Postcards from Grandma: an Ode to the woman who taught me to travel

I wrote this post about 4 days ago to help me cope and relive what my grandmother meant to me. She passed away today. 

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It's a really complicated thing but my grandma has died. Or is dying.  She has had life-saving measures removed so that she can gently and painlessly pass from this world to whatever comes next.  I'm hopelessly bouncing from wifi hotspot to wifi hotspot to check my text messages and to try to keep up with events but I'm always behind and so at the moment of this post I believe that technically she is still alive. But I know. My family knows. My grandma knows that it's only a matter of hours or days and the semantics of it all are irrelevant. I will emotionally say gooodbye to the earthly being that is or was my grandmother from this distant island and so I have a story about how it was she who inspired me to travel in the first place and the unfair irony of it all that I'm nearly as far away as I can possibly be as I attempt to say goodbye. 

My family has been immensely compassionate, loving and brave in making decisions to help each other and to help my grandmother as best they can. 

I've been explicitly told that I should absolutely not cancel any of my plans in order to return home and be there for a funeral or otherwise. My family knows how badly I want to be there. And they also know how disappointed my grandma would be if she were the reason that I wasn't able to continue with my trip. 

My grandma, you see, is the reason that I've even gotten it in my head at all that international travel is a good idea in the first place. 

Let's start at the beginning. 

She and I had a special connection from the outset. I hate to sound boastful or to put her relationship with my other cousins in to call but there was always this sense that I had that she and I were special. That we had a link no one else had, although the likely truth is that all of us felt like we were her special treasure because that's how she made her grandkids feel. 

I was her first granddaughter and though she had three grandsons before me there's something special about a baby girl that makes a grandma bend over backwards to meet every need and want of that child. That was me. When I was born my parents were still partially in school and couldn't afford their own home so they lived with my grandparents - therefore when my mom brought me home from the hospital I landed at my grandmother's house. With my mom's crazy work schedule and my dad being a student, my grandma cared for me and was present in my life as much as a parent would be. I actually remember her dropping me off at preschool when I was 3 years old and singing a song to me to stop me from crying and begging her not to leave me. I still know the words to that song. I was my grandma's special girl. Though 3 more granddaughters came after me, I was the first, and there's something unique about the first.

My parents, younger sister and I moved out of grandma's house when I was 5 years old but my connection to my grandma stayed strong. I remember her visiting our new house, watching my soccer games as I grew older and most importantly I remember her post cards. 

My parents, whether it was frugality or comfort I'm not sure, took my sister and I on nearly the same vacation each year. Each winter we went to the Sierras to ski and each summer we went back to that same mountain town to camp and fish for trout. I can't say that I regret this because my memories of Lake Mary and Twin Lakes are some of the best and certainly helped foster my current love affair with alpine terrain but the exotic lands across our country's borders seemed so far out of my reach that I scarcely thought of them. That is until my grandmother started sending me post cards. Again, I know she sent all my cousins post cards but I can't say how the cards affected them. 

When my grandpa retired, the two of them set off. They had always traveled but after he retired the widespread travel increased exponentially. They road tripped across the country more than once. All 50 states. National Parks.  To the top of Mt. Whitney. To Canada. Mexico. South and Central America. And the Middle East. They went to Madagascar and to Africa. They chartered a boat in the Seychelles and stalked ruins in Greece and Turkey. They sailed canals in Venice and fiords in Scandinavia. To China. To Japan. To Indonesia. They even slid down ice slopes with penguins in Antarctica. 

And from each place they sent me a post card. I relished these cards as a token of what my life could be like when I was older. I don't think I would have ever even dreamed of foreign lands or ever imagined that these types of remote foreign ideas were within my reach if it wasn't for my grandma. 

She took me to Washington DC and New York City when I was 12. My eyes opened to broadway musicals and homelessness. We had bisque at at a swanky NYC bistro. I'd never had bisque before. What a revelation.  That trip was also the first time I heard an adult scream "fuck!" at the top of her lungs in frustration and I believe it may have been one of the first times I saw adults as people too - beyond just caregivers and people designed to dote on children. 

When I was 17 my grandma took me to Spain. It was my first international trip. She ordered Sangria and got me drunk for the first time. We ate grilled anchovies on the beach. I told her how I'd lost my virginity. No one else knew. 

She drove 7 hours from LA to Stanford for my first triathlon in college and cheered for me. She nearly always showed up for me. 

I wrote her letters because I knew how much the written word spoke to her.  Every year in college my address changed - she would write me and ask for my new address to put in her old-fashioned telephone book. A new international post card would arrive shortly thereafter. 

When I expressed my interest in studying abroad in Cape Town, South Africa, her's was the only voice of encouragement. Other voices urged caution. Fear. Consideration of a more European destination.  She offered to pay for my flight to Africa. 

I had heartbreaks.  Troubled relationships. Self loathing and doubt. I'd call her. She was the first to know my ex-boyfriend had a drug problem. She offered to help me see a counselor to sort out my complicated relationship with my parents. It seems no coincidence that my counselor's name was Margaret. 

I moved to Massachusetts. California. Arizona. Utah. I got post cards from exotic locales at each of these addresses. 

When Bill moved to Phoenix after we had started dating, we struggled with the pressure of living together. We went to California to see grandma after a hip surgery and I asked her about marriage and partnership as I had many many times in my history. Bill left that visit feeling like grandma was on his side. 

When Bill and I left for this trip, grandma was as proud as any one else. I, along with my travel extrordinaire sister, carried her torch. 

I felt an otherworldly sense of pride and deep atomic level connectivity when a month ago I penned a note and sent my grandmother a postcard from New Zealand. Our lives had reversed. Come full circle. It was me now that was exploring the new frontiers and sending alluring hopes of possible adventure back home. 

I can't figure at this time whether my grandmother got my postcard before she fell ill. I desperately hope she did and saw the symbolism of it all. I so desperately hope she got my card. 

As I sit here wracking my brain for the "right" way to celebrate a life, to grieve, to honor the woman who gave me the key to international possibilities I'm socked with simultaneous pride at having carried the torch and with horrendous guilt knowing my aunts and cousins and particularly my mother are in California having the most difficult discussions and making the most pained decisions and I'm nowhere near to offer solidarity or support. It's odd that at this time in fact my deepest sorrow is with sympathy for the survivors who I know will miss my grandmother dearly. 

My grandma was wildly imperfect in her life. She had depression. Was psychotic at times. Made terrible mistakes as a mother and teacher. But as a grandmother, she had a new life. She thought so much of me that her almost ridiculous fawning of my talents balanced any reality checks I may have suffered from other possibly more honest critics.  She holds a place in my heart that will not be replaced. It is because of her that I am in New Zealand right now. 

I will miss her dearly but her influence on me is impossible to ignore and can't be forgotten. 

To my grandma, Margaret Smith, you were a beautiful, brave, flawed, adventurous, sage woman. Be free. Be pain free. Travel the infinite world of the other side of life forever and ever. 

We Learned to Live in the Van

It was much rockier and more tearful than I expected but we did it. We learned to be married and live in a van. 

Spending 24 hours a day of every day in the week for months in a row even with the best of best of friends will lead to disagreements and close examinations and criticisms of the most minute idiosyncrasies. When the person is your spouse, it is more challenging because even a casual remark or criticism can have the stark underlying meta message of "you're inadequate and I'm mad that I'm stuck with you!" More fun discourse on that later!

Early on, when we were bussing and touring around Vietnam, the romance of "the trip" was so shiny new that the minor frustrations rolled off our egos quickly and without leaving any noticeable scars. We were high on our own pride at "having really done it!" Quit our jobs. Put ourselves at the mercy of adventure and fate. Done what all our friends wish they had done and left the comforts of stable employment and "the grind" to pursue new frontiers, new countries, grand adventure. We were still patting ourselves on the back then. Basking in our own awe to be too bothered by the realization that we had entered into the lifelong challenge of spending a life with just one person. 

On December 28 when we arrived in Auckland the adrenaline was still high. We bought a van! Hell yes, we are DOING this! 

That high ended a few days later while driving aimlessly up the north coast after a glutinous New Years Eve with friends of friends (who mercilessly noted our poverty and paid for our meals - friends, good karma is coming your way!). It was during these few days when we actually realized that we hadn't talked about our individual hopes and ideas for the trip - and when we did we realized we had very different ideas. 

It seems ludicrous that months would have passed, innumerable conversations about "the trip" before we actually got on the plane, yet somehow we came to realize on a windy tropical beach road that Bill had detailed each alpine hike he had planned to do while my thoughts were to make no plans at all and travel by the suggestions of locals - even if that meant going to beaches which isn't really our thing. 

First disagreements and misunderstandings ensued: You take charge of too much. You always want to know everything. You never asked. You aren't listening. You're too rigid. You don't even like the beach! I feel like we aren't communicating well right now.

Silence. Podcasts. Spotify. 

The next day renews hope of idyllic vacationland. But tensions rise again. You missed the exit. You haven't brushed your teeth in 2 days.  You didn't make camping plans for tonight? You expect me to read your mind. You don't notice enough. 

More podcasts. Local radio. Turn that off it's terrible.  

Fitful sleep but a new day. New hope. Another try at idyllic paradisical life of a traveling duo. 

It was hard to have no personal time. Bill wrote in his journal that he knows he makes stupid mistakes all the time but that during quiet introspective moments he is able to forgive himself for the thoughtlessness and move on. He had none of that in the van. 

I wrote about the heartbreaking conversation we had on that perfect secluded beach in Oamaru - that was January 31. 

It all tumbled out that day. Feeling aimless and without purpose. Having low self esteem about life purpose. About body image. About how how your partner saw you and the difference in how they see you now. Feelings of frustration about what we had done and hadn't done. Unmet expectations. The ongoing struggle to "be on the same page". Where to put things in the van. Mis-en-place for christs sake!  The wanting to be seamlessly and effortlessly understood by your soul mate - and then not. 

That day was a turning point. After that day we had a few more tiffs. A week of uninterrupted natural beauty, physical exertion and marital harmony followed by two or three days of subtle strife. Then harmony again. 

We arrived to Wanaka on February 22.  We got to ride bikes. Glorious bikes! Cradled by the generosity of bygone dirtbags who earnestly wished to pay it forward we felt like we had been kissed by fate. One of those "I must be one of the lucky ones" kind of feelings. We went on a breathtaking 4-day backpack and spent an afternoon alone with only us and a pristine glacial moraine. 

Upon returning from that hike my Achilles was absolutely having nothing to do with any further walking. I offered to drive Bill to a trail head to complete a 2-3 day hike that we had both wanted to do (but which I was absolutely not able to do at this point) but he said no, he didn't want to separate. And besides, he told me, it's more fun with you anyway. 

I'm embarrassed to say that it took a grand gesture like that for Bill to actually convince me that I was indeed the lifelong travel partner he'd always dreamed about. Until then I had guilt nagging at my conscious that the fearless adventure girl he wanted was just a dream. That I'd let him down. 

Around this time we got really good at living in the Ark. Like military precision good. Grocery shopping was a flawless exercise in procurement of trail mix additives and we each had our jobs (well Bill had to find coffee and alcohol and I did the rest). Setting up the bed had a grace and an order. Breakfast and coffee had a routine. Free camping was easier to find. Huts and hikes and lakeside skinny dipping baths were built into the routine and it all felt so normal. 

I think it took us 2 and a half months to really really actually learn to live in the van and be married and to feel tranquil and satisfied with it all. And to feel confident enough in ourselves and that routine that we could return to nuanced coupledom and feel like the we really were in vacationland. We had to learn a new routine. Appreciate new ideas and rhythms. New time tables. 

When I think about it, it's always taken a few months to feel totally comfortable in a new routine and so why should this be any different. There's a funny double standard about "vacations" or whatever you want to call what we're doing. An idea that since we're not working or theoretically doing anything displeasurable that there will be nothing but bliss. Of course that's ridiculous - but that doesn't stop egos from believing that.  

The tragic irony of it all is that just as we are absolutely nailing it on a regular basis, we must sell the van, fly to Australia, and start yet another new routine which may or may not take some getting used to. 

Bill Murray has been quoted as saying "If you have someone that you think is the one...buy a plane ticket for the two of you and travel around the world and when you come back if you're still in love with that person? Get married."

I mean YES, Bill Murray, yes! An emphatic dramatic YES! The suffocating stuck-togetherness of 24/7 time with your partner is intense and it's an accelerated version of real life - like 6 years worth of marital growth crammed into 6 months - but so worth it. 

So what now? Do I have to change the name of my blog?

Kiwi-isms

There are a lot of really nice things about traveling in an English-speaking developed country. The cost of a pint of beer is not one of them. But the Kiwis still have a unique way about their speech and social habits that is clearly unique to them. I'd like to share some of these with you. 

"Sweet As!" - an exclamation used by anyone younger than about 45 years old. Some cooler older folks use it too. Meaning "right on!" 

Jandals - their word for flip flop type sandals. It's a cognate of Japanese+sandals. I think its brilliant. 

Togs - a bathing suit. Um what. It doesn't even come close to making sense. 

The pie. Basically a personal sized pot pie that mostly has shitty meat or cheese inside. Every local you talk to says "oh you've got to get a pie!" Like it's the local delicacy or treat. Pies are terrible. If you come here don't waste your time on pies. 

Espresso - there is literally no drip coffee here.  No french press. Just espresso. And it is fabulous. I haven't had a bad coffee here yet. And also the cafe-style baked goods game is on fire. The scones and muffins here are perfection. 

Heated towel racks - no joke every middle class family has one of these in their bathroom. They dry your towel and make sure it's warm Every. Single. Time. You get out of the shower. Its amazing. Why have we not adapted this in the US yet? 

Automated public toilets/public toilets in general- they are everywhere. Signs directing you to them are everywhere. No one in New Zealand will ever pee their pants. Also some are automated with automatic locks, a song plays while you pee and the flusher, soap, water and lock on the door are all motion detected. And did I mention they play songs while you pee?

American basketball and baseball paraphernalia - they love US sports here. Actually I don't think most of them have a clue what's going on but if you have a Chicago  Bulls jersey or a Red Sox hat then you're totally in with the in crowd. Oddly this phenomenon is more prominent on the North Island. We saw far less NBA and MLB gear in the south. 

Clubs - Kiwis have a club for everything. A skiing club. Bowling club (actually this is just bocce ball but they call it bowling here). Hiking club. Alpine club. Photography club. Guitar club. Anything you name it there is a local community organized chapter of a club where you can meet likeminded souls and plan fun excursions with them. Retirees are especially fond of clubs and they belong to many. Not uncommon to see a group of 15 grandparents - all 65+ on a cycling trip because they're all a member of their local Wanganui Tramping Club and they thought it would be fun to ride bikes for a change! 

Skate Parks - every town has one. Even the smallest town that only has a small pub and gas station to speak of has a skate park. Seems to be just the rational normal part of every city planning committee's basic plan. 

Veterinarians - are in such high demand here. Again, there could be a town of 100 people with hardly amenities for groceries or gas but they will have a local Vet. Unlikely that they will have a clinic for sick humans but 100% they will have a vet. 

Short shorts - undoubtedly this is because of the Rugby fanaticism here but it's like the chicken and the egg - which came first? Really short shorts on lay people or really short shorts on rugby players? Either way there is a lot of male thigh around this country. 

Barefootedness - no shoes? No problem. Barefoot patrons at grocery stores, cafes, and dairies (their word for convenience store), walking down the street. As soon as the work day is over, shoes come off and they don't go back on regardless of what other errands must be run. 

Hiking by time and not distance - consult any map, DOC site or information board and you're likely to get an estimate of your hike in terms of hours. I.e. "Distance from trail head to Avalanche Peak : 3-4 hours".  No where is there a mention of distance. We have hiked single day walks and multi-day backpacking trips and I couldn't tell you how far we walked on any of them. 

Distrust for Chinese and Indians - a general and sometimes verbalized concern for the number of Asian tourists visiting their country. True that most automobile accidents are caused by tourists from Asian countries but overall a general dislike for the presence of "so many Asians."

There are more. Lots more. Maybe I'll remember some more and post another blog. Until then we have 7 days left in Kiwi Country so we're just trying to soak it all in!

Books We've Read So Far

Traveling inevitably has quite a bit of downtime. Whether you're on a long bus or car ride or just waitingnout bad weather there is heaps of time to read your eyeballs silly. Here's a list and review of the books we've occupied and entertained ourselves with thus far: 

Taryn

1. A Short History of Nearly Everything by Bill Bryson. Prepare yourself, Mr. Bryson will come up often in these lists. This book kept me entertained through long flights and Vietnam bus rides. The 2 pound paperback tome I carried with me was worth every ounce. There is something about this man'srun on  sentences and flippant doomsday predictions that I can't put down. 

2. Adrift by Stephen Callahan. A short, fast, easy yet entertaining read about a man lost at sea. I love his relationship and depiction of the dorados. Spoiler alert he survives. And writes a book.  Bill also read this. 

3. The Last King of Scotland by Giles Foden. One of the huts had an old paperback copy of this book that I started reading on a cold night by the fire. I ended up buying it on kindle and couldn't put it down. I will not see the movie because I know it will be too violent for me but the book was great. 

4. All The Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr. I originally heard of this book from the deceased KUER program called Books and Beats. This book, people. Wow. Of all the books I've read this one I'd recommend most highly. The character development and style of timeline is riveting and there is excellent though tragic insight into a time during Nazi Germany and occupied France. 

5. House of Rain by Craig Childs. I think Mr. Childs is overly flowery and bragadocious however any book about native puebloans/Anasazi has my heart. I did learn some new things but it will be a while before I read another of his books. 

6. Sandstone Spine by David Roberts.  Another tale of Southwest ancient art and ruin discovery with historical context and a travel story about old buddies mixed in. Another light easy and fun read but with interesting tidbits too. 

7. Tangerine by Edward Bloor. I read this book in junior high and remembered it very fondly so when we found it in a thrift shop for $3 we bought it and each read it - me for the second time and Bill for the first. It's a fantastic book for a young teen and makes geeks feel hope for their geeky plight. 

Bill

1.Hillbilly Elegy by JD Vance Very interesting depiction of Applalachia and the plight and charm of the hillbillies showcased through one man's history telling of his own family. 

2. A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway. Very dry with little that actually happens. It's saving grace though is a humorous depiction of JD Salinger.

3. Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway. Same style as the book above but with so much action. Such an awesome portrayal of a man's personal struggle with how he fits in with nature. It's the only Hemingway book I like and and I love it. Maybe because it's short.

4. A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. Too fluffy and seems cliche even though this is the OG that made Christmas what it is today. I would rather watch Scrooged with Bill Murray than read the original "classic." 

5. Your Song Changed My Life by Bob Boilen. I like the idea and many of the stories were good. But even though I love music and history as well as anecdotes of how people got their start, the book is kind of meandering and after a while he starts to lose his thesis.

6. A Tramp Abroad by Mark Twain. I have a love/hate relationship with this book, so much that I can't get through it all even though I want to so badly. Travel writing by classic writers unfortunately doesn't work for me.

7. The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini. Very well told story with strong characters, profound themes, and intriguing plot twists. Also gives great insight into Afghani culture. 

8. In a Sunburned Country by Bill Bryson. Only a quarter into this one but it has been really good so far and reads a lot like A Walk in the Woods. He gives an interesting history of Australia as a backdrop to his own anecdotes of exploration traveling through the country. He's funny, honest, and self deprecating and the entertainment leaves you informed.

Both of us listened to Shakespeare: The World A Stage by Bill Bryson on audiobook. We haven't finished it yet - Bill's voice, unfortunately, is fabulous at putting you to sleep but the theme is the same as many of his other investigative historical books: all the things we think we know we actually do not and in fact we know very little about anything at all. This is true of Shakespeare as well. 

We have at least 2 more months of travel so send us your recommendations! 

Where Does The Time Go?

It's crazy to think that our flight out of NZ is just 2 and a half weeks away. Time, which moved so slowly at the beginning and felt infinite, is now squeezing our trip short and rather than lazily flowing from one place to another without any solid plans nailed down, we are now focused on getting to Christchurch to sell our van. Our beautiful beautiful piece of shit van. 

We just hiked out of an incredible overnighter camped at the base of Mount Olivier in Aoraki/Mount Cook National Park. Most national parks here have a Maori and an English Name. Aoraki is the Maori name for Mt. Cook and means "Pierces the Clouds" which seemed so fitting as during much of our stay in the park there was a horizontal cloud running about two thirds up the mountain with the peak bursting through against the clean blue otherwise cloudless sky. On this trip we woke up without an alarm clock in our cozy van. We made a cup of coffee. Then two. Then three. "Why rush?" We asked ourselves, "we have all day." 

We then hiked diligently and carefully up the 1000+ stairway to the first look out at Sealy Tarns because we were in no rush. No agenda. No reservations. No daylight concerns since it is visible outside until 9pm. I took each step carefully and consciously so as to make sure each placement of my left foot landed exactly flat on the stair. Any curved, angular or uneven landing causes my Achilles to scream a short angry yelp and then subside to a dull ache. With flat diligent steps the pain is a mere annoying 2/10 ache that I can handle. I used trekking poles to balance myself and took more water breaks than usual. Why rush? 

 

An aside about New Zealand trails. Switchbacks : a novel and wonderful invention that I think the kiwis only discovered maybe five years ago. Most trails go up if they want to go up. No time or trail work wasted on sideways trail work. Stairs are often built into the trail to help with erosion. These also go straight up. 

I also was wearing new shoes for the first time. I had lost my ostentatious bright blue solomons about a week prior after I absentmindedly left both mine and Bills smelly mildewed shoes on top of the car to sun dry out. Of course Bills guardian angel of lost and forgotten things allowed us to find his shoes but some lucky soul in Wanaka likely chanced upon my beaten and worn sneakers and scored. I actually am not terribly heartbroken as I'm quite sure these shoes are the reason my Achilles is suddenly causing me inordinate pain but I was planning to put up with the pain until we at least returned to the USA. I wasn't quite ready to part with them. 

After the stairs were the semblances of an attempt at switchbacks straight up through skree and boulder fields. Once on the plateau to the northwest of Sefton peak we could see the large glacier that carved the valley below it and had a front row seat to the magestic snow covered Mount Cook. From my vantage point I counted 13 waterfalls. The slate steep rock faces were coated like thick frosting in the whitest white of glacial snow. The kind of white that is blue.  The skyline on every side of this plateau was jagged sharp with knife edge ridges smeared with crumbling snow and ice. Every 15 minutes a slab of glacier breaks. You can't hear the break but a second later the boom like thunder of the avalanche echos through the canyon and everyone within earshot is swiveling their heads looking for the fall. A particularly fragile area of frequent slides had a large horizontal glacier with a narrow chute at the base of a steep cliff. As the glacier slipped it would crumble down the cliff face then funnel into the chute. At the base of the chute was a pile of snow that looked like the sand at the bottom of an hourglass or a pile of sugar slowly tipped out of a teaspoon.  Later that night the every 15 minute avalanche show would be an interesting albeit irritating assault on our sleep patterns. So was the hoar frost on our eyelashes but that's for later. 

 

Since we were in no rush, no rush at all we found the perfect tent site and the perfect kitchen rock and kitchen chairs with the best view in the whole neighborhood. We thanked our real estate agent profusely for the grand find! And then we basked in the sun and read books for close to 3 hours.  We had appetizer pumpkin soup and then creamy macaroni and cheese for entree. We endulged in 2 squares of chocolate each and watched the sun slowly slide behind the mountains to the west and illuminate Aoraki in a fine display of the peachy warm alpinglow that only alpine mountains can get. 

 

 

All night we wrestled with the never ending battle between the urge to breathe and the other urge to keep ones nose warm. At 15 minute intervals the avalanche team sent their snow flying in explosive thunderclaps reminding us to change positions and to be reminded again of the moon's powerful lamp that seemed to be shining directly onto our tent. The alarm went off at 5:30am and the moon had passed behind the mountains. Still absolutely dark black and the sky still covered in the most unimaginable display of cosmic Jackson pollock artwork. The stars here are even more dense and impressive than in the darkest parts of Southern Utah. There are round cloud like galaxies visible beneath the Milky Way that I've never seen in my life. Grand shooting stars that trace the length of the sky and bright green and pink and orange planetoids that I cannot identify. The southern cross illuminates the southern sky so obviously like a perfect diamond kite flying in the night. 

We turned on our headlamps and began the steep but short hike up to Mount Olivier. We arrived by 6:15 am just as the first light was glowing over the eastern horizon. Bill boiled water for coffee and we snuggled under his sleeping bag as we watched sapphire blue turn to green and purple and finally Navajo sandstone orange and pink. An Arizona sunrise. 

 

At 9am we arrived back to our tent. Still crunchy with frost and lackadaisically waited for the morning sun to reach us on the plateau and dry us off. We had breakfast and read for 2 more hours watching the light show change the color of the snow and listening to the avalanche circus in the background. 

The course of these last two days was so leisurely, so slowed with so very little to force into the day it's hard to share that feeling with the new one that greeted us as we arrived back at our parked car: that we have 2 weeks to sell our van in Christchurch and get back to Auckland for our flight.

So it's time to shift gears.  From a mindset of infinite possibilities without timetables to that of a sense of urgency and one with definite time tables and due dates. The perception of time is an interesting human habit, I finally got comfortable with the stressless, endless holiday feeling but it's back to reality. Any least for 2 weeks. Then we can go back to that serene timeless void as soon as we land in Sydney.