We cross the great water today – North Island to South Island. The ferry departs at eight in the morning, so we must crack-of-dawn it. We are up and outta there at 6:45 and walk to the Bluebridge Ferry terminal, rolly suitcases and all. To indicate WALK, stoplights in NZ make a high-pitched wheet sound, followed by five seconds of clucking. I find this sound delicious to imitate. The elevator at 54 Bleecker make a weenie noise as it passes between floors. I like that one, too. Anyway, Joss had put me on wheet probation right away back in Auckland, but this morning I get a total free ride to wheet to my heart’s content.

Morning in Wellington harbor is a lively time. Two bright red tugs pull into berths right outside the terminal, while rowers in eight-, four-, and two-man shells glide past.

Our departure seems to be delayed, the boat’s elevator is out of service, but finally we board, get settled, and order some food. There will be no nautical barfing for us. We are too swell for swells. The voyage takes three hours, the final hour of which is a majestic sail up Queen Charlotte Sound to the port of Picton. Steep, pine-covered slopes close in like walls on our port and starboard then slide away as we swan up the blue-green water.

You can’t take a rented automobile from island to island unless you return it the island from which you rented it. Therefore, it is necessary to rent a car anew. I theoretically booked a South Island auto after all that rigmarole at the KeriKeri airport with the too-boatlike Holden. Picton presents us with a Corolla, which at first Joss deems too big. She tests this hypothesis utilizing the scientific method: a Focus is found in the lot and she spreads her arms across its back, holds the pose, then embraces the rear of the Corolla and compares. Bingo. We’ve got ourselves a set of wheels. This is good because I suspect that driving the North Island is a cakewalk compared to the Alpine Adventures that await us here in the South.

Our B&B is mere steps from Picton center. We stroll into town for a meat pie, a heavenly concoction especially when accompanied by a side salad. Picton has seaside charms: the view up Queen Charlotte Sound, a main drag with one-story shops and bars, a spacious promenade and park on the water that features a striking blue reflecting pool dedicated to a WWI hero with a life-size statue of Donald Duck in the center.

Picton is home to a wonderful little aquarium that guidebooks tout as a seahorse sanctuary. The ticket guys shoos us in – “Hurry! It’s feeding time!” We round a corner to find a group listening to the authoritative gent with a lizard on his arm. It’s actually not a lizard, but a tuatara, a reptile, yes, but a singular species more related to dinosaurs than other earthly reptiles. It’s extinct now on mainland New Zealand, preserved in the wild only on some twenty islands reserved for endangered flora and fauna. We’re encouraged to touch the tuatara, to which one small child exclaims, ‘it feels like grandma’.

We will now follow this guy anywhere. It’s time to feed the fish in the big tank. A stingray about the size of a bathmat plasters itself against the glass of the tank displaying its white belly and the strange expression that its long, down-turned mouth and pair of nostrils make. It knows exactly what time it is. The edges of its body flutter and its mouth opens to receive a piece of sashimi.

When his box of chum is empty, he slips away, returning with the red plastic milk box with a Little Blue Penguin within. Disoriented at first, the bird soon develops a curiosity about its confines and its audience. It is being rehabilitated after an inner ear infection. Once it fully regains its diving ability, it will be released. People take photos of the Little Blue Penguin in the red box. A sentence kinda sums it up.

Sadly, the seahorse promo is over-hyped. There’s a single one. The pipefish, though, provide compensatory fascination. They are transparent and float vertically, like oral thermometers with a green stripe instead of mercury. This little aquarium may be a bit shabby with weird signage, but it more than makes up for it with charm and professionalism.

Back to the B&B for R&R, a wee lie down before venturing forth for dinner. I type some. Then – BAGPIPES! Are you fucking kidding me? They’re coming from right below my window. Smack in the middle of excursionary contentment, fucking BAGPIPES. They must belong to this house somehow. I suck it up. I imagine Jocelyn must have been sonically electrocuted. The remainder of the day is spent slowly decompressing from The Assault of the Giant Gasbag.

Before tackling New Zealand’s national museum, Te Papa Tongarewa (Te Papa to one and all), we must eat an enormous fucking breakfast. I order the Big Kiwi, which consists of three scrambled eggs, streaky bacon, and a pale sort of latke, plus an impressive sausage called a Kransky. With enough caffeine, anything is possible. We walk along the waterfront in the brilliant sun to the imposing museum.

Of primary interest is the giant squid, the largest on display anywhere. It’s pretty fucking grim, lying there in its chemical solution looking very much the worse for wear, tattered and stitched and exfoliated. A video of its capture, which seems to have been accidental, underscores its sad end. Somehow, longline fishermen reeled it in after it went for the bait and didn’t let go. Once on the surface, it apparently expired and was hauled aboard and frozen. It’s about 30 feet long, with eyes the size of basketballs and all manner of strange adaptations. I Love Cephalopods!

Jocelyn makes a fascinating discovery. Tucked away is an exhibit dedicated to Carmen Rupe, New Zealand’s most famous trans person and transgender Maori to boot. The display features some of her most fabulous headgear and a too brief synopsis of her fabulous life. Te Papa’s presentation of New Zealand’s rich heritage could benefit from a better throughline or organization or something. I keep getting the sensation that I’m in the national attic.

I feel it’s incumbent on me to touch base with the Fellowship Not-Of-The-Ring. At noon today, there’s an AA meeting at Saint Mary of the Angels church hall. We both go. Afterwards, we head back to the museum for further enlightenment and shopping purposes. Te Papa sells plush squids in two sizes, but upon close examination they’re revealed to be beakless. We shall leave NZ squidless.

Last evening, Louise pointed Joss to a couple of interesting vintage clothing stores on Cuba Street while Dev offered to meet us to coffee in the afternoon, so we combine business with pleasure, wander up Cuba Street not buying anything and meet the young man for flat whites in a leafy courtyard. Then, he is off to rugby practice.

A rough night at the sweet B&B. The beds just sucked. So flabby as to perpetrate the dreaded inverted-parabola-torture scenario, the bane of side sleepers. Oh, well. I snost and I lost. Our host is quite lovely and considerate, though her payment system flummoxes. I am compelled to initiate a mission to find cash money, following her to the nearest ATM, which just happens to be across the street from an establishment called Mr. Bun. Mr. Bun!

This kerfuffle sets us on the road a half hour later than we anticipated. Will we make the 10:30 Weta Workshop tour in Wellington? Whew. Not a nanosecond to spare, what with parking on a residential street and everything. Weta has provided all the special effects for Peter Jackson’s work, as well as many other productions. They offer a short tour, really just a visit to a prop room/repository/museum with a peek at some of the craftsmen at work. Aliens and armor and hardware hang from every available surface. Our guide hands around four iterations of chainmail. Joss and I are in nerd heaven. The work involved in creating convincing verisimilitude for these nutty illusions is daunting. For example, consider the painstaking insertion of millions of individual follicles into a test gorilla in order to chart their motion: this to give the animators something real and adaptable to work from.

Locating the Wellesley Hotel is our next project. Our rooms aren’t ready, so we take a seat in the pub and order lunch. The Wellesley was a Georgian-style, four-story men’s club in its day and converted some twenty years ago into a small hotel. The exterior and the common rooms are a little down at the heels, but the guest rooms themselves are elegant and spacious, with less-soft mattresses.

After the meal, we can unload. I volunteer to take the Focus back to Hertz by myself and let Joss ease her way-tired bones. The rent-a-car return process requires no human contact. I stroll back to the hotel past the cargo port, huge ‘Imperial Walker’ cranes, stacks and stacks of containers, and giant piles of logs for export. To my right squats the giant, unprepossessing stadium the locals call ‘The Cake Tin’. I buy Gandalf stamps at the PO on the way and get a haircut from a woman named Kim.

By mid-afternoon, Joss and I begin exploring. Joss declares her desire to find a purse. Lambton Quay, just behind the hotel, is Wellington’s main shopping street. And, by golly, if a suitable handbag doesn’t appear: attractive, competitively priced, and sporting fringe. We wander through an intriguing galleria in the old Bank of New Zealand building. Devon and Louise will pick us up at the hotel at six, so we return in order to clean up our acts.

At six o’clock, the lobby is bustling with distinguished gentlemen. Groups of two or three come through the front door, each fellow carrying a case, either backgammon size or one twice as big, but always one of those two. Hogwarts, Class of ’51 Reunion? Can’t be. No women. Then we notice the full-length portrait hanging on the landing – a Mason in full regalia. Uh-oh, mumbo-fucking-jumbo.

Devon drives us (Yay! I’m hands-free!) up Mount Victoria for a panorama of Wellington – seaward slopes covered with houses, the gleaming hodge-podge of the central business district, and distant inlets and mountains. The wind up here is strong, with a bite of chill. Then, we drive out to an old quarry located right at the shore. We get to see aspects of the city we wouldn’t have otherwise.

Lou and Dev have promised to take us to dinner. The restaurant they choose is Floriditas on Cuba Street, where Louise worked as an undergrad. Two more charming people would be hard to imagine. Both in their mid-20s, Lou’s an architect formerly with Greg’s firm and Dev’s working on his architecture degree at university. He spent several years in construction before committing to school. On Greg and Tori’s recommendation, they had stayed at 54 Bleecker Street while I was in Lisbon six months ago.

The Barn at the Wood Pigeon Lodge is a work of fantastic ingenuity. It has been retrofitted with parts of other buildings; appliances, furniture, windows, doors (sliding, French, and otherwise. A note on NZ doors: There’s no code mandating at what height the doorknob should go, so finding the bathroom in the dark of night can be an experience of desperate, noisy groping. It can sleep eleven in comfort and glory, surrounded by the lowing of cattle and sheep. As Joss and I begin to drive away, Ted the wet dog insists on trying to herd the car. Hilarious, sweet, and a little sorrowful.

It is raining in Raurimu as we leave. This is the rain that should have put the kibosh on the Crossing yesterday. Ha! We laugh at you, rain. This is a travel day for Joss and V. Our windshield wipers can now perform their appointed tasks rather than be cursed for not being the turn signal. We meander three hours through the breathtaking Whanganui River valley, stopping for lunch in Whanganui town. At least a half dozen times, the road shrinks to a single lane because the other lane has dropped into the river. We slow to fully experience a striking fence that, like and unlike the bridges over the Seine, is festooned with thousands of pairs of sneakers. In late mid-ish afternoon, we find ourselves in a lovely B&B with crickets and lawnmowers. There’s a rose garden out the window and a silly dog, named Gimme, who just wants to play ‘throw me the monkey’.

We won’t chugging all the way to Wellington, because, well, I anticipated rightly we’d be tired after yesterday’s feat. Oh, ya. Levin (pronounced leVin) is a one-story town, prosperous, unremarkable, and diurnal. We are the last people in the Thai restaurant at 7:30. They probably do take-away until nine, but as we leave the sidewalks are being rolled up.

We rally for the Tongariro Crossing, perhaps the most anticipated piece of our journey. The Tongariro Crossing is considered one of the world’s most inspiring and demanding day hikes. The route takes one up the slopes of a volcano past streams and lava flows followed by a steep climb to mineral lakes and stunning vistas of the verdant countryside and other volcanoes. It’s really not to be undertaken lightly. http://www.tongarirocrossing.org.nz/

I remember that I had requested in an email that Tim of the Wood Pigeon Lodge arrange for transportation to the trailhead. Tim did not remember. We scurry about, packing lunch and sunblock and whatnot, when Tim appears breathless to tell us we’re good to go – Now. “I’ve called Zeus. He’s got the van ready at the Plateau Lodge.” We fly.

Bouncing along the plains in our naiveté and gazing up at the snow-streaked volcano peak, we make breezy chatter. “Look,” says Greg, pointing at two black-clad girls slouching along the roadside – “Goths.” This observation delights the van. “They’re awfully far from their native habitat.”

As am I, it turns out. Once again, the arrogance of previous adventures has done me in. At the three kilometer mark, I am just too fuckin’ wheezy to enjoy myself, so I bid the others adieu and turn tail. Seven hours later, after a total of twelve miles and an ascent of just under 1,000 feet and a descent of 1,500, Devon comes by and picks me up. I have spent a very meditative afternoon in a Nat’l Park shelter lean-to, counting bees, napping, and memorizing a brochure while other hikers go and come, spouting gaily in foreign tongues or mutely zombified.

Jocelyn’s Tongariro tale is one of self-doubt, trudging, and giddy triumph. “I really fucking did this!!” In the end, she was her own Samwise Gamgee.

After a subdued meal at the local sports bar, the four Kiwis bolt (they have far to go and lives to resume), so the two of us spend a quiet night being exhausted.

This morning, we are the testy travelers. Joss can’t locate our destination with her GPS, which prompts some agita. I spell the name and include even the hyphens to no avail. We had driven past the entrance yesterday on our way to Orakei, but “We’ll find it” did not satisfy her. One could not but speculate upon the marvels within – Wai-o-tapu, Thermal Wonderland. As opposed to – My-long-johns, Thermal Wonderland. Compounding the general prickliness, the Focus is acting a little sulky. We had to get an early start in order to bear witness the daily geyser, Lady Knox, express herself at 10:15. Quickly, a decent long black is procured and the center will hold.

We have time to walk through one of the loops of geothermal wonders before queuing up for the geyser eruption. In the cool morning air, steam pours off streams and pools, wrapping the forest in mysterious gossamer and rising in great clouds before vanishing. One remarkable pool, the Champagne Pool, is a blue depth with a rim of bright rust-colored tracery whose clarity shifts as tatters of steam drift across.

Following instructions to drive to the Lady Knox Geyser site three quarters of an hour prior to her performance, we file into an amphitheater that focuses attention on a four-foot chalk white cone. The entire United Nations files in after us. At twelve past, an amused man with a mic offers the spiel about Lady Knox and her connection to the geothermal nozzle and how this will be an artificially timed eruption. “I just pour in this bag of detergent and within three to ten minutes Lady Knox will blow for fifteen minutes to an hour.” Sure enough, soon she’s foaming with ever-increasing enthusiasm and, woohoo, hot soapy water shoots thirty feet in the air. Photo frenzy. Subsidence. Almost immediately, the audience begins to bail. We linger, because that’s what we do.

After a sandwich and a meat pie, we’re on the road to Raurimu. Anticipation is high: we’ll be making the Tongariro Crossing tomorrow, weather permitting. Predictions have been improving all week, but rain is still promised. Just not in biblical proportions, we hope. At a Countdown supermarket we harvest ingredients for a Joss-and-V-made spaghetti-and-meatball extravaganza. We translate the recipe’s measurements into metric on the fly as we cruise the aisles.

Joss’ immense navigational powers draw us inexorably to the Wood Pigeon Lodge in Raurimu. She is that good. Marinara bubbles and the meatballs fry and up pull two cars simultaneously, Greg and Tori from Tauranga in one and Louise and Devon from Wellington in the other. We are now the assembled multitude. Dinner is delicious. No dessert? No dessert. We nibble Pineapple Lumps, a bona fide Kiwi confection, and the nonpareils I brought from Li-Lac in NYC.

Tomorrow’s the day.

Good Morning, Rotorua. It’s a little fetid in our strange suite-like setup in the Sport of Kings Motel. Basically, it’s one bedroom suite, with a single bed in the kitchenette/living room, which also contains side-by-side La-Z-Boys. However, should someone wish to sleep with the fishes, through the bedroom is a hot tub room with a steamy, bubbly jacuzzi. Sulfuric dampness permeates all things. And not only that, but coffee situation is once again fucking unsatisfactory. A cup of bogus instant won’t do.

Soon, we’re on our way south to Orakei Korako, a geothermal zone accessible by launch across a man-made lake. An immense calcium and silica terrace appears to be sliding into the water. Pathways lead up through forest and fumaroles. The each level of the terrace has a grandiose name that bears no relation to its actual appearance. Walking through the vapors and the gurgling is very entertaining. So is observing our fellow tourists, also vaporous and gurgling. On the launch ride back, we are directed to an eel-viewing platform that adds an element of creepy nature to the trip.

Back at Rotorua, we deal with practical matters – breakfast foods, more gingernut biscuits, a full tank of gas, and the dreaded, absolutely necessary, laundry. It takes us three loads to restore spiffiness to our wardrobes.

Behind its hyper-touristy exterior, Rotorua has an admirable dining scene. Even the peculiarly named, Atticus Finch, in a block-long outdoor food court, serves up delicious light fare. And more people to watch. After dinner, we get ice cream cones and stroll to the lakeside through what billed itself as a ‘gypsy encampment’ and truly is. It’s a thrown-together carnival / community, with plenty of opportunity to spend (lose) money.

Good-bye to the Bay of Plenty. Fortified by a hearty breakfast and a couple long blacks we make a break for Hobbiton. This place couldn’t be more hokey or more eagerly anticipated. Yes, we are nerds, big nerds. My girls and I were at the front of the line on Opening Day of all three LOTR movies, so Joss and I are pumped.

Hobbiton is easy to find with Joss’ expert, if somewhat impatient, guidance. I don’t fade onto the shoulder of the road much anymore, but I can burst impulsively into roundabouts without looking. I am ever so slowly adjusting to driving with everything inverted. Hopefully, I shall be ambidextrous real soon.

The parking lot for Hobbiton, the Movie Set is mostly grass. Grass is appropriate, I guess, for such pint-sized pastoral folk. Another grass-related observation, we notice three or four hippie-style vans, rentable vehicles grimly emblazoned with graffiti smurfs and snarky weed-related jive. Oh, the lame and craven bullshit. Here’s the real bullshit, the Hollywood bullshit that we love. There’s a gift shop, a café, toilets, and a shed for lining up in the shade for the buses that will take us to the tiny town.

The Alexander family, the sheep and cattle farmers on whose land Hobbiton was constructed, have shrewdly capitalized on the global fascination for these hairy-footed little buggers. Ten years after LOTR, they prevailed on Peter Jackson to rebuild the set with durable materials for the Hobbit films: they charge admission and the man gets a cut, of course. Strikingly, in addition to the legions of LOTR fanboys and girls, tour groups now show up with absolutely no hobbit aficionados at all. Hobbiton has become part of New Zealand’s essential tourist itinerary.

This little village is enchanting. It looks exactly like the images from the movies, lived in by vegetation but not be actual creatures. It is interesting to note the different sizes of the various hobbit holes, built for forced perspective purposes, when the difference between the character’s height and the actor’s were needed to differentiate the sentient species on Middle Earth. The siting of Bag End, the Party Tree, and the Green Dragon all match with perfect continuity. Our guide does a lot of superfluous explaining, as guides tend to do, but most guides are talking to idiots, not virtual Hobbits, masters of all possible Tolkien lore. Still, it is with great pleasure that we quaff a ginger beer at the Green Dragon once the tour has concluded.

We finally pull into the very tight parking lot of Sport of Kings Motel in Rotorua, and when we open the doors of the Focus we are almost felled by the sulfuric stench. No one could have adequately warned us. The person behind the desk triangulates between her incoming guests and an aggressively cute little girl, presumably her child. I stifle the impulse to jump across the desk and throttle little fucking Eloise. We get settled, plan an ambitious assault on our laundry problem, and book a restaurant for dinner.

It’s within walking distance, a huge plus, and seems to be on the fine dining side. I mention to Joss that she may be the youngest person in the place. “Yeah, I know, everyone here looks like a fourth-grade teacher.”

We leave Whitianga without a backward glance. It has been good to slow the pace, but did it have to be there? As good as any, I guess. A two-and-a-half hour drive will get us to Tauranga on the Bay of Plenty, where Greg and Tori live. They were friends of friends who stayed with me on Bleecker Street six or seven years ago. He’s an architect and she’s a teacher and a mom. We are to meet Greg for lunch because he has the key to Tori’s grandparents’ bach (pronounced ‘batch’), a seaside cabin where Jocelyn and I will spend the night. Greg is cheerful and lanky. Over sandwiches Joss explains burlesque – “Stripping is making $500 in a $10 costume. Burlesque is making $10 in a $500 costume. The audience is totally different.” I’m not sure he’s convinced.

J & V wind their way to the bach, a blue, two-bedroom bungalow with french doors that open onto the beach. And, what a beach! It’s astonishingly wide when the tide is out, but at high tide, the water reaches a point only fifty feet from the house. To the right and left, the sand goes on as far as the eye can see, with maybe a speck of a person half a mile away. Islands dot the horizon.

At four o’clock Tori arrives with their two kids, Hannah and Holly, who have a combined age of three. The kids get fed while we gab. This is a familiar yet miraculous process, fraught with smearing and negotiation and directed with vast equanimity. Soon, it’s time for the rugby match. Greg and Tori belong to a Wednesday evening touch rugby league. Joss and I have been invited to spectate. Tauranga has a sprawling sports complex with several rugby/soccer fields, a professional cricket pitch, and god knows what else. Greg and Tori belong to the black-shirted team. I can follow the action, but making head or tail of its objectives is beyond me. The sun is glorifying the play with late afternoon’s slanted golden light. A half dozen children, ages eleven to stroller, mill about on the sidelines. This is obviously a parents’ league. After the game – G&T’s team has lost – there is beer. I tell stories of New York and the US and generalize recklessly about human relations. Joss laughs and describes polyglot Queens. It’s great to talk with other people.

Tori takes the girls back home, while we go with Greg to pick up Indian food. Greg and Tori live in a house of small children. Stuff everywhere. I remember this well. We eat gosht pakal and butter chicken on our laps. The best Indian food I’ve eaten, maybe ever. Greg drives us back to the bach. Thank the Lord! It’s darkest night and navigating unfamiliar territory in the blackness won’t be done by me.

Best sleep so far, lulled by the syncopation of the ocean.

We are in grave danger of overdoing, a by-product of the twin perils of travel planning from afar – too much enthusiasm and scant practical knowledge. So, instead of two nights at two places on the Coromandel Peninsula, I cancel one and book us into the one place for two nights. We have ended up in Whitianga (‘wh’ pronounced as an ‘f’) on Mercury Bay, so-called because this is where Captain Cook and his astronomer measured the transit of Mercury across the Sun in order to accurately determine the distance between the Sun and the Earth. Whitianga is now a yachty town with lots of second homes.

Last night I made, or tried to make, a 10:30am reservation for boat trip in the Mercury Bay that would show us the sights of the Marine Reserve. All’s well, it turns out, so off we go. The boat departs from the Wharf, which we are told, “You can’t miss”. Seven of us fit in a Zodiac, three pairs in personal flotation devices, and our captain, who has a badly wounded, but poorly bandaged, big toe.

Soon we’re skimming across the crystal clear water, while Captain Whosits points out real estate, both geological and residential. One of the first items of interest is a big old blowhole that we’re able to motor into and then stare up through foliage to the sky. There are many formations to see, Cathedral Cave, for instance, an enormous room that extends through a promontory separating two coves. We forego the snorkel opportunity. Still, it’s a pleasure to be on the water.

Post-lunch calculations indicate that we are in the middle of a low-tide window of opportunity to experience Hot Water Beach, so-called because hot springs seep through the sand. Therefore, if you dig a hole you may loll in bath-like temperatures or, if you’d rather, hard-boil a dozen eggs. Our lodgings will provide towels and spades for such an outing.

The beach is broad and the surf regular and mild. “Where’s the hot water?” asks Joss. I gesture to a cluster of people in the distance. “Let’s see what they’re up to.” Yep, these are the parboilers in their self-made pots. Some holes appear to have been abandoned. We claim one and begin to dig in search of hot water. It ain’t happening. “Well, this is a bust,” I say and take a step backwards. “Jesus, yikes!” I squeal. Hot fucking water. Hot, just like they said. “Wow, Joss, they’re not whistling Dixie.” We prance in the scalding water for a bit, but quickly lose interest in geothermal pools. “Let’s walk up the beach.”

A man and his son are whacking a ball about with a cricket bat while a dog chases after it. Further down the shore, high seagull drama develops as a bird attempts to claim and then escape with a very large dead fish. He has an equally stupid rival, who confronts the fishnapper only to forget what’s going on and fly off, then return to rejoin the conflict already in progress because the original bird can’t seem to get the fish aloft. Lots of noise and flapping and a really, really dead fish. Oh, birds.