Australia

If you're one of my myriad two followers, you may have noticed that I haven't posted in a while. That's because, since we were already in New Zealand, we took an extra trip to Australia. This is pretty much the same as deciding that since you're in San Francisco, you might as well visit Denver because it's nearby. But logic never reigned supreme in our family…

Did you know that Australia has 20 of the 25 most venomous snake species in the world, including all of the top ten? Or that they also have nastily poisonous spiders? And even poisonous shells? That's right, if you go beachcombing you're risking a hospital stay. Oh, and just in case you avoid those, there are immense crocodiles and the ever-popular Great White shark. It's no wonder Australia has a small population; every time somebody goes to the beach they wind up dead. I imagine it gets kind of boring after the third or fourth time you die.

Our solution was simple: since Australia is famed for its bush country, we stuck to the cities. After filling out a 12-page quiz at the airport (sample question: “Are you carrying anything we might put you in jail for? Please tell us so we can save time and put you in jail straightaway”) we headed into Sydney. The Australians had provided us with a helpful checklist of sights (I think they review it when you leave, and if you haven't petted a kangaroo and visited the Sydney Opera House they make you go back and try again). So we went straight to a performance at the Opera House. (I hadn't known that Shakespeare wrote operas, but apparently Much Ado About Nothing qualifies because that's what we saw.)

After that, we took in a bunch of uniquely Aussie destinations, such as a Sikh temple (with fiberglass domes, just like in Disneyland), a rainforest (filled with bird sounds, just like in Disneyland), and several zoos (all of which had elephants, just like in…dang it!). Whenever we got close to something that seemed like real nature, I locked all the car doors in terror and drove away as fast as I could.

But it still seemed important to see some of those unusual animals, like the platypus. It turns out that the ol' duck-bill is pretty elusive, but by using my unerring backcountry instincts I managed to track one down in a nearby zoo. I was about to reach out and tickle the cute thing when I noticed the sign above the pond.

Yep, that's right. Even the blasted platypus is poisonous! I headed straight for the airport. We were three days early for our flight, but at least we were safe.

In a few years maybe we'll try the Amazon. I plan to wear chain mail.

Earthquake Aftermath

I mentioned in my last post that the February 22nd earthquake had driven us from our home. The full story remains to be told…

You remember when you were a teenager and you discovered parties? And then alcohol? And one morning you woke up and you couldn't remember anything, but oh boy was there a mess to clean up?

That was our house, except we didn't get to enjoy the hangover.

We could have dealt with the debris, but a few parts were worrisome.

It was easier to move out. I have a distant cousin who lives nearby, so we politely asked whether he could put us up for the night. In other words, we showed up at his door unannounced.

Tom is one of the most wonderful people in the universe, so of course he welcomed us. The only problem was that earlier in the day, he came across Barbara, a young German woman who made the tiny mistake of arriving in New Zealand for a bicycle tour the day before the earthquake. When the road beneath her collapsed into a yawning chasm, Tom dove in, yanked her out of the boiling magma, and offered her shelter. So by the time we arrived, we were left with a choice between the shed, the barn, and the field.

We decided Barbara would do best in the field, and Tom and his wife could sleep in the shed. We took his bed and got cozy.

After a few days of this, though, we started picking up on vague hints that we might be wearing out our welcome. Like finding our laptops—and ourselves—in the dumpster. (I think my four-hour shower, which I took right after Tom told us there was a water shortage, might have had something to do with it.) So we called some friends in Wellington, which is comfortably far away on a different island, and asked if they had space. “Sure!” they replied, “Just drive on up!”

New Zealand is an interesting place. For example, the main route between the South and North Islands is State Highway 1. All you have to do is drive north from Christchurch:

View Larger Map

Of course, it helps if you duct-tape your car doors shut first so they don't leak quite so much. It took us about three hours to float to the other island.

As soon as we got to our friends' house, the weather turned nasty. The wind was blowing at about 90 (you pick the units), the rain was coming down so hard that the ocean was drier than the land, and the temperature was Antarctic. So naturally we decided that this would be a nice place to live. But since we're short-timers, we needed a furnished house.

The first place we looked at was such a dump that we seriously considered moving back to the destroyed house. The second was gorgeous, except it was built on stilts about a thousand feet tall, and we're just a teeny bit nervous about earthquakes right now. And it was out of our price range anyway. We were about to give up and set up a tent on the beach when we found the third place, which is perfectly wonderful (if you ignore the 17 flights of steps you have to climb to get to the front door, and the 12 more flights to the mailbox).

The only remaining problem was that we hadn't driven up with the expectation of moving, so our stuff was now spread throughout the country. A bit of luggage was with us, more was at Tom's, and a few things had been left in the earthquake house when we fled. Somebody had to collect it all.

Road trip!

My daughter wanted to be involved because she didn't trust us to get all the important stuff. She figured that if it were left up to the adults, we'd grab something dumb like our passports and forget about her collection of hotel business cards. “Fine,” I told her, “here are the car keys. Make sure you get everything.”

Since she's only twelve, that didn't go over so well with the wife. And I suppose she's right; the kid's too lightweight to close a suitcase by sitting on it. But that meant somebody else had to drive. And my wife wasn't about to enter the collapsing house, even at gunpoint. I didn't trust my daughter's aim enough to let her do the herding, so I'd have to go along. In the end, we decided to limit it to the two of us so we'd have more room in the car.

The trip down was fairly uneventful. Three hours in the house let us retrieve everything (or so we thought—a month later we know better); then we went off to Tom's for the night. The next morning we planned to run a few important errands in town before loading the car and driving part of the way back north. That's where we hit the first snag: the errands took almost all day. Snag #2 was that all our stuff didn't fit in the station wagon, not by a long shot. We had bins of food, a microwave we didn't need, some random furniture, four huge rolling duffel bags, books, linens, a bicycle, and I don't know what-all else. Oh, and a cello. Not the world's smallest musical instrument. Why couldn't I have married a flutist? Or somebody with a tin ear?

Out came the rope. The Sleepy Professor loves tying knots; maybe he's a secret bondage freak. Or just a freak. All the duffels went on the roof and everything else somehow got crammed into the back. (Sorry if your cello sounds a bit…flat, honey.) And away we finally went at 4 PM—straight into rush-hour traffic. About 39 hours later, we finally got out of town.

You can understand that by now, I was feeling a bit harried. Our ferry reservation had already been made; we had to get far enough tonight to make the dock by the next day. And we were both hungry. The roof stuff made some flapping noises, so I pulled over and tightened the ropes. After several tries, the noises were gone. We were eager to get to a hotel; my daughter's favorite TV program would be on soon. So I sped up a bit.

Suddenly there was a thumping noise outside the car. I looked in the mirror; one of our bags was cartwheeling down the road, desperately trying to catch up to us. I slowed down, but it wasn't making very good time. I pulled over and yelled for it to hurry; it ignored me. Must have been a teenager bag. It was in the oncoming lane, and a truck was headed straight for it. Thinking quickly, I grabbed my daughter and tossed her out the window directly into the path of the truck. The driver saw the orange hair waving in the wind (she has pretty awful taste), swerved, and barely missed our bag full of dirty laundry. Whew! Disaster averted. Although it's kind of too bad about the flock of sheep he hit.

After I got everything back on the roof, I tied it down really tight this time. (Good thing the cello wasn't up there. But that laundry? Perfectly pressed; not a wrinkle anywhere.) We got to the motel safely, just in time to catch that TV show, which by the way is called “New Zealand's Stupidest Drivers.”

You get one guess who was featured that night.

Baby Swans

After the latest Christchurch earthquake, we were forced to move out of our house (the landlady seemed to think we had “utterly destroyed” it—I'd be insulted, but moving was easier than arguing). After a road trip from hell that involved a car with luggage flying off the roof (really), we would up renting a new place near Wellington, which is far enough away that we can't feel the frequent aftershocks—except the ones from Japan.

A few days later we started exploring the area, which in my daughter's vocabulary translates to “visiting every library within 200 miles and checking out 50 books from each.” One library was in Whitby, which has one of those fakey man-made ponds that developers dig so they can sell “beachfront” houses at inflated prices. And in the middle of that pond were two big black swans with three little gray babies.

Now I know you've all read “The Ugly Duckling.” I don't want to spoil your illusions, but that story is NOT scientifically accurate. It turns out that baby swans don't speak English. Also, they aren't ugly, they're fluffy. And cute. (Of course, I think anything fluffy is cute. Except tarantulas, which are hairy, not fluffy. And anything with that many legs isn't natural; it should be locked up in Area 51 and dissected. In fact, that's probably where they came from; it's no accident that tarantulas are found in the desert, is it? The damn things are ALIENS.)

Anyway, back to the swans…

We didn't have a camera with us, so I decided to take my fancy expensive model over there the next day and get some cute-baby pictures before the dang things grew up and turned into boringly gorgeous adults. I had a bright idea, too: I would bring some bread so I could trick them into coming close.

Now you'd think I could manage to find some bread on my own. But my wife doesn't trust me in the kitchen. She thinks she has to do everything for me, even if it's finding a can of Coke in the fridge. That might have something to do with the whole war-between-the-sexes thing. Or it might be related to the fact that the last time I tried to make toast (in 1997), I set the teakettle on fire, melted everything in the freezer, and shattered a cast-iron skillet.

Anyway, I told her that I needed a “couple” (that's a direct quote) of slices of bread, just enough to lure the swans into range. But my wife is the sort who will invite a family of two to dinner and present them with a turkey, a ham, a prime rib, six lobsters, a huge salad, a pot of baked beans, mashed potatoes, French fries, peas, carrots, string beans, three loaves of bread, two gallons of ice cream, and a chocolate cake. And that's just the appetizers. So of course she handed me a plastic bag with all the bread we owned, and off I went.

The bread worked. As soon as the swans saw my sack, they swam right over and hung around by the side of the pond, the adults making an odd chirping noise and the kids peeping adorably as if they were about to die of starvation. The only problem was that they were too close to take pictures. And half of the bits of bread that I tossed just bounced off their backs into the water, where they didn't notice them. The papa swan got tired of waiting and started snapping at the grass next to my legs; then he tried a taste of my jeans for good measure.

That was when the ducks decided to get in on the action. And after them, the seagulls. And every species wanted to stop every other one from getting any bread. (Except the ducks, who wanted to stop everybody. Those guys can be NASTY.)

So there I was, surrounded by quacking ducks, snapping swans, seagulls shouting “mine, mine, mine,” and even the occasional sparrow hoping for a dropped crumb. The tiniest hint of tossed bread would cause a riot—and I had several loaves to dispose of. They were getting heavier in my hand. Images of you-know-which-movie swirled in my head. I had to get rid of the bread before I was torn to pieces! In a panic, I drew back my right arm and threw as hard as I could, right into the middle of the pond. Bullseye! The ducks went nuts for it.

Man, that camera sank fast.

Dodging Class

You have probably noticed (being the clever reader that you are) that this is the Sleepy Professor blog. But you may be wondering, “Why is he sleepy?” Then again, you may have already figured it out: I always stay up way too late. Judgment was never a strong point.

Since I consistently postpone my bedtime, there is only one thing that scares me more than a disgruntled student: teaching an 8:00 class. So you can understand my dismay when I learned that this semester I was given a class with the rather unusual schedule of 3-5 PM Tuesdays and 8-10 AM Thursdays. That's not because Tuesdays are lectures and Thursdays are labs. Nope, they're both exactly the same class format. Just at different times.

I'm sure that every student among my readers (both of you) is wondering why anyone would come up with such a plan. The answer is staring you in the face: the administration detests both students and faculty, and their own late nights are spent trying to invent ways to simultaneously screw both groups. Thus the current diabolically brilliant scheme.

Not to worry, though. The Sleepy Professor was up to this challenge. My first idea was to complain to my boss, who would no doubt immediately move heaven and earth, rescheduling every class in the entire school if necessary, to accommodate my perfectly rational desire to sleep until noon.

Right.

OK, an alternate plan. I'd threaten to quit! That'd show them!

“What about the rent?” asked my lovely and patient wife.

Oh.

Maybe I'd take a student poll. My boss didn't care about my complaints, but surely student satisfaction was high on the list of departmental goals. Wasn't it?

Um, yeah.

Hmmm, this was getting to be a little bit tricky. The bureaucracy wouldn't budge. Maybe I'd have to budge the school instead. I went for a walk to think about it.

Suddenly the ground began to shake. Dust rose into the air as the college's buildings collapsed around me.* And suddenly it hit me like (if you will excuse the expression) a ton of bricks: if the school disappeared, I wouldn't have to get up on Thursday!

And it worked. An unusually destructive 6.3 earthquake devastated the entire city. We all had to go home, classes were canceled, and as of this writing they are still suspended. No 8 AM call for me. I can stay up as late as I want!

Which is a good thing, because now I'm too terrorized to sleep at all.

---

*Note: Honesty in the face of an actual disaster compels me to confess that I wasn't really outside and didn't witness any collapsing buildings. The college survived the earthquake with relatively little damage, although as you probably know, central Christchurch was pretty much flattened and hundreds of people died. There's nothing funny about that.

Flooded

One of the many interesting things about living in New Zealand is that Christmas marks the start of summer. The entire country listens to songs like “Jingle Bells” and “Winter Wonderland” while they tan themselves on the beach. It's sort of like going to Wal-Mart in August, except with an ozone hole to add to the challenge.

I shopped very carefully this year, because I knew that if I didn't get my wife exactly the right present, divorce would certainly follow—or at least serious bodily injury. And I found the perfect gift: a rubber stamp that you can press into a piece of bread so that when you put it in the toaster, it gets an image of a kiwi bird. What could say “I love you” better than a kiwi toast stamp? Sure enough, she adored it. I immediately checked her into a hospital for psychiatric evaluation.

After Christmas we headed to the West Coast for a brief vacation. New Zealand's South Island is divided into two parts by the Southern Alps. The east section, where we live, is a populous but bucolic paradise of sheep “stations” (ranches), sheep stations, and sheep stations, occasionally interrupted by a cattle station. The summer weather is warm and pleasant, except when it's not, which this year seems to be most of the time.

(Note: if you know what “bucolic” means, please let me know. It just sounded good here.)

By contrast, the West Coast is a bucolic paradise of sheep stations, sheep stations, and sheep stations, with a few cows intermixed for good measure. It's true that the West is reputed to be a bit damper, thanks to the mountains that make the clouds dump all their rain on that side. But it still sounded like a great vacation spot.

OK, I'll admit it. We kind of blew the timing thing. We hopped on the “Tranz Alpine Scenic Railway” (as I've said before, Kiwis can't spell for squat) for our gorgeous ride through the mountains. Only first we had to roll past about a zillion miles of sheep stations, with only the occasional cow pie for scenic variety. But eventually we got into the mountains…whereupon it started to rain. A lot. In fact, it was hard to see anything more than ten feet outside the windows.

But did that stop me from having fun? Not on your life. I have some of the best pictures of rain-spattered windows you've ever seen. If you squint, you can see a vague blob that might be a stunning mountain vista.

When we finally got to the coast, we found out that it seems to rain all the time. We drove north to see coastal scenery, and were driven back by rain and wind. We drove further north to see seals, and were drenched. We went even further to visit the lovely hamlet of Westport, and didn't even get out of the stupid car because we would have needed scuba gear. So we drove back to the motel and settled down for a raindrop-soothed night's sleep.

In the morning, our daughter announced, “You have to look at this.” Since she says that every time she sees a new rock, we ignored her. “Really, you have to look at this.” Yawn. “Seriously!”

My wife wandered to the patio door and glanced outside. “Honey, look!” I figured it must be a really big rock.

What I found instead was one of the Great Lakes, transported in toto to New Zealand. The water was only inches below the doorsill. My wife bravely put on boots and waded in to recover the patio furniture, which was floating just beyond reach. Apparently she had forgotten that we were on the second floor; she immediately disappeared into the torrent and resurfaced a hundred feet away clutching an upside-down umbrella, screaming for me to get the luggage into the car immediately. For once I followed her advice. Then I drove down to rescue her just as she was swept into the ocean. (Some Kiwi cars come with a snorkel. Really. My only complaint is that when you breathe through it, the air has a distinct diesel smell.)

Eventually the rain stopped—just in time to climb on the train and head home. It's fortunate that the train station is built on pontoons. And that the train is inflatable.

Next time, maybe I'll check the forecast first—if it's not raining too hard to see the computer.

Eclipsed

I clicked on a Web page the other day and noticed that we were going to have a lunar eclipse. Furthermore, it would happen at 8:41 PM locally, just as the moon was rising. “Cool,” I thought. “Pictures of a blood-red moon over the Pacific!”

As you may know, some superstitious ancients believed that lunar eclipses were caused by a dragon eating and then regurgitating the moon. Nothing could be further from the truth; dragons have notoriously robust digestive systems. It's actually my neighbor's dog, who will eat anything and then leave its remains on your doorstep, who is responsible for this amazing celestial phenomenon. So you can understand that I am amazed that his behavior can be predicted with such precision. But who am I to question science? After all, it is science that gives us answers to difficult but important questions like when the tide will be highest, what makes cookies tasty, and exactly how hot the inside of your car needs to get to bake those cookies.

Anyway, the eclipse was not to be missed; never mind that we had relatives visiting. I planned the day carefully: we would meet our in-laws at the airport, drive them to their hotel, and quickly rush back home to catch the evening sky show.

But my wife, as wives are prone to do, put the kibosh on that plan. “Don't you think it's a bit rude to abandon them like that? They've been living on airline food for 24 hours. They're lucky to be alive!” I had to admit that she had a point, airline food being all too similar to what the neighbor's dog presents to us.

So there we were at 8:41 PM on December 21st, sitting in a restaurant with no windows. I would have been even sulkier than usual, except that it turned out to be completely overcast and we couldn't have seen the eclipse anyway.

…until the next morning, when my favorite news site proclaimed “Lunar eclipse tonight.” It seems that, like Phileas Fogg, I had forgotten about the International Date Line. I always thought it was a phone number for meeting beautiful and lonely Russians (the same ones who keep e-mailing me with their pictures and offers of marriage), but in fact it's a huge line painted on the surface of the Pacific Ocean, where everybody on the left side of the line (that's me) is already living in tomorrow. So, if you carefully account for my confusion, the eclipse was going to be today instead of yesterday!

Note: if you think you understood the above explanation, please put down your computer and phone your psychiatrist immediately.

So I had a second chance. The in-laws decided to dine by themselves, and the sky seemed to be clearing. I jumped into the car and drove to a good vantage point on a local hill. There I was about 10 minutes before moonrise with my camera, tripod, and goofy-looking hat. (If you're interested in photography, it's important to have a special hat; otherwise people won't take you seriously. If they do take you seriously, watch out, because they're only pretending until the guys with straitjackets arrive.)

As it turned out, I ran into a couple of minor problems. No, I didn't kill any sheep. But the New Zealand wind was determined to set a speed record, and I was on an exposed hilltop. I didn't much mind when I laid my tripod on the ground (sideways) and it immediately blew ten feet away. It wasn't too bad when a gust of wind knocked me off my feet. Only when my car rolled over on its side did I begin to think that it might be hard to get a picture.

But I'm tenacious. I sat down on a rock, braced myself, and waited. And waited. And waited. Eventually, half an hour after the supposed moonrise, I got a good view of the water and saw that there were thick clouds on the horizon. No way the moon was going to be visible, eclipse or no eclipse. By the time it got over the clouds, the eclipse would be finished and it would be a plain, ordinary, boring full moon. So I packed up and drove home. No sense freezing out there.

When I walked in the house, my daughter said “Pretty neat, huh?” I looked blank; she pointed out the window to where the dog was just starting to regurgitate the completely visible moon.

Oh, great: I blew it completely. But that's OK; I'm resilient. I know how to handle failure.

I hit her over the head with the tripod.

Effortless

I recently received an e-mail that, because of its wonderful mastery of the English language, I feel obligated to quote here for you. In full, the text reads:

We are efforting to get to you and get a linux server to run you over. Are you on ubuntu? That's what we currently support.

“Efforting?”

Now I know what you're thinking: it's not very fair to make fun of people who are still learning English. That is, unless they're named “Bob McTavier.&rdquo

And that, of course, brings me to the dismal state of English in modern America. I don't so much mind getting “run over” by a Linux server; it's a much better way to go than watching campaign ads. (Side note: why did we waterboard the people we captured in Afghanistan? If we'd forced them to pay attention to the last election, they would have begged for mercy and it would have all been legal.)

But do we really need to verbize all our nouns? This guy certainly seems to think so.

Without further ado, here is the letter I wrote back:

Dear McTavierator:

Thank u for effortizating you're effort's. I just want to loop ur e-mail so we can acquisition end-to-end agreement on the critical paradigm and synergize the tactical detail's.

Do you have groupwide competencies on ubuntu? I ask because you have a fantastic team-based opportunitation here. If you can tractionize your marketeering with dispatch, I am confidenting we will wind up win-winning together.

I'm still waiting for the response.

Oops, excuse me: responsification.

A New Laptop

When we decided to spend a year in New Zealand, my wife told me she needed a new laptop. I gotta love her logic. It went something like this: “You have a laptop. I need a computer, and I don't like your laptop because it's not a Mac. So you have to buy me a laptop.”

I pointed out that we could probably get a used Mac once we arrived, for much cheaper than a shiny new laptop. Nothing doing. “My sister has a Mac laptop with wireless networking and a built-in video camera. If I had one of those, I could talk to her on iChat. I could talk to everybody on iChat. I could talk to you on iChat.”

I pointed out that, since I don't have a Mac, I don't have anything that starts with a lowercase “i”. Hell, my computer doesn't even have icons. iCons?

Then I pointed out that a desktop was much cheaper, and she really didn't need the portability of a laptop. “Yes, I do! I could use it on the plane! And I could sit in the garden and work!”

So off we went to the computer store to buy a Mac laptop. $2000 later, she had a big smile on her face. So did the guy who sold it to us. Hey, two out of three ain't bad.

Of course, she didn't use it on the plane. She started watching an in-flight movie and fell asleep in the middle. When we got to New Zealand, though, she started blogging and e-mailing like crazy. Too bad we didn't have an Internet connection.

Of course, it was my fault when she clicked “send” and the computer responded by sticking its tongue out at her. (You gotta admire those Apple engineers; who else would build a computer with special hardware for insulting newbies?) I called up the phone company; they said it was the power company's fault. I called the power company and they blamed the phone company. I called the phone people back, and they said it was probably the garbage collection service. So I threw the stupid laptop in the trash, which should have solved everything, but the trash people said it was in the wrong bin (it's an Apple, so I put it with “food”) and made me take it back.

Eventually I got the Internet thing straightened out and my wife was happy—for a few days. But then we decided the laptop needed some accessories. The trackpad is clumsy and hurts my fingers, so we got a USB mouse. Then somebody told me that she shouldn't actually use the battery, since using it ruins it (huh?), so she started keeping the machine plugged in. She needed to print, so we acquired a USB printer and plugged that in. She needed to make copies, so we added a scanner. The screen was too small; no problem, just hook up an external monitor. Keyboard a bit cramped? Full-sized ones are readily available. Oops, we aren't backing it up: better add an external drive.

So here we are with the nice new laptop. We don't use the battery, the keyboard, the mouse, or the screen. She had a fight with her sister, and nobody else she knows uses iChat, so we don't do video. There are seventy-three wires coming out the back of the thing, so we never move it off the desk for fear we won't be able to hook it back up correctly. And none of us has figured out how to watch a movie, because with all the wires we can't find the slot the DVD goes into.

But she promises to send me an e-mail while we're on the flight home.

Rocks

Okay, I admit it. My wife is weird.

When we were planning our spring vacation (that's now, for you boring Northern Hemisphere types) she told me that we would be going to see rocks. Yup, that's right. New Zealand is filled with stunning mountain vistas, exotic birds, gorgeous pastoral countryside, charming villages, intriguing Maori culture, and of course lots and lots (and LOTS!) of sheep. But would we visit any of those? Hah! Not when there are rocks to be seen.

“I get it!” you're thinking, “His wife's a geologist.” Nope, sorry, not even close. She's just strange. She read about these rocks in a guidebook, and she's determined to see them.

“They're round!” she says. I yawn. “But they're ROUND ROCKS! They're boulders!”

You can imagine my excitement.

Whenever we go on vacation, I wind up driving. This is because my wife is so afraid of the highway that she drives with her eyes closed; I can only let her go for four or five miles before I get nervous and take over. So when we got to the place where the rocks were, I was in control of the car. All I had to do was to keep going straight and we'd handily miss another boring tourist attraction. And there was beer in the next town.

Naturally, we went to see the rocks.

I'm a big boy, so I can confess that I was wrong. I had expected to see a few boring round boulders. Instead, I saw a lot of boring round boulders, surrounded by tourists eagerly snapping pictures. For this I'm paying $150/night to stay in a hotel?

A couple of days later, we explored the Vanished World Trail, which is mostly a scenic drive through towns so small that the only business is the local pub (that's MY kind of town!). Occasionally you'll spot a sign that's keyed to a guide brochure that you buy for an outrageous price (I think it was $20 NZ, which is about the same as the cost of a pack of gum over here), stop, get out, and hike to see something that's usually not worth the walk. Then you get back in the car, try to wipe the sheep dung off your shoes, and do it all over again.

One of the stops was called the Elephant Rocks. Hoo, boy, here we go again. This is gonna be like one of those tortillas with Jesus on them: some random rock formation that drives enthusiasts wild while the rest of us roll our eyes.

Since I was in control of the car again, I had no choice except to stop. There was nothing around except sheep pasture, not interesting enough to be worth even the blink of an eye. So off we hiked.

Well, when we got there the view was pretty impressive (note the person at center right):

One of the rocks looks just like me:

And okay, one kind of looks like an elephant:

Yup, I'll admit that it was pretty cool. But I'm still not letting my daughter bring any of those danged rocks home in her luggage.

Penguins

One of the most popular tourist sights in New Zealand is penguins. “What?” you might say, “Penguins like ice-covered places, not sheep ranches!” But it turns out that penguins also like their summer vacations, and so the beaches here are covered with cute birds who spend their days fishing, squawking, and sipping drinks with little umbrellas in them.

To see the penguins, you can pay a tour guide $40 NZ a head (about $1.28 US before the recession, or $1,024 now) to take you over to the beach by bus or boat. Or, if you have incredible navigational skills, you can head to the beach all by yourself (hint: it's by the water).

So off we went. One handy thing about New Zealand is that it's surrounded by water, so it doesn't actually matter which direction you drive. We chose to go south, on the theory that it was towards Antarctica. We had trouble finding what we were looking for, but we still had a wonderful time passing through picturesque villages with names like Geraldine (motto: “We're not a Flip Wilson joke”), Waikouaiti (motto: “If you can pronounce it, you're welcome to live here”) and Long Beach (motto: “How'd we get here? We thought we were in California!”). Eventually, when we reached Dunedin, we figured out that we should turn left, at which point we promptly careened to the end of the pier and nearly fell into the ocean. It was there all the time! Who would have thought?

It turns out that in Dunedin, “little blue” penguins hang out at the Albatross Centre (New Zealanders can't spell for squat). Yes, that's right: you can't reliably find albatrosses there, but the penguins show up like clockwork—if your clock runs really, really slow. They come ashore at dusk and sleep on the rocks. (Penguins are not the smartest birds in the world. Why don't they use the nice soft sand? Or check into a hotel? New Zealand has some really nice hotels.)

But when we got there, there wasn't a penguin to be found. Instead, everybody spent several hours watching seagulls, who apparently think it's the most fun thing in the world to float around in the water doing nothing. Call them the backyard pool owners of the animal world. Every once in a while they would all take off for no apparent reason, circle, and come right back. It was kind of like watching NASCAR, except without beer. And NASCAR is quieter.

When it got dark, all the other people gave up and went home. Even the seagulls decided this was a stupid idea. But our family was gonna spot those little waddlers, dammit, even if it killed us. (Given the temperature, that was going to happen pretty soon.) Not that we were likely to see them at this point, since it was now as dark as the inside of…no, I'm not going there.

But suddenly, an hour after sunset, a lone penguin popped up on the shore. At least I think it was a penguin. It was so dark that it might have been James Bond in a wet suit; all I'm certain of is that he was wearing a tuxedo and carrying a Walther PPK, a beautiful lady penguin, and a martini with a little umbrella in it. I got a photo:

He was followed (I think) by a bunch of assassin penguins, but I swear he just vanished into thin air:

But our patience had paid off; we had seen real penguins—if “seen” is defined very, very loosely.

When we got home, we went to the Antarctic Centre (I told you Kiwis can't spell) and paid $40 each to watch the staff feed little blue penguins. But I don't think they were real penguins, because not a single one was wearing a bow tie.

Watching the Tides

When we moved to New Zealand, we rented a house that has a wonderful view of the local bay. Because of that view, I've been able to observe all sorts of fascinating natural phenomena, such as birds, weather patterns, and sunbathers. (The latter get most of my attention, since I'm interested in figuring out why the heck the average New Zealander starts running around in skimpy clothing whenever the temperature rises far enough to be called merely “freezing” instead of “OMG my nose just fell off.” And I consider it my duty to examine the best-looking ones closely to see if they are actually developing tans.)

One of the things I've been watching is the tide. Scientists tell us that tides are caused by the moon's gravity, which supposedly sucks the water toward it like some kind of giant teenager downing a milkshake. Balderdash. It only takes a few hours of watching to disprove that theory, because the tides go in and out even when the moon isn't there. How you gonna explain that, Mr. Smarty-Pants Scientist? Huh? I suppose you're going to try to snow us by concocting some complicated explanation involving arcane mathematical symbols that don't actually mean anything, like “plus signs” and “numbers.” That won't work with me.

Nope, it's simply not possible that the moon causes tides. In fact, I've come to the conclusion that there's a much simpler explanation: toilets. Think about it: everybody gets up in the morning, flushes the toilet, and takes a shower, all at the same time. That's zillions of gallons of water zipping through the pipes. And where does all that “used” water go? Into the ocean, of course. So naturally, the ocean rises. It stands to reason. Then everybody goes to work, and the water all drains out into a big hole near Guatemala. (If you visit Guatemala, you can actually take tours to see the hole. They put an immense strainer over it a couple of years ago, so it's safe. Really.)

But I digress. What's especially interesting about our bay is that it empties out completely at low tide. Every day we start with this beautiful, pristine harbor unsullied by man or beast (except for the seagull poop, of course). Then the tide goes out and we get to look at what amounts to a swamp, except without trees or poisonous snakes.

This poses an interesting problem for the sailboats scattered around the harbor. When the tide comes in, there's lots of pretty water to sail on. When it goes out, though, they end up stuck wherever they happen to be, balanced precariously on the sticky-downy thing that sailboats have on their bottom. Then the tide comes in, and they sail a few more feet until the water disappears again.

The New Zealanders don't seem to be bothered by this difficulty, though. When the boat gets stuck, they just hop out, wade to shore, and order a beer. Pretty clever, those Kiwis! (Though I do wonder why they don't just stay in the bar in the first place.)

Coming soon: how surfers cause tsunamis by falling into the water.

Earthquake!

You may have heard that New Zealand had an earthquake recently.

Imagine what it's like: it's 4:00 in the morning. You are sound asleep, snug under a warm blanket, dreaming of the kind of people who exist only in shampoo commercials. Suddenly an enormously loud noise startles you awake. The bed is shaking, the house is shuddering, and in your half-aware confusion you struggle to figure out what's wrong. Without quite understanding why, you leap into a doorway and brace yourself against the frame. Only then do you realize the horrible truth: your spouse is snoring again.

So you go back to bed and try to get some shut-eye before dawn. But pretty soon the shaking starts again, and this time it's the Real Thing. So you do what you do best: pull the covers over your head and pretend it's not happening—which is about the stupidest thing you could do because what if the house collapsed? Or your spouse woke up and accused you of snoring?

Somewhere in the middle of the “event” the power goes out. You know this despite the wee hour because you always keep a Winnie-the-Pooh night light burning, and now it doesn't work. Now that things are really serious, you jump out of bed and start banging the light against the wall, with no effect. You become aware of the rest of your family; you can hear screaming, whimpering, and sobbing. Fortunately, at just about this point the whole thing stops.

Sweating, overcome with relief, you look up to see your daughter standing in the hall, looking at you with an odd expression. “Daddy?” she asks calmly, “Why were you making all those noises? You woke me up.”

“Oh, just planning a quick vacation, honey.” And without missing a beat, you toss her in the car and drive north as fast as you can.

Anything to escape that snoring.

Anybody Would Be Sleepy

Someone asked me why I'm a sleepy professor.

On first blush, that would officially fall into the “dumb question” category. Professors are well known to be a bunch of arrogant, droning, boring twits. They put everybody else to sleep; why is it surprising that they do the same to themselves?

Of course, that's not the only issue. In fact, it's more my daughter's fault. Well, really we should blame it on my wife. (Anybody but me!) You see, my wife decided my daughter was old enough that she could stay up until 10 PM. This was based on some mysterious reasoning understandable only to mothers who work on the theory that kids learn responsibility by being treated like adults. Huh? My parents thought we should learn responsibility by being whipped. With chains. That's how we used to do it in my day.

So the kid goes to bed at 10. Except that “goes to bed” is defined as “starts moseying in the general direction of the bedroom.” And it's my job to brush her hair, which is about fourteen feet long and which, on a daily basis, turns into a tangle that makes a mangrove swamp look orderly. On a good day, I get done by midnight. And then I usually have some work to get done. And after that, there's the necessary channel surfing personal development. So even if my first class starts at 10 AM, I have a good excuse for being sleepy, right? Especially when your subject is as tedious as mine. I could put a meth freak to sleep.

That's why what happened last week is so shocking. I think I must have eaten something weird, because I suddenly decided to get up before dawn to take pictures of the sunrise. And I did. I dragged myself out of bed, bundled up against the freezing cold, and drove to the top of the mountain in the dark, feeling mighty proud of myself. That is, until I saw the guy walking his dog—in shorts. And then there was the old geezer out for a run, heading uphill. What's with these people? Why do they put so much effort into making me look bad?

To top it off, there were the two bicyclists who appeared at the summit just as the sun rose, wearing helmet lamps bright enough to light a runway and coming from a direction that meant they must have already been out in those temperatures for a couple of hours. Showoffs.

But I had the last laugh. I got a pretty nice picture of the rising sun hitting the mountains, which (almost) made it all worth it (click for a bigger version):

And on the way back, I ran over the geezer.

Cycling

I have a confession to make. It's a shameful secret, one that I've tried to keep hidden for decades, but it's time to finally come clean. Maybe then I can overcome my problem and make a fresh start.

So here it is: I like to get dressed up in slinky skin-tight outfits. Sometimes they're mostly black, sometimes they're colorful. A lot of the time they show skin—lots and lots of skin. And then I go out and display myself to the world.

Yes, it's true. I'm a cyclist.

Those of you who don't share my addiction may wonder exactly why any sane person would dress in clothes that don't look good even on a 20-year-old supermodel, climb on a flimsy hunk of aluminum, and risk his life doing mortal combat with maniacs in SUVs. Well, wonder no more, because the answer is staring you in the face: we're stupid.

You might think, based on your childhood experience with a $30 Stingray that was handed down from your big sister (complete with pink tassels on the handgrips) and eventually stolen by the school bully, that riding a bike is an easy, fun, and inexpensive way to get exercise. Right. The modern cyclist needs a machine that costs at least $2000 (and that's for the cheapskates—the big spenders can drop that much for a single wheel). Then he has to buy those fancy clothes to prove that he is an “experienced cyclist” who is willing to spend tons of money on frivolities.

Of course, he also has to buy an expensive helmet to protect his head in case of accident (remind me again why it's a good idea to engage in a sport that endangers your life?). Even his gloves and socks are special.

And then there are the shoes. Watch a cyclist get off his bike sometime. Look at how he walks. He can't! Because he's wearing “cycling shoes” that cost more than your Grandma Minnie's pacemaker. And what's special about them? Well, they make it impossible to walk, which is critical because it makes him feel special. Plus, when he's on the bike they clamp his feet onto the pedals.

That's right. Serious cyclists can't take their feet off the pedals! So what happens when they get to a traffic light? Simple: they fall over. If you hang out in hotbeds of cycling, like France, you'll often find huge heaps of bike riders by the side of the road, struggling to get up like a bunch of cockroaches. French drivers are used to this; they just toss a few granola bars into the pile of Lycra as they go past. In America, though, we usually shift into four-wheel drive and go straight over.

We cyclists will have the last laugh, though. Because we know that cycling is one of the healthiest sports around. If you want proof, just look at Lance Armstrong: he took up cycling and beat cancer. And not just any cancer either; it was testicular cancer. How about that, tough guy? You think your big ol' Hummer is gonna save you from the knife? Uh-uh. You wanna survive, you gotta be tough. You gotta snap yourself into some Spandex, clip your feet onto the pedals, and ride. Ride hundreds of miles every day, up enormous mountains, rain or shine, in the heat and in the cold. Build up those leg muscles, expand those lungs.

But don't expect me to be out there with you, because I figured that one out a long time ago. Nowadays, I dress up in the fancy clothes, tell the wife I'll be back in a few hours, and hide the bike in the garage. Then I drive to the pub.

What, you think I'm dumb or something?

Culture Shock

The other day, somebody asked me what my biggest culture shock was on coming to New Zealand. I was stumped for an answer, because the truth is that there hasn't been a big shock, just a series of little ones.

Some of the different ways of doing things are expected, such as the Kiwi penchant for driving on the left side of the road. I have been trying, without success, to get them to change over to the right side by the simple expedient of driving on the right whenever possible. (It's obvious that they're doing things wrong, because if the left side were the right side, we wouldn't call it the left side, we'd call it the right side, right? It's obviously right that we should drive on the right or the English language wouldn't use “right” to mean right. You don't hear people going around saying things like “You got 23 answers left on that test” or “Left on!” or even “Lefty tighty righty loosey,” which doesn't even rhyme. Really, would we have ever invented rhyming English if “left” meant right? No, of course not.)

Anyway, everybody knows about that whole driving-on-the-wrong-side thing, the goofy spellings, and the incomprehensible accents (“Oil tyke the Oll Blecks at sivin tyo one” apparently means something here, though I haven't quite figured out what). It turns out that it's the little things that really get you.

For example, every single wall outlet in the entire country has a cute little switch on it. When you plug something in, you're supposed to turn the switch on (did I mention that down is on?) and then switch it off when you unplug. Apparently nobody ever figured out that unplugging something disconnects the electricity, so there's no need to turn it off separately. So the New Zealanders spend their lives going around, flipping these little switches that have absolutely no effect whatsoever. I guess it makes them feel safe or something. But try plugging in your run-down laptop to charge it up, only to come back an hour later to find it dead because you left the switch on last night and some helpful soul turned off the danged switch FOR YOU and you didn't notice. I guess they think the electricity is going leak out on the ground if they don't turn it off.

Speaking of electrical things, light bulbs are fun too. There's not just one size, there's regular, mini, extra-mini, and probably super-duper-ultra-teeny-mini (also known as “invisible”). When a bulb burns out, you have to take it to the store and then spend 45 minutes finding the section for the proper size before you can even think about wattage. Then you take it home and find out that you still can't change the bulb because the socket is bayonet style (what the heck is that?) instead of a simple screw. So you go back, get a nice efficient compact fluorescent (have I mentioned the electricity prices?) with the right size, mount, and wattage, only to discover that it still won't go in the stupid fixture because the socket is old and the bulb isn't quite long enough. So, in the dark, you fall off the chair you're using for a ladder and sprain your ankle. But that's OK, because New Zealanders are super-friendly, so you can be sure you'll have somebody to chat with in the ER.

And then there are the spoons. You wouldn't think that something as simple as a spoon could possibly give cultural problems, right?

Wrong.

New Zealand offers spoons in two sizes: too small, and too large. A teaspoon here is just slightly bigger than a swizzle stick. Apparently its purpose is to stir things, not to put sugar in your tea or (heaven forbid) lift cereal to your mouth to eat it. But the only other size in our house is something that can be best described as a serving spoon. For all of New York City. The only way to eat with this spoon is to climb on the edge and dip your face in.

Fine, so we went shopping today and bought some new spoons. The package was labeled “dessert spoons,” so we were sure we had purchased a sensible size. Only when we got home, we discovered that we could pour an entire bottle of beer into one spoon without spilling. That's OK, though, because the next time I get pulled over I can truthfully tell the officer that I only had seven spoonfuls.

Only he won't understand me because I didn't say “sivin.”

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.

Gardening

My wife loves to garden.

This is not a bad thing, despite the fact that she grows only ornamental plants and refuses to cultivate the One True Vegetable (white corn, if you're curious). When we bought our house, the yard looked something like the worst parts of Afghanistan, only scarier. After just a few years and $20,000 in seeds, it looks more like the Florida Everglades…only scarier.

No, seriously, we have a beautiful yard. It's so gorgeous that last year it was on the cover of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. Foreign dignitaries drop by to have their photographs taken next to our modest pond, which is based on the fountains at Versailles (though a bit larger). I'd link to the Google satellite image, but they blocked it because so many people were gawking that it clogged their servers.

That's all pretty cool. Not everyone can live in a showpiece house with a showpiece garden and a showpiece family. I wish I could claim that I do, but I manage to clutter up the house so it looks more like Skid Row right before a big police sweep. Still, the garden makes a nice refuge from all that.

The problem is, my wife seems to think that a garden should contain a bunch of things that actually grow. And although I didn't realize it when we moved in, growing things requires water.

“So what?” you ask. “Isn't that what sprinklers are for?”

Me too. Not realizing that this marks us as indelibly, hopelessly, cluelessly male. Because sprinklers aren't the right way to water plants. Not if you're a true gardener with a thumb so green that it puts Amazon parrots to shame. Not if you have, um…envy.

No, the true gardener waters everything by hand.

So what's the big deal about that? Why not just let my wife have her fun? If she wants to squirt plants, or write her name in the snow, that's her business, right? She says it relaxes her. A relaxed wife is Good with a capital G. Go for it, honey!

Sounds sensible. Except that this is a woman who has no concept of the term "water damage." Never mind that she grew up in rainy, foggy San Francisco and spent a decade living in sunny Seattle (well, it was sunny the day she foolishly decided to move there). Never mind that if you left a lawn chair or a marble statue out for three days in one of those places, it would immediately develop mold and start to stink like a car salesman's promises. Never mind the arm's-length list of possessions that were destroyed by mist the first day she arrived in the Pacific Northwest. Never mind that she's developed a habit where every day, summer and winter, she leaves the bathroom window open “to let the steam out” despite the fact that we live in a broiling semi-desert and our house is so dry that even the sponges are cracked. All those learning experiences are instantly forgotten when she gets hold of a hose.

So here's what my summer weekends are like: I get up, grab the newspaper and a glass of juice, and wander out to the patio to soak up (and I use the term advisedly) a bit of sun. Spreading the paper out to my favorite section (the kiddie pages), I settle down and take a sip.

Suddenly, behind me, there is the familiar hiss of a nozzle.

Before I can react, the paper is sopping and my juice glass is full of water. You see, my wife's aim isn't so hot. And, more important, she just doesn't care. In her world, water is this magic stuff that appears from nowhere without any apparent source or reason. If it lands on plants it makes them grow; if it lands somewhere else it just evaporates. It can't possibly cause any damage, because it's “The stuff of life.”

So I sit there, dripping, with my breakfast ruined and a torn newspaper leaking ink onto my hands. And without missing a beat, I take the situation in hand like the commanding patriarch I am:

“Sweetie? Could you bring me the shampoo?”