Like this:

SJ: The wind woke us up on the 8th floor at 2 a.m. Sunday. They’re not good at insulating windows here, but do provide ample bed covers. That didn’t much help the marathoners who began running below us before 7 a.m. We could see puffs of vapor from their mouths with every two or three steps. Good to be upstairs, even if a little drafty. As I researched that night’s stay, I remembered I’d prepaid for breakfast. At ten til ten, room service brought us eggs benedict (mine with salmon; hers with spinach), and we left a short while later on a sad note.

Felicia’s cold had worsened and mine wasn’t gone, so we canceled an overnight stay with friends of Kitty and Tad’s. We didn’t want to leave more of ourselves behind than necessary, so we opted instead to get in the car and drive. We’d planned a few all-day drives and Sunday’s was one. As soon as we pulled into ChCh suburbs, it rained. It hailed. It sleeted. It snowed. (F: Seriously.  I felt like I was back in Maryland.  It changed from one to the other within minutes.)

Sea level snow. (F: This kind of threw both of us for a loop.  I had never seen it snow at the ocean.  And we had been told repeatedly by locals that we shouldn’t expect it on our trip north because we’d be seaside. Go fig.)

Most of it didn’t stick, but it reduced our speed considerably. Once into the countryside, heading north, we came across an old cemetery. F caught her photo bug, too, so we stopped, umbrella in tow, for a few shots of grave markers in Cheviot that date back to the early 1900s. Farther along, in the Middle of Nowhere, we came across an old train station stop, erected in 1907. Now a cafe, we popped in for tea, flat white coffee (cafe au lait), and an orange/date muffin. A Scottish family had just emigrated and asked about Hercules, who was on the table with us.  They carry around a soft rabbit wherever they travel.

Everything we’ve eaten so far at these Middle of Nowhere (MoN) spots has been delicious. (F: No joke.  NZ’s countryside is peppered with French chefs.  You pull over and you get AMAZING food at the corner of No and Where.  Nothing else for miles around except these lonely little roadside cafes.  Gems, every one of them.) That must be the key in this country: find a place along a road, bring in someone who can bake/cook, and you’ll be fine. Hotel food, so far, has been mediocre at best. (My martini at the Copthorne in ChCh was 4 parts vermouth and a whiff of gin. I remedied this error by going to the room and filling a water glass with some of the Brokers Gin we’ve been carrying around, and remixing at the table. Take that.)

Our drive took us through rolling hills and, finally, to the sea. We stopped in Kaikoura for lunch (mussels are consistently good here) and to get cash from an ATM. We’ve been paying for gas in cash, and it’s about $80 NZ to fill up. By the way, in Te Anau, we pulled into a small gas station and, before I could get out, a woman was filling the tank. I thought she was a vandal. No one has filled my tank in… a long time. The other woman, manning the register, said, “In Te Anau, we’re a little behind the times.”

Alas, I’ve filled the tank everywhere else.

After Sunday’s lunch we drove a few Km to a seal rookery. Tide was out and the seals were 50 yards out on the rocks; flat, mostly, but treacherous given the very strong wind and rain/hail mix. We grabbed a few shots and headed north. (F: By very strong wind, he means gales.  We were physically pushed off the rocks by the wind.  I took the hint and headed immediately toward the car.  Steve lingered only a little longer.  The wind ended up shutting the car door for him.  Enough said.)

Mid-afternoon put us on a beautiful stretch of coastal highway, which reminded us of the 101 between Ventura and Santa Barbara, but lush. The road got tight, with a railroad track on one side, craggy bluff above it (not sure how the train always fit), and an angry, churning sea on our right. (F: Very angry ocean.  The horizon looked bumpy it was so angry.) The wind was so strong in places that the force of the water was greater than either of us had ever seen. At one point, we drove in toward a bay, along side the water, racing the 15-20 foot waves to shore. Spectacular.

It was dark well before the snow stopped falling – and sticking. Granted, mountain passes along the coast are only several hundred feet above sea level, but so few people were on the road that we still had to be very careful. Not many other tire tracks ahead of us in the snow. It’s dark by 5:30 this time of year and we arrived in Blenheim around 6. My eyes were weary from squinting through the headlighted snow, so we got a couple of quick dinner recommendations. Our first choice was a few miles out of town – and closed – but we stopped to admire the sky. The Milky Way. Orion. Taurus.

We got into Bacchus (!) and ordered a bottle of a local Marlborough Merlot (SpyValley ’06). Fruity, but it worked well with Felicia’s venison and my rack of lamb. But, oh, the chicken liver pate with a brown sugar crust and side of chutney before hand… wow. Wow.

Back to the Blenheim Spa Motor Lodge where Felicia found Princess Bride II on TV. Uh, the final few minutes, at least. Then long, cold dreams.

Now, Monday morning, we’re running a load of laundry – finally – which will carry us through to the end. Felicia drove to the store while I stayed behind to write. She brought back shallots, very meaty bacon, very yellow butter, six eggs, chives, fennel, and pears. Our room has a kitchenette and she’d packed a traveling kitchen (cutting board, little plates, sharp knife, sporks, collapsible cups). I’m finishing this with the smell of breakfast wafting through the room. Just like home.

Oh, a couple of interesting side notes: poached egg yolks here come out more orange than yellow, presumably a sign of what chickens eat; women’s professional basketball does not use a backboard – just a net on a pole – and a foul (or obstruction) allows the shooter to stand where she was fouled and take her shot unhindered.

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