Auckland
I was going to do a whole story arc thing here, with a chronological account of the rest of my journey from LAX to Fiji to Auckland to Christchurch. What this approach would have hopefully accomplished is some sense of the weird emotional swings that come part and parcel with long plane flights interrupted only by long layovers over the course of two and a half days. It would have catalogued those swings, which you have possibly had, and made them more real for you by reflecting them through my experience. All told, it would have pretty sweet.
Unfortunately, I can’t sit on how fucking gorgeous New Zealand is. We flew into Fiji at 6am local time, and quickly discovered everything about the area surrounding the airport was attractive, including me. Seriously, I took some pictures of myself in the airplane bathroom, and I was hot. I’ll try to find a way to load those up soon. Walking the short outdoor part of the jetway from the plane to the airport, Joel and I stopped to take obnoxious pictures of each other, commented on the perfect temperature, and were met with a friendly little jungle bird which landed near us on the railing, chirruped happily that we should be sure to check out the many carved wooden things in the Duty Free Store, and flew off. There were some praiseworthily un-miserable looking guys playing Fijian music on ukele-type things as we waited in line at customs, to the evident amusement of a little kid who stood and stared at them from a few feet, no more, away, song after song. Fiji didn’t, doesn’t prepare me/you for New Zealand, though. Or, to be completely accurate, the scenery surrounding the Nadi airport doesn’t prepare you for the scenery surrounding Auckland’s.
The guy I was sitting next to on the hop over didn’t speak English, so I will have to give you my best guess as to his biographical information. From the ornately etched Quran he read during the flight, I’m going to assume he was of the Muslim faith. I will go ahead and make the claim that he wasn’t a particularly devout Muslim, judging from the way he kept stopping while reading, elbowing me, and muttering “this shit is wack, yo.”
Allow me to take this opportunity to point out that on the two flights I shared with Joel, he won the seat companion war both times. On the Fiji-Auckland leg he had either an empty seat or a boring person next to him, I forget. Either case trumps the openly hostile old man I got saddled with. On the LAX-Fiji leg, which was at least half empty, possibly more, he sat on an aisle with an empty seat separating him from some vaguely supermodelish girl who was apparently impressed by the idea of travel writing in New Zealand – me too - while I sat next to a belligerent Russian gentleman from Staten Island and his huge, plastic-surgery bescarred wife/lover. Undaunted by their less than complete grasp of the English language, they spread their message of excitement along with a not explicit but crystal clear sub-message concerning lack of fitness to be alive to me, to the flight attendants, to the bulkheads, etc. She, the Russian woman, had these lips, these horrible collagen filled monsters. I hate Joel.
So the hostile old man started babbling something in Foreign – he’s from Canada, actually, so he may just have been deaf – and pointing out the window about three hours in. Needless to say, I slapped him. When the thunder of my massive guns failed to effectively silence him, I followed his finger with my eyes. He was pointing at land, only just visible under the clouds.
Imagine your mom. Imagine your mom naked. Now you know how I felt when I had sex with your mom. Punk’d!
Okay, let’s try that again. Imagine a postcard of New Zealand. You’ve seen one, I’m sure. The improbable coloration of the sky against the clouds, the snow covered peaks, the suspiciously well-groomed topiary which suggests the people of New Zealand may have too much time on their hands. The sheep. Okay, imagine that. Now imagine those photos weren’t doctored, weren’t taken on a particularly good day, weren’t actually pictures of the special after-death place reserved for saints, movie stars, and bunny rabbits. And that you were flying in to spend two and a half months running around like a monkey with his ass on fire in and around it. Also you haven’t slept in a while, that’s probably also a good thing to keep in mind.
In last year’s RW survey Tom Miller describes what he calls “scenery fatigue,” the let-down sensation one starts to get after the ninth or tenth truly spectacular view of a copybatch. Here’s hoping Tom Miller is full of shit.
Unfortunately, I can’t sit on how fucking gorgeous New Zealand is. We flew into Fiji at 6am local time, and quickly discovered everything about the area surrounding the airport was attractive, including me. Seriously, I took some pictures of myself in the airplane bathroom, and I was hot. I’ll try to find a way to load those up soon. Walking the short outdoor part of the jetway from the plane to the airport, Joel and I stopped to take obnoxious pictures of each other, commented on the perfect temperature, and were met with a friendly little jungle bird which landed near us on the railing, chirruped happily that we should be sure to check out the many carved wooden things in the Duty Free Store, and flew off. There were some praiseworthily un-miserable looking guys playing Fijian music on ukele-type things as we waited in line at customs, to the evident amusement of a little kid who stood and stared at them from a few feet, no more, away, song after song. Fiji didn’t, doesn’t prepare me/you for New Zealand, though. Or, to be completely accurate, the scenery surrounding the Nadi airport doesn’t prepare you for the scenery surrounding Auckland’s.
The guy I was sitting next to on the hop over didn’t speak English, so I will have to give you my best guess as to his biographical information. From the ornately etched Quran he read during the flight, I’m going to assume he was of the Muslim faith. I will go ahead and make the claim that he wasn’t a particularly devout Muslim, judging from the way he kept stopping while reading, elbowing me, and muttering “this shit is wack, yo.”
Allow me to take this opportunity to point out that on the two flights I shared with Joel, he won the seat companion war both times. On the Fiji-Auckland leg he had either an empty seat or a boring person next to him, I forget. Either case trumps the openly hostile old man I got saddled with. On the LAX-Fiji leg, which was at least half empty, possibly more, he sat on an aisle with an empty seat separating him from some vaguely supermodelish girl who was apparently impressed by the idea of travel writing in New Zealand – me too - while I sat next to a belligerent Russian gentleman from Staten Island and his huge, plastic-surgery bescarred wife/lover. Undaunted by their less than complete grasp of the English language, they spread their message of excitement along with a not explicit but crystal clear sub-message concerning lack of fitness to be alive to me, to the flight attendants, to the bulkheads, etc. She, the Russian woman, had these lips, these horrible collagen filled monsters. I hate Joel.
So the hostile old man started babbling something in Foreign – he’s from Canada, actually, so he may just have been deaf – and pointing out the window about three hours in. Needless to say, I slapped him. When the thunder of my massive guns failed to effectively silence him, I followed his finger with my eyes. He was pointing at land, only just visible under the clouds.
Imagine your mom. Imagine your mom naked. Now you know how I felt when I had sex with your mom. Punk’d!
Okay, let’s try that again. Imagine a postcard of New Zealand. You’ve seen one, I’m sure. The improbable coloration of the sky against the clouds, the snow covered peaks, the suspiciously well-groomed topiary which suggests the people of New Zealand may have too much time on their hands. The sheep. Okay, imagine that. Now imagine those photos weren’t doctored, weren’t taken on a particularly good day, weren’t actually pictures of the special after-death place reserved for saints, movie stars, and bunny rabbits. And that you were flying in to spend two and a half months running around like a monkey with his ass on fire in and around it. Also you haven’t slept in a while, that’s probably also a good thing to keep in mind.
In last year’s RW survey Tom Miller describes what he calls “scenery fatigue,” the let-down sensation one starts to get after the ninth or tenth truly spectacular view of a copybatch. Here’s hoping Tom Miller is full of shit.
posted by Jeremy at 1:17 PM
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