missed the boat, but we ran for it. My usual clumsiness reared its head, and I dropped the contents of my purse all over the pier while James waited for me on board. For a moment, I thought he would be arriving at Manly an hour before me, but I jumped on just in time.

The journey to Manly made for the most impressive part of the day, providing fantastic views of the city.


We spent another lazy day beachside, periodically napping and munching on the lunch James had packed for us. I parked mysel beneath a large rented umbrella, while James tanned his unjustly-tan British hide.

A regatta had begun just as we boarded the ferry back to the Harbor and a whole host of boats raced to get across our path, several cutting it perilously close.


That evening, we tried out another sushi joint recommended by one of James's Aussie friend and watched Platoon in our room. Australia had proven even more expensive than we'd imagined, and their currency was on the upswing, so we had spent most of our evenings in, save a drink or two at a bar each night. So yeah, our evenings were tame, but we mixed it up by constantly locking one another out of the room. Woo!

On Sunday, we went out for some more sight-seeing in another section of the massive central park.


This time, we absorbed some Aussie history, courtesy of our very knowledgable and strangely aggressively-patriotic-despite-being-Canadian guide at the Government House.


The tour was actually quite interesting and very informative. I hadn't realized how little I'd known about Australia beforehand.


I can't remember for the life of me what we did the rest of that day, but I know that I cooked us salmon over salad for dinner, and James had to put his back in the pan because I learned the hard way that really fat salmon steaks take a long-ass time to finish. We spent that night in our usual laidback fashion and the following day back at Bondi with an expat buddy of James's from back in London. We ate sushi one more time and made plans to celebrate my birthday the next day-- one day early since James would be flying out on the day itself.

So on the twelfth, we began the day at Sydney's iconic fish market and sampled the fare for lunch.


Afterward, we returned to the hostel and got all spiffy, since James was taking me to the rotating bar atop the Sydney Tower for birthday drinks.


We drank deliciously complicated cocktails, watching the city pass around us slowly as the sun set.


Later that night, after changing into decidedly more casual attire, we met up with his buddy again for dinner at his favorite neighborhood bar, where James and I both ordered a delicious gnocchi with duck ragu. The night ended as all of the best birthday celebrations do: with ice cream. A nearby creamery called Messina actually served gelato every bit as good as it is in Italy. And I do not say such a thing lightly. I indulged in two scoops of the most second best cone of pistachio I have ever eaten-- the best available only at a tiny storefront three blocks from the Vatican.

Sadly, our gastronomical bliss was short-lived. We both awoke the next day-- my actual birthday-- with mild bouts of food poisoning. We attempted to walk it off, visiting a war memorial in the park and drinking ultra-healthy smoothies in one of Sydney's many swanky malls, but to no avail. I had thought that we had already had our share with illness while in South America, dealing with James's long-term stomach troubles, which I had nicknamed Peter the Parasite. Apparently not.

We returned to the hostel where I napped for two hours before waking up to bid James goodbye. He had sweetly made me dinner for later, complete with a pack of Tim-Tams, in hopes that I would be able to keep something down, and we agreed to stay in touch. I wished him luck for his flight, for Japan, and for his return to London the following week. And with that, my longest-running travel buddy and I parted ways once again.

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Location:Sydney, Australia

Fairlie, Christchurch, and the Road to Oz (Mar 4-6th)

Knowing that my drive to Christchurch would be my last of the trip, I took my time and savored the epic Kiwi scenery as I drove to Fairlie, where I would stop for a night of CouchSurfing to break up the journey.


Having missed the view of Aoraki-- otherwise known as Mt. Cook and known even more famously to my fellow geeks around the world as the Misty Mountain of Middle Earth-- on the way to Franz Josef, I was fortunate enough to see it from the other side of Lake Pukaki.


Further along the water, the peaks turned a dusky red beneath an early moon.


As I came closer to Fairlie, the landscape changed again, as it so often does in NZ, suddenly transforming into a near-Tuscan tapestry of rolling hills and cypress trees dotted, of course, with sheep.


And somehow I managed to snap this Van Gogh-like shot. I have no idea what effect was on. Complete accident, but I adore the result.


Just before I arrived at my host's house, the sun set in spectacular fashion, closing out my last scenic NZ drive with style.


Hannah and Clement made for great hosts. I had expected a couch but was treated to a full guest room, a hot shower, and some homemade confections. We gabbed and watched "House" and "The Big C"-- strangely on the same network overseas before tucking in for the night.

The next morning, Clement left first thing, but Hannah and I lazed about a bit. She let me use her yoga mat, and once I felt good and limber, we drove around the corner to The Whisk and Page, the kind of charming, unpretentious coffee shop only to be found in truly small towns. The old-fashioned kitchen stood right behind the counter, and I could smell a batch of scones baking in the oven. I ordered a pair of them with jam and clotted cream, a cup of hot chocolate and a tea for Hannah. Hannah introduced me to Anna, the proprietor and sole member of staff, who sweetly plied me with questions about my travels.

We sat for over an hour discussing all manner of topics and greatly enjoying the fare. I loved the scones so much that I ordered a second serving, and when I told Anna that they were the best I'd ever had, she asked me to stand up and repeat the praise for the benefit of the other customers, which I did with pleasure. Before I left, Anna had me sign the guestbook and asked me to make it interesting. "I always ask people to write a poem or something, but hardly anyone makes it interesting." I obliged with the following:

"My thanks to the "Whisk and Page"
For the best scones I've had in an age.
And, for wherever I roam,
A home away from my home
And a bright spot upon the world's stage."

I know, I know. Cheesy and trite, but I only had two minutes, people. And it made her glowingly happy, which was the point.

After that, I dropped Hannah back at her house with my thanks and a goody bag of supplies I didn't need on the next leg of my trip. I then set off for Christchurch. The drive struck me as the least beautiful of those I had made in New Zealand, and I couldn't get near the center of town to see the sights because aftershocks from the quake were still causing problems, a full year later But no matter. I stopped at a gas station to give the car a quick once over before returning it, and the woman using the vacuum before me adorably jumped in her car as she finished, calling, "Come on, honey! Pull on up! There's still 3 minutes on there that I already paid for." And hey, she saved me 50 cents. I arrived at the rental car agency before closing, bid farewell to clunky ol' Irwin the car, and got them to ride me to the airport. .

The airport still hadn't recovered from the quake either, and whole wings remained closed for renovations. I mailed some postcards and a package, ate the hodge-podge meal I had made with the last of my food stuffs, and settled in to a distinctly uncomfortable chair to wait until my crack-of-dawn flight the next day.

Unfortunately, at 11pm, a security guard came and moved all those of us attempting to sleep to a small area right by one of the exits. The automatic sliding doors opened and closed constantly letting in the cold air. The temperature had seriously dropped, and I found myself shivering. I approached one of the guards, explained that I had been sick for almost a week and really couldn't afford to get worse, and she kindly allowed me to set up on the floor of another area away from the doors.

At 4am, my alarm went off, I gathered my things, and headed for the international departures wing, which was just opening for the day. The rest of the morning is a blur, but I know that I arrived in Sydney at the scheduled time later that morning, so all went well.

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Location:Christchurch, New Zealand