Squirrels!

I've just seen a squirrel, and I'm quite excited. More excited than yesterday's bald eagle sighting, although (a.) They're kind of legendary, and squirrels are not; and (b.) seeing a bald eagle means all I need now is a bearded vulture and I have the complete set of beardy/baldy birds.

We've been in North Vancouver for a few days now, and have spent most of our time walking in forests, which has been really nice, especially after the horribleness that was LA airport. You'd think that such a major transport hub would have a decent airport, with at least vaguely-intelligent processes and physical design elements... but you'd be wrong. Massive queues in a grim environment; overloaded baggage carousels* alleviated by porters removing some bags and stacking them in the middle of the skinny aisles through which every passenger has to pass with their trolleys full of bags (once they FIND their bags!)... basically, don't go there.

Janine's just back from this morning's forest excursion - I begged off in order to continue bike/netbook purchase research (and wrote this instead). Apparently they not only SAW a squirrel, but chased it. I feel ripped off.

* = spelled variously Carousels and Caroussels, just to exacerbate the nastiness

Farewell, Tiny Cat

Hopefully when we come visit you'll not disappear off somewhere exploring, as you did when we were seeking you to say our goodbyes

Weddings and Farewells on the West Island

Similarities between our wedding and that of Mister Doctor Brett and Mrs Mister Doctor Brett:
- The bride was beautiful
- The groom didn't fuck it up too badly
- Everyone had a grand olde time

Weekend down the Mornington Peninsula was marvellous, although too short. Good people, good times. Saturday night saw the carnage reach its peak - apparently good advice was traded, and I remember demanding that everyone present teach me a dance move before the night was through. Unfortunately, the only one I can remember was taught to me by the Mister Doctor himself, and is called, as far as I can recall, "Dancin' Like a Monkey." Minimal imaginative prowess required to envisage that one.

And just like that, we're doing the airport - Southern Cross - Hawthorn journey in reverse, onto the plane, and heading for NZ airspace, although not without a scary near-miss when dropping car off. I'd dropped the baggage and the luggage on the street corner near the station, and was heading for Mortlockville. In the first instance of Asian-driver-stereotype-confirming behavior I'd seen since hopping the ditch, a young chap turned right out of a driveway on the right-hand side of the road, and was on course for a direct hit of significance on my borrowed car. Not sure how I managed to think fast enough, but managed to compute the chances of surviving unscathed were essentially:
- carry on = his car hits my car squarely on the driver's side
- brake = his car hits my car's front fender
- accelerate = worth a try...
The only bad point about having scooted past was that I suspect he would have got the impression that I'd been speeding from the outset, which wasn't the case. Still, rather a bloke with wrong impressions of my driving habits than a massive car accident leading to airport lateness and attendant complications.

Carrying on the tradition of being on planes with interesting people, seated directly behind us was an aged Asian woman with an Australian accent who seemed determined to make the extent of her ignorance known to as many people as possible. She was incredibly irritating. Bring on the headphones and Ice Age 3: Dawn of the Dinosaurs!

Staggy Goodness

Original plans were for carnage, with Abu Ghraib references on the invites and accompanying text implying, if not extreme, then at least significant physical, psychological, and emotional trauma for Doctor Mister Groom. Given that the wedding was the next day, however, reason and the righteous wrath of soon-to-be Mrs Doctor Mister were invoked, and eventually prevailed, and plan of attack became less attack-oriented; net cricket with beer, followed by beer and eating.

Having left Waiheke with no clothing appropriate for attending a wedding, Janine and I spent the morning trawling op shops for something to wear. I ended up with suit, shirt, shoes, and cufflinks for AUD$32, which was pleasing. Ran out of time to source trench coat, ragged old pants, and floppy hat though, which was a shame as I'd half-planned to arrive at the cricket early, disguised as a tramp, and spend some time heckling before joining in the game. Was hoping to pull off the tramp effect convincingly enough to get a couple of deliveries in before unmasking, but I suspect that might have been slightly optimistic. Moot point, really, as I didn't actually try.

Cricket was fun. Didn't manage to neuter Doctor Mister, although not for want of trying. Did manage to collect him in the thigh, though - right where the thigh-pad he'd chosen not to wear would have been, just to add insult to the injury.

The rest of the evening came down to something like: tram fun, beer, beer and food, tram fun, long walk (with unsuccessful hitch-hiking), pickup, snoring. I call that a successful evening. Not sure Janine agrees.

Melbourne is go!

Melbourne. City of interesting architecture, arts, culture, bars, and Australian Rules football. And us, for a week.

My carefully-selected customs-appeasing clothing appeared to do the trick, as NZ security passed me through unmolested, despite the scruffy beard. Janine was subjected to a metal-detector paddle search, but I think that's because she's hot and the customs chick wanted a closer look. Similar scene at Melbourne, although no search for Janine (she'd scooted through ahead of me using her fancypants new electronic passport - which, by the way, is actually very very cool. Not so much the electronic scan element, which is an unsurprising and somewhat overdue development, but the excellence of the graphic design; each page hosts a different, beautifully-executed picture which when viewed in sequence describe natural- and human-history development and features of Aotearoa. I like it.)

Timed our departure gate arrival perfectly and were on the plane early. Janine had the window seat, as usual, despite her refusal to look out the window ever. Next to me on the other side was Vengchallaram Vengchallaram - "Same name, first last" - a Fiji Indian travelling to Melbourne on a Canadian passport to visit people he didn't know. He spent the majority of the flight staring at a screen full of code, as he'd played with the remote while the crew were rebooting the entertainment system, and got me to fill in his Australian arrival card for him (he did the signing himself, in case any Australian immigration officials are reading)... Fairly typical trans-Tasman flight (X-Men Origins: Wolverine is a bad movie, don't watch it), and only one bathroom trip for nuisance wife. With her as window-seat occupant this necessitated much shuffling of foodtray detritus and moving both of us and Vengchallaram Vengchallaram. The bathroom trip took a while, as she'd timed it perfectly in sync with the bladders of at least half the planeload, and she was surprised on her return to find that I'd not ensconced myself in the window seat during her absence. The rationale behind my inertia became much clearer when she moved the small cushion off her seat preparatory for alighting upon it and saw the puddle where I'd knocked over the not-as-empty-as-I-thought water cup. Marital harmony ensued.

Highlight of Melbourne airport was a wee chap called Michael.
We'd first become aware of Michael's existence not long into the flight, when Michael's mom began what turned out to be a lengthy and both generally and ultimately fruitless series of exhortations in favor of behaviour modification. The headphones blocked her out for the majority of the time, but whenever they were removed for crew interactions, inter-film conversation, the bathroom trip, etc, the train of instructions, pleadings, comments, and diversionary tactics was still in full flow. We didn't sight them until partway through the flight, when Michael made his first foray forward down the aisle, with relatively hot Mom in hot pursuit. This performance was repeated several times, although Mom eventually tired of the chase and delegated pursuit duties to early-teen daughter.
So far so banal - there's only so far a three-year-old can go on a plane.
Immigration hall at Melbourne airport, though, was much more amusing. It turns out that three-year-olds are just the right height to run under those spring-loaded retractable queue-management ropes, whilst early-teen girls are not. Michael had his head down and his little arms and legs pumping as he scrammed to the far side of the relatively-cavernous hall. Early-teen daughter - by now we'd learned her name, courtesy of Mom's increasingly irate and not entirely reasonable cries of "For goodness' sake, catch him, Selena!" - had her pursuit rendered almost completely ineffective by the fact that she had to stop every two steps to duck under a rope. Mom's agitation and volume levels were increasing as she - with perfectly-behaved middle daughter in tow - moved closer and closer to the head of the queue. Everyone else in the place, including Passport control, Immigration, and Customs officers, and other passengers were chortling. Even the Airport Security guy's beagle looked like it was enjoying the show. Eventually a Customs woman scooped Michael up as he ran past (for the second time - she watched and laughed the first time he passed her) and held him until Selena, bright red and out of breath, arrived. Took a wee while for Michael's brain to work out and/or pass on to his body that he'd been captured, as his little legs kept pumping in mid-air like a cartoon character who'd not yet realised they'd run off the edge of a cliff.

Eventually, I made it through passport control and rejoined Janine. We made our way in a relatively leisurely fashion to the baggage carousel... which is where we saw Michael again, on the carousel, kicking someone's bag repeatedly. Selena removed him to the safety of the floor, and was promptly scolded by Mom for interfering with his activities. Bemusing.

Skybus to city, train to Hawthorn, feet to Mortlock residence. Spare key located, we entered the house to the chirrupping of what we thought was a security system, but turned out to be a pair of birds. They were enthused by our arrival, but not nearly as excited as the dog, who found Janine's voice and pats so enjoyable that she created a small puddle of wee on the floor. Janine wanted to play Rock/Paper/Scissors for clean-up duty, but I know that she knows that I always choose Rock, so I refused to partake, ostensibly on the grounds that she was the one who'd over-excited the dog, and that the puddle was therefore hers to address. Janine and Honey played fetch while I located the car key, then we said farewell to dog and birds and set off into the wilderness that is inner-suburban Melbourne.

Such an easy city to get around in! Only once during the entire week were we sat at the same set of lights through more than one cycle, and that was a right turn off a major thoroughfare during rush hour. Apparently the bridges over the river become serious choke points during peak traffic flow times, but even there we had no issues. Someone from Auckland Transport should go have a look, with an extra eye peeled for the cycle-friendly elements, which far outweigh those of Auckland. Trams are very cool, and very useful, although fare machines which accept notes would be handy. More than anything else, though, it was the attitude of the drivers which I found most different from NZ. People let people in! No-one was angry! I was mildly concerned that I'd be called upon to execute a hook turn, but even those began to seem like a blimmin good traffic management idea once I'd had the chance to watch a few in progress.

Would NZ drivers cope? I have my doubts.

Property Maintenance Carnage

Carnage at Trig Hill

It's entirely possible that I've never worked that hard before in my life.

Tree-felling/trimming/sectioning for firewood, furniture arranging (in accordance with as-yet-undisclosed master-plan), splitting of old trunk wood for woodburner, lawn-mowing and -edging, ditch-digging, drainlaying, gravel-hauling, weed-eating... before long my hands had swollen to the point that the ring finger looked like I'd married weighing 75kg and had eaten my way to a "Before" shot in a stomach-stapling doctor's catalogue without removing the ring. Topped the effort off by digging-out the evil spiky plant which once endangered the wellbeing of all who ventured too close to the Western end of the clothesline (have since seen neighbours execute removal of same plant from their place, but they used a digger and a dumptruck. I'd call them pussies if using diggers and dumptrucks for anything wasn't so inherently cool).

Swimming at the end of each day was wonderful (as was the one or two beers I managed each evening before falling asleep early) despite the agony of cuts/scratches/scrapes in salt. The water at Onetangi was (and still is) incredibly clear, and there were a couple of days with enough swell that folks with longboards were catching some good rides. At the end of our ten days on-Island I was exhausted, and in awe of how much we'd managed to get done.


Helpful in Mt Eden
If someone had sat down and designed a programme of reconditioning specifically to make us feel better about the amount of (all very useful and necessary) stuff we accumulated during our year at Karaka Bay, they'd not've come up with anything more effective than having us lend a hand to the Rustles in their packing endeavors.

The facts (as I choose to remember them):
- 27 years occupancy
- 4 people (1 relative non-hoarder)
- Largish house, with many:
- nooks
- crannies
- shelves
- niches
- cupboards
- etc
- Large shed, with smaller sub-sheds

The mandate:
- dispose of indisputable, unrecoverable crap
- put all small stuff/books/etc into boxes
- put all stuff into shed

In the three days we were there we hardly dented the job, but I had many opportunities to prominently display found photographic treasures on high ledges where short people couldn't reach them to take them down and re-hide them.


Next stop, Melbourne...

Slacker!

One month in and I've already fallen off the pace. Is bound to be wife's fault, despite not having given her address or credentials to post blog entries.

Looks like my whirlwind-reaping title may have been somewhat premature, as the activity levels didn't decrease markedly post-nuptials. Flying visit to Mount house full of Goldsacks was peaceful compared to what awaited us back in the big (ugly, poorly-designed, architecturally-bereft) city...


We moved out of Karaka Bay
This was tough, on a number of levels:
- Karaka Bay is a mighty cool place, and an even cooler place to live (the picture is the view from our house);
- There are many cool people who live at or are associated with Karaka Bay, who we will miss;
- It's at the bottom of a cliff-face footpath, and we're both stuff-accumulators.

We rented the place furnished, so we didn't have couches and etc to lug up the cliff, but I lost count of the number of wheelbarrow-loads of (all very useful and necessary) stuff I hauled up the path while wife packed more stuff and cleaned. In the end we had to (temporarily) abandon some stuff downstairs in the boatshed because a) the car was full to the point of bursting and b) we were going to miss the Waiheke car ferry. The sum of these factors was a hair-raising blast through Glendowie/Pt England/Glen Innes and then Pakuranga/Farm Cove/Half Moon Bay in a car so over-full that it was handling like my old Morris Minor van the night I loaded 14 people into it, but with added traffic, and a mightily unimpressed tiny cat. We made it though, which probably defied at least one law of physics, and certainly defied several laws of New Zealand.

We were not long safely-ensconced aboard ship when huge clouds of smoke started billowing from the starboard engine. This had me calculating which items I could safely leave in the car in the event that we had to repeat the whole exercise in reverse. Given that some scoundrel stole the roofracks off our car a couple of months back, I was torn between "I'm not carrying anybloodything back down that path" and "I really like that [painting/item of sporting equipment/Meat Club t-shirt] and I'll be damned if I'm going to leave it in the car overnight for some rapscallion to heist." Luckily it turned out to be a plume of steam born of water hitting a hot engine component, and we made it to the island without further issue. Getting the car off the boat was a fraught exercise, given the failure of the car's suspension to cope well with the demands being placed on it, but the grinding noise made by the towbar gouging a rent in the boat's loading ramp was almost drowned out (for us, at any rate) by the awake-and-unimpressed tiny cat and his maelstrom of complainy noises.

Our first on-island conversation went something like:
"Ummm... do you have a key to the house?"
"Me? No, I thought you did"
Marital harmony ensued.

Eventually, Hampton was prevailed upon to bring spare key round (bribed with promises of wife's cooking, if I remember aright), and process of unloading car while disallowing tiny cat escape artistry commenced. We finally finished unloading late the next day, which meant it was time to turn attention to rendering the place fit for the retiring librarian...