* * Day 2, Onemana

It’s day two. Jane and I have just polished off most of a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, and the world is beautiful, but silly.

We’re staying at a guest apartment of our prior hosts Janis and Dave Hannah, who were wonderful to us. We’re in a tiny village called Onemata. It’s on the east coast. Waves crash in to the shore on the beach, confined by cliffs. Surfers try their luck on the waves.

Things are expensive. We had lunch for three at a deli, it was $42.

Whitney just took a cold shower and then we figured out how to turn on the hot water. She’s punchy, too, and she hasn’t been drinking anything.

Dinnertime. We’re eating food we bought at a grocery store and cooked ourselves. Whitney told a story about eating peanut butter back home that was, unbeknownst to her, the treat for her boyfriend’s dog, eating out of the jar.

About the salad dressing, Jane suggested it smelled like dog poop.

About the chicken we had for dinner, Whitney said, the proportions of the meat between dark and white, was inexplicably wrong. “This is a fucked up bird.”

There’s a Norfolk Pine tree across the street, perhaps 60 feet tall, upon which people have strung wrapped boxes that look like Christmas presents. Stores have Christmas displays painted on their windows, with accents of snow. It doesn’t snow here, particularly in the summer. It’s 70 degrees outside. 

We went to a place called Hot Water Beach. Apparently, during low tides, visitors can dig into the sand and the water that bubbles up is hot, like sitting in a spa. The tide was high. We went to another place called Cathedral Rock. The parking lot was too full to park the car.

More wine, please.

People here drive on the left. The car is backwards; the steering wheel (and thus the driver) are on the right. It has messed with my head. The turn signal is on the right wand and the wiper wand is on the left. I consistently, inadvertently turn on the wipers when I want the turn signals. Jane laughs from the back seat. There are lots of curvy roads. I love curvy roads. Whitney gets nauseous. We laugh. I am seemingly unable to park the car square between the markers.

There are lots of place names that start with “Wh” and then have seven or eight syllables. Yesterday we were in Whangaparoa. Tomorrow we’ll pass through Whangamata on our way to Whakatane*. These names are unpronounceable to anyone not from here. Oh, you think you’re pronouncing it correctly, but you’re wrong. Give up.

Dinner is over. Whitney is trying to scour the baking pan. The chicken we cooked on it has welded its skin material into the metal. We will need to sandblast it if it is to ever be clean again.

The radio station we’re listening to is playing old American hits from the 1960s. We laugh some more.

Tomorrow we’ll try to rendezvous with Whitney’s roommate, Kelly, who has spent the past semester in New Zealand. In Whakatane, we hope to have Internet service.

* Note: The proper pronounciation for "Whakatane" is fuck-ah-taw-nee. I'm serious.