Freezing in New Zealand

We've been in New Zealand for almost two weeks now. So far, our trip seems to have had three themes: high prices, especially for food; lack of Internet access (thus the slow updates on this blog); and cold.

New Zealand, as you may have noticed, is in the Southern Hemisphere. That means that we flew from July heat into the deepest part of winter. During a cold snap. To a city that has been described as “like England in the 1950's.” How does that translate? Try this: primitive heating technology, outrageous energy costs, in a country famous for its wool production.

It's not that the Kiwis don't believe in heat. It's just that they think ice is pretty cozy stuff. You can see them on the roads, riding bicycles in the rain when it's 33 degrees Fahrenheit. You see them in their homes, wearing wool hats and coats. You see them in the town square, soaking up the one square inch of feeble sunshine that shines through the window between noon and 1 PM.

On our first night in a two-room motel suite, the dinky little electric heater would come on for 30 seconds and blow enough lukewarm air to maybe keep a small closet warm, then shut off for two or three minutes. When we woke up in the morning, it was 57 degrees. Really. We debated taking the drinks out of the fridge so that they would be colder. When we tried to take a shower, we had to kick out the cute little penguins who were ice-skating there.

After a few days, we left the motel and moved to our cousin's gorgeous retirement home overlooking a bay. This house has been completely remodeled and upgraded, with all the latest stuff. Sure enough, it has heaters that actually work. Only if you turn one on, you are spending approximately $30/minute, so we left them off and enjoyed the view. Of the fog. When night fell, we huddled under blankets and ate dinner in front of the TV. We didn't actually watch anything, though, since turning the thing on would have used up another $100.

When I got to my new job, I was pleased to discover that I had an office that was heated to a nice comfortable level—if you're wearing three layers of wool. And it had no computer. Or phone. Or even a chair. But hey, there were pens and a pad to doodle on while I waited for those things to show up. I drew a picture of a palm tree on a nice desert island. When I came back later, the leaves had fallen off the palm and it was wearing a wool sweater of its own.

Despite all the cold, it's nice here in New Zealand. The people are friendly, the buses run on time, and the food has been delicious. Everybody says this is an unusually cold winter, and spring is coming. So really, even if it sounds like I'm complaining, I'm not.

I just wish somebody would show me where the thermostat for the outdoors is.

Luggage Fees

Anybody who has ever taken “unusual” luggage on an airplane knows the terror involved in arriving at the checkin counter. Airlines are always looking for ways to make flying more difficult; they figure that if they can scare all the passengers into staying home, they won't have to pay the pilots and they'll make more money. But if you do fly, you can count on it that the rules for everything will be arbitrary, changed at the whim of the guy sweeping the lobby floor, and (above all) expensive.

So when I decided to take my bicycle to New Zealand, my wife immediately started treating me like I needed a session with a psychiatrist. (Which is odd, because I'm hardly rational under the best of circumstances. But she normally ignores that particular foible.) After a Web search, I discovered the Air Caddy, a remarkable bit of cardboard that I'm pleased to recommend highly. (I also recommend buying the optional wheels; I didn't and regret it.) My only complaint is that it didn't arrive with an expert to put it together; I spent about 95 hours on the project before I finally figured out that tab B actually should go in slot B (who would have thought?).

When the Big Day arrived, we stuffed our twelve bags and the bike box (sideways, which didn't bother it at all) into a shuttle and headed to the airport. When we started unloading, the people behind the V Australia checkin counter started pointing and laughing at the pile we were making—until we headed their way, at which point they ran for the back room rather than have to deal with our pile of stuff. All except one nice lady who took one look at the bike and asked, “Where did you get that box?”

Oh, great. It's not an airline-approved box. Of course not. The airline ones are made of cereal cartons pasted together with Post-It notes, require you to disassemble the bike down to the ball bearings, and offer the baggage handlers seventeen different ways to bend your carbon-fiber frame, smash your aerodynamic wheels, and ruin your expensive derailleur. In fact, they come with how-to-crush instructions printed on the side.

So when she questioned my box, my heart sank. Would she refuse to let it go on the plane? Would she charge me more than the value of my bike? Would she leap over the counter and beat me to death with it? One thing was certain: life was going to be very, very bad.

But no. It turned out that she has a bike of her own and thought my box looked robust. I told her (truthfully) that it had been tested with a 3000-pound load, which impressed her even more than my biceps. Both of 'em. She smiled, went out of her way to charge me less than she could have, and made everything good. She was even cheerful about the other twelve bags, each of which was packed to exactly the legal limit. (My understanding is that if you have an overweight bag, they charge you a substantial fee and then push your stuff out the door when you are somewhere over the Pacific.)

We carefully didn't mention our pockets, which were also packed with heavy things. These days, it takes planning to outsmart an airline.

Missing Cat

Our cat disappeared on Friday.

Before I go further, I should tell you that the ending is happy. But it made me think a bit. (I can hear all you smart-alecks right now: “Think? A professor? When did this start?” Just shut up, all right? I'll have you know that I think on a daily basis. In fact, I think I'll have a beer right now, just to prove how thoughtful I am. So there.)

The interesting thing about our two cats is that they're not all that interesting. In many ways, they're more like gerbils. They hardly purr, they hardly cuddle, they hardly do anything except poop and sleep. And they're afraid of almost everything—especially monsters, which come in many forms: loud noises, strange cats, strange humans, vacuum cleaners (of course), and wealthy politicians. (OK, I made that last one up. I'm the one who's scared of politicians. But the cats ought to be scared of them.)

Nevertheless, we love our cats; we found that out Friday. The gray one has been sick, and we needed to take her to the vet for a shot. But we were also on the last day before we headed to New Zealand. (I sometimes think that pets plan these things. “Oh, they're going on a trip, huh? And they can barely afford it? Perfect! I'll eat some grass, barf on the rug, and then keel over barely breathing so they'll have to rush me to the vet and spend $750 to find out I'm actually healthy. Then they won't have the money to buy the tickets for Wizarding World. Heh, heh. Serves 'em right.”)

Anyway, we had scheduled the day carefully. Carpet cleaners at ten, house cleaners after that, vet at 2:30. We would (try to) put the cat in the carrier at 2:00, to be sure that we had enough time to catch her.

Only the house cleaners showed up at 1:55 and promptly plugged the vacuum in. So both cats dashed outside. Then the gardeners arrived with their leaf blower. It was the perfect storm of monsters.

Now anybody who has ever been owned by a cat knows that Harry Potter's invisibility cloak has nothing on cats. When a feline wants to hide, it will vanish into thin air. You can look in all the favorite spots, you can call it, you can put food out, you can even pretend not to care. It doesn't matter. The Air Force really screwed up when they spent a billion dollars on the B-1 stealth bomber. If they had simply put a cat in the pilot seat of a Cessna, all the enemy fighters in the world wouldn't have been able to find it.

2:10. No cat. 2:15. Still no cat. 2:20. We call the vet, who generously tells us they close at 6, just bring her over when you find her. 3:00. No cat.

At this point I should mention that this particular cat is not what you'd call smart. In fact, calling her stupid would be a compliment. She normally wanders around the house, trying to remember where the food is. If she encounters a half-open door, instead of pulling it open with her paw like a normal cat, she stands up against it, dog-fashion, latching it irreversibly shut. Stupid? She's so dumb she could be a politician. Well, almost.

So I'm really ticked that she has outsmarted me.

3:30. No cat. 4:00. We go over to the neighbors for a farewell drink. Surely the cat will get over her fear and return while we're gone, right? Riiiiiiight.

I'll spare you the blow-by-blow. At 5:30, I phoned the vet and rescheduled for Saturday (praise be to all vets who are open on weekends!). At 10:00, I called the cats for dinner. The gray one is a pig; she is always right there at the first hint of food. Not this time.

That's when I realized how illogical we can be about our pets. We were due to leave—for a year—in less than 24 hours, and our cat—our non-cuddling, non-purring, disastrously stupid cat—was missing. What to do? Obviously, one of us would have to stay behind until she was found. How much would it cost to change the ticket? $2000? $3000? How much hassle would it be to live in our now-empty house, waiting for the cat to come back? How long would we wait before we gave up and admitted that she would never return? How come I couldn't hear the snickering just outside my door, as the danged cat relished my agony and punished me for having hired the monsters in the first place?

But finally, just after midnight, I looked up and there she was, busily munching on the food I had left out. “Who, me? Is there something wrong?”

No, my darling cat. Nothing at all. I'm just relieved that I'm not going to fly to New Zealand full of guilt for letting my cat die.

And I'm going to ask the vet to use the biggest needle he has.

Packing

One of the better aspects of an academic job is that every seven years you take a sabbatical to step back from the rat race, rejuvenate, and think up new ideas. Or, as is more common in reality, to finally catch up on some of the sleep you've missed over the previous decade.

Some professors take their sabbaticals at home, where they have the advantage of knowing which store has the best beer prices. But there's always the risk that some clueless jerk (i.e., your boss), will call you up with a question and interrupt your nap. So I much prefer to go far, far away. The moon would be a cool choice, but tickets are still a bit pricey so instead we picked New Zealand, which is much like the moon except that it's wetter and greener, has more oxygen, and is filled with millions of friendly sheep who will give you the wool off their backs if you're cold. Which is good, because in July, cold is New Zealand's middle name.

Everybody who hears we're moving to New Zealand has the same one-word reaction: “Wow!” Somehow, the country has gained a reputation as the most gorgeous place on the planet. Never mind that it's closer to Antarctica than Seattle is to Chicago. Never mind that some parts get OVER 21 FEET OF RAIN EVERY YEAR. Never mind that the Maoris named it “The Land of the Long White Cloud.” (Actually, that's the shortened version; the true name is “The Land of the Long White Cloud that Always Makes it Cold and Rainy But My Brother-in-Law's Neighbor's Cousin Claims She Saw the Sun Once When She Was a Girl.”) Ever since The Lord of the Rings came out, everybody is in love with New Zealand. So they're hugely envious of our upcoming trip. (Little do they know that LOTR was shot mostly in a studio in Burbank, using a backdrop based on a photograph taken on March 3rd, 1953, which was the only entirely sunny day New Zealand has had since World War II.)

Well, here's the truth about moving to another country for a year: getting there is absolute hell. There are a million things to take care of: renting the house out, buying airline tickets, packing your stuff, researching airline luggage charges, painting over the hole your kid's head made in the wall, discovering that the airline considers a jacket to be a piece of luggage (really), arguing with your wife about whether to sell your Manny Ramirez bobblehead doll that you never displayed because you're angry at Manny over the steroids thing, figuring out who's going to take care of the cats, paying an extra $300 per person for a plane seat that's not inside the toilet, getting visas, finding a place to live…the list only seems endless because it is endless.

But probably the most (not!) fun comes when it's time to pack your bags. The airline will check two 35-pound suitcases per person. So everything you need to live for a year has to be reduced to 70 pounds. And that's where our daughter comes in.

You see, our daughter has three great passions: horses, books, and rocks. So naturally she has her own idea of a good packing list. She is currently making piles of things to take with her. She has six sets of riding boots, four helmets, and several pairs of special pants. Meanwhile, for personal items, she has one pair of pajamas, one pair of jeans, two shirts, and a toothbrush. I tried to suggest that she might want to bring a dress for special occasions, and got the eye roll that only a twelve-year-old can give. But she understands that the book list has to be limited, so she has pared it down to just 1200 essential volumes, from Good Night Moon to Richard Feynman's 3-volume Lectures on Physics. After I assured her that New Zealand has discovered the concept of the library, she promised to put aside another 400 before we leave.

The rock collection is another matter. Every time we go on vacation, she finds a pretty rock to bring home. In fact, she does that every time we go to the park, the store, or even the local landfill. She collects rocks from everywhere, fully convinced that they are the most wonderful and valuable thing since the Hope Diamond. And she will not under any circumstances agree that the rocks could be left safely behind for a year. “What if burglars break in? Huh, Dad? What then? I'd lose them all!” This last word is uttered in that rising tone that kids reserve for the most dire situations in life (the ones that arise on a daily, if not hourly, basis).

I point out that New Zealand probably has rocks of its own. I point out that one of the airlines charges $5.75/pound (really) for excess baggage. I point out that the mythical burglars are probably interested in something more portable and valuable than rocks gathered from the street. This last comment is a huge mistake; the girl immediately bursts into tears at my insult to her years of careful sifting through beaches and gravel pits. In the end, I agree that she can bring “a few” along.

So we'll arrive at the airport with our six suitcases and six carry-ons, each packed to the brim, and one of them is going to be way overweight. I lost that part of the battle. But my daughter will be happy. And the Manny Ramirez bobblehead will be tucked away safely, protected on all sides by nice, strong rocks.