As I walked and drove around during my first days in Tauranga, certain districts looked tired to me. It bothered me that the New Zealand of my thoughts wasn't living up to the reality before me.  Not that the buildings and houses were decrepit, but that they just seemed past their prime and in need of attention. Many of those days were filled with clouds, gray skies and rain. I did not grasp it then, but the skies were matched by the dankness of my mood. The realization of how light or shadow and the mind play together to shade our perceptions dawned on me as I rode through the those same areas, in and around Tauranga, today.

Up until an inconvenient point, today was glorious.  Clear blue skies and  giant lumps of rolling white clouds crossed above, pushed by a constant breeze.  As I rode through various neighborhoods, areas that seemed dingy only days before now sparkled.  Not only was the day brighter, but so was I.

After walking to the CBD, I  intending to head for Mt. Maunganui for an explore.  But I had time on my hands and bought an all day bus pass ($6 NZD) to see more of the area. I hopped on the first bus that was leaving, destined for the farthest suburb.  Riders were few and soon it was just the driver and me.  I asked him a few questions and he leapt into a running commentary about this area and that. This was his third and last lap of the route for the morning, he told me.  When we got back to the terminal, he was having lunch and then five laps on another route to break the day's routine.  He seemed happy about this variety but not that he had a manual transmission for the afternoon session, preferring the automatic.  Each patron who entered his bus was met with cheer; when they left, he doled out a farewell and warm wishes for the rest of the day.  One passenger he picked up outside of Greerton was a regular.  The driver got out of his bus, helped the frail man onboard, folded his walker and stowed it away, reversing the process when the man alighted. So I met the happy bus driver of NZ - big deal.

He deposited us back at the central terminal and I caught another bus, this one headed for the Matua area. This driver had a bus with a manual transmission which he had mastered and judging from his demeanor did not make him grouse.  When an elderly woman got onboard, he addressed her as "love" - here's your change love, nice to see you love, have a good day love, or mind your step love.  Don't have the exact change? Not a problem.  Need to top up your frequent rider card?  Again not a problem and it takes as long as it takes.  There was no exposed frustration, no snotty attitude like you were inconveniencing him or taking time away from his true calling in life.  He seemed accustomed to and appreciative of a bit of friendly banter with the ridership. Again it came down to just the two of us around the midpoint of the loop and I asked a couple questions.  He gave me full descriptions and asked about me and why I wanted to live in Tauranga.  I answered it was the beauty, the people, the clean environment, and the country's policy of peace.  He thanked me for my observations, apparently taking pride in these virtues.  Okay, so I met two nice bus drivers.

After a third bus ride from CBD Tauranga to the Mount during which there was no real chat except for asking which bus to take next, I took lunch across the street from the ocean.  The beach-side cafe had floor to ceiling windows that offered full sun and a view of the water and the parade of people. Choices were interesting but the deep fried oysters and chips (fries) served with remoulade pulled me in.  Afterwards, I strolled on the beach and looked back at the Mount that rises abruptly from the end of the peninsula.  The sand was distinctive, a composite of white sand and millions of broken shell bits.  The greens of the Mount popped through the perfect air and the bright blues of sky and water enveloped it all. The ocean was surprisingly not frigid but I wasn't going in any time soon.  If you went in, you would have to get out sometime and that would be very cold with the wind chill.  But others were out in the water catching waves. An artificial reef was built off this beach to produce consistent and near perfect surf.  Completing this postcard, a few islands sat just offshore, one, not a true island, was reachable by foot. Some were little more than a rock and others were large enough for several houses; but, thankfully there were none.

Time for another bus now bound for the Bayfair Shopping Centre.  The last of five passengers to board, I asked the driver if this bus went near the stadium for the rugby match.  He asked which stadium.  I said I didn't know the name of the place.  He got on the radio, still not leaving the curb or closing the door, and asked if anyone knew where the match was being held.  We had our answer in under three seconds and I was on the right bus.  I am sensing a trend here.

As I arrived at the stadium, my cheerful and bright sky was now menacing and volatile. A heavy wind blew straight across the low-lying peninsula, followed by bitter drops of rain and then hail.   Now I was wet and getting cold and that never improves my disposition.  Thankfully the hail only lasted seconds and the squall was over in minutes, replaced by more perfect skies and seasonal temperatures, not warm mind you, but not biting either.

The home team, the Bay of Plenty Steamers, won the match 38-31 completing a stunning series of passes that covered most of the field in the final minute. The opponents scored a late field goal, or whatever it's called, seemingly as the clock ticked to zero.  But there was no clock and no scoreboard.  Even the announcer seemed to be mostly missing, there mainly to rev up the crowd and announce the next home game. Rugby is the national sport of NZ with several leagues of varying ability playing across the country. The Steamers are somewhere below the top rung but in a few hours at one o'clock Sunday morning, The All Blacks, the national rugby team of NZ, play in S. Africa.  It's a major test and a significant event in this corner of the world.  I'm going to catch it on replay at a decent hour tomorrow but my first bus driver is getting up after a nap to urge them on.

Cheers for that!

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Sunday morning meant game time.  A walk into the CBD (no Sunday bus) to restaurant row and I quickly found a pub that had the rugby match on at ten.  It was a big game, a Tri-Nations test match between South Africa (the Springboks) and The All Blacks. I enjoyed a full breakfast, a stout, and a Kiwi victory.

The rest of the day was wasted walking about and going through a couple open houses.  I have come to the conclusion that property is pretty expensive in Tauranga.  Certainly much less than one would pay in a beach community on the west coast of the US, but expensive for NZ.  A 3 bedroom townhouse with no view but immaculate and well located was $375,000 US.  A single family home of maybe 1100 sq. ft., no view, well located was $285,000.  Comparable houses or units in other beachside locations in NZ are considerably less except around Auckland.  But this is a beach Mecca, so it is to be expected.  The US dollar is on the rise (against the Kiwi at least) and property values are falling here so some buys may be in the future.

I was back on the bus on Monday seeing more areas and talking with other nice bus drivers.  It may not be a scientific sample but at 100% nice there is a lot of room for a margin of error.  I have two more points to make about the nice buses of New Zealand and then off to other things.  First is that the driver has a box of cash from which her or she makes change, probably a couple hundred dollars.  Take the inference as you will on that one.  The second is that the bus' timetable is a wee bit lax.   Swiss train precision it is not, but they approximate running on time.

Have I mentioned meat pies?  This is an indulgence I attempt to resist every day but fail more times than not.  Just as it sounds, a flaky pastry pie is filled with meat, mushrooms, maybe cheese.  Some have a drop or two of extra gravy while others are mostly meat.  A good snack; and if you eat them while walking, they have no calories. Delicious.

After it rained last night, Tuesday starts off as another beautiful day, mostly sunny with some clouds rolling past.   I have nothing to do but find a work situation to fulfill my immigration requirement.  If that does not happen soon, I will just become a tourist, move about the country a little, and then head back to Auburn.  The rest of the day is for writing and a walk to get lunch or dinner.

Today is my son Nik's birthday in NZ, but he'll have to wait another day for it back in California.  It was another very nice day, especially for winter.  Sun and clouds with not a drop of rain.

I will miss this view from my flat and the continuous activity: walks, drives, jogs and rows outside the window of my flat.  As I speak, a teenage boy is running through the park carrying his field hockey stick - apparently late for his game or practice - a couple double skulls are rowing on the bay, and a few moments back a train crossed the trestle linking the Mount side with the CBD of Tauranga.  All the while, a flotilla of long white clouds sails by.

This is my last day in Tauranga, at least for now.  Tomorrow I am off to the west coast of the North Island, destined for New Plymouth.  It appears I have an office eager to have me, probably as eager as I am to avoid doing dentistry.  But that is my penance for immigration, so off I go to see how it is. My means of transportation will be the inter-city bus service.

New Zealand not only has excellent city bus service, they have service that links the small and large towns across the nation.  Tomorrow will be a six hour trip; first to Hamilton where I will change buses and then on to New Plymouth.  In the afternoon, I have an apartment to look at and a practice to evaluate.  It should be a full day.

I walked to the tourism office in the CBD to make arrangements for tomorrow's travel. Afterwards, a final flat white and a sweet at the Fatted Aphid, a place that has been a sort of touchstone for me in my two weeks here, seemed like the appropriate farewell.  As I sat there reading, awaiting my order to arrive, I looked around at the surroundings and quickly understood the place's appeal and popularity.  Its seating area is an eclectic mish-mash of antique English tables, chairs and sofas set in an atrium-like space surrounded by high windows.  Holding down a central location in The Piccadilly Arcade where you can watch a constant flow of people, it feels like you are outside yet protected from the chill of winter.  This is not a Whack-a-Mole kind of arcade with bombastic noises from kill-them-all video games; it is a proper European arcade that tunnels through downtown buildings from one boulevard to the next with shops lining its passageway.  The shops seem to be owned by people who have been at their trades for a very long time.  The man who replaced the battery in my watch my first week here has his name on the marquee, not some company's name.  The Scot who cut my hair had been a lady's hairdresser for ten years before barbering for the last twenty.  This is his last year before retiring, he says.  The Indian couple in the shop fronting Grey Street sold a six million dollar winning Lotto ticket.  The one they sold me a few days ago only paid twenty three dollars but I pocketed more than the original investment and parlayed the rest into another chance at a few million. I've enjoyed this arcade greatly as I have downtown in general.  Within a short walk you can have a beer, see a movie, eat dinner, have your shoes repaired, or buy a ticket to anywhere in the world.

After getting back to the flat, I told my landlady that I would be leaving tomorrow.  She wished me well, gave me her telephone number should I need it in the future, and returned a hundred dollars to me for my early check-out; something I did not expect.  The bags are packed so there is not much more to do other than eat dinner, watch the Olympics, and make a late call to my editor - an early call for her in Mississippi.

NEW PLYMOUTH - TARANAKI - NZ

I got out of the cab in front of the bus terminal in downtown Tauranga, ready for the 7:50 bus to New Plymouth.  A stumpy Asian man clad all in black including a baseball cap was waiting too.  After I returned from a nearby store with my coffee, he asked me to watch his bag while he went across to the public loo.  While he was gone, I took a look at the name written on his rainbow colored bag, wondering about his origin and his story.  When he returned I got both. It sounded like he was headed for Oakland, but he meant Auckland.  Seems he had applied for a work visa but he feared it had been declined meaning he would have to return to the Philippines by the end of the month.  He worked in healthcare but we did not discuss which area. As he headed for his bus and I for mine, we departed with well wishes for each other.

My bus pulled up and there were comments from others floating past about its being "the small bus".  Indeed it was, with a trailer for the luggage.  But you might have thought its driver was in charge of the QE II.  A short and slight man with his remaining grayed hair cut within a millimeter of his head, he alighted from his vessel in dark blue slacks creased so sharp as to be dangerous. A matching v-neck sweater embroidered with the company logo covered all but his white collar and the double Windsor knot of his tie. His black slip-ons held a serious shine. In his hand was a clip board positioned with military precision and authority.  As each passenger came forward to report in, he scanned down the list to find our names and tick them off deliberately. There were four of us.

He drove us from Tauranga to Hamilton professionally, a trip that offered the usual beautiful sights  after shedding the boring sub-divisions near Tauranga. We climbed into the clouds before descending into horse country outside of Cambridge, a lovely town in the Waikato. We passed what seemed like miles of black four rail fencing that divided the horse farms' paddocks into tidy blocks.  Not far to the west of Cambridge we passed Hobbitown, the site of Middle Earth and a location for "Bored of the Rings" and its two related snorefests. Within twenty minutes or so we arrived at Hamilton, a good sized city and attractive enough for a place with no remarkable physical attributes.

A change of buses was called for in Hamilton, the next one, larger and plusher than the first; no trailer was needed. My twelve companion passengers and I spread out in the rows and were treated to a beautiful day up and down ranges of mountains, along rivers, through some nice, and a couple shabby, towns before reaching the coast. Driving south towards New Plymouth was like driving on the north shore of Kauai if you didn't look too closely at the flora. Wide grassy meadows spread to the ocean,  clumps of tall tree ferns and the broad leafed flax filled in under the higher canopy.

During the bus ride, I had worked out an algorithm. The first decision was about the city itself. If it was depressing, I was done. In my mind that would have been close enough to three strikes and this whole adventure just wasn't meant to be.  This is a remote point of land jutting into the Tasman Sea on the sparsely populated west coast of the north island and the weather comes from the west.  I expected a dingy little burg under perpetual gray skies but New Plymouth surprised the hell out of me. The city is larger, more vibrant, and much more visually interesting than Tauranga. So the city had charm - on to the next decision point.

If the office was a dud, I would not be staying around here any longer than needed to see the local sights. After stowing my luggage at the bus terminal, I gave a  quick glance at a wall map to get a general idea of the city before I set off to quickly find the dental office. Along the way I had a choice of routes; take the street or a nature path along a creek.  I chose the creek which was in the right direction and took me directly into a sextet of Maori adults clearly drunk and smoking pot.  Uneasiness grabbed me by the throat immediately upon seeing them and for an instant I almost turned around; but I didn't.  They saw my approach, realized I'd smell the pot and made some futile efforts to conceal their activities.  I walked through them and made some friendly comment which they returned. Blocks away, the office was set in a convenient location just out of downtown, attractive, and staffed by welcoming people.  The second decision point was answered with "yes". 

The third decision was now where to live.  On my walk to the practice, I stopped at a hostel/motel that was only two doors away. The manager and I chatted it up about the costs and the accommodations.  Not having time to waste, I left saying I would return later. Before coming to town I had made contact about a 1 bedroom flat and had an appointment to see it, an appointment that I was going to be late for.  I looked but could not find a bus line that would take me to the the flat and hurriedly walked several blocks back into the center of the city.  I jumped into a cab and we drove to the address.  Getting out, he asked if I wanted him to wait.  I handed him a twenty for the $12.50 fare and said yes.  The property manager had left but the owner showed me through.  The flat was very nice but too tiny and walking to town was out of the question.  Back in the cab, the driver said he had turned the meter off; the twenty would cover the rest of the trip back to get the luggage and take me to the hostel/motel near the dental office.  When I asked about the city, he took a few detours to show me good places to eat - no charge.

The hostel was available for a reasonable $26 per day, less by the week, but then I asked about the adjoining motel.  At this point in life, wandering down the hall in the middle of the night to the toilet seems less appealing than it might have decades ago.  The rack rate for a motel room was decreased on the spot from $90 to $60 per night for a week's stay.  So I took it.  Really more like a mini-suite which is typical in NZ.  It has a kitchenette, a queen bed, a twin and a sofa.

(My room is behind the bay window of the one story building on the left.)

Within minutes of checking in, fellow motel guest saw me talking on VOIP through the computer and asked if I'd look something up on the internet for him.  No problem.  I then returned to the dental office for a more relaxed chat with Lisa the office boss, and afterwards went to the store for some provisions.  The Olympics are on and I can see that the skies have begun to pour rain. (As I go through this for a second draft, they are clear and night has fallen.)

Mt. Taranaki (Click to enlarge)

Map (Click to enlarge)

I met Dominic, the dentist that I will be filling in for, yesterday (Friday).  We talked for about three hours, then he and his wife Toni took me to lunch.  We went on a quick tour of the city and a stop at a real estate office to meet a friend of his.  Afterwards, we returned to his house.  He offered his car to me anytime I want to take it as he cannot drive due to his recent hip replacement.  He also offered his bike for my use.  He is a pianist and guitarist in a blues/jazz band and we seem to have a lot in common.

Last night I watched the Olympics over in the backpackers building.  A gent older than I is staying there.  He is going to work on one of the oil rigs operating off the coast here.  A Finn was watched the television as did a cute couple from Glasgow.  He had just gained his Masters in engineering and she was headed for a law degree but they were taking a month to travel around NZ.  A very mellow cat and the landlady completed our group.  So we had conversations about this part of the world or that, politics and weather.

On Saturday I finally met with the property manager to see another flat.  This one is only a block and a half away from the office and almost as close to the CBD.  It is a self-contained unit that is part of a beautiful, historic house.  The owner gave me a tour through the main house also which is quaint and lovely beyond description. I next strolled to town, down to the ocean and along a stretch of the walkway that runs for 7 kilometers next to the ocean.  The beaches here are black sand, like in South Kona on the Big Island but not as black.  I also returned to the bus terminal.  When I took the buses to New Plymouth I forgot a notebook on the first of the two buses.  At a rest stop, I asked bus driver two if he could ask about it.  He radioed in and told me that if found it would be brought to New Plymouth depot.  Today I picked it up. 

At five, I walked through this huge and lovely park on my way to dinner at Dominic and Tina's house.  Big name entertainers play in the park's natural amphitheater during summer and major sporting (cricket) events are held in a stadium somewhere within its boundaries.  Dinner was very enjoyable with Dominic and Tina's two kids, Thomas and Caitlin, joining in.  We had a full range of discussion from music to Maori rights to US politics before, during, and after dinner.  At ten thirty, they drove me back to the motel.

The lines from the Steely Dan song: You swear and kick and beg us, you're not a gambling man -- but you find yourself in Vegas with a handle in your hand, or something like that, are running around inside my cranium.  For me, its not a handle but a handpiece.  Monday, I walk into a dental office with the intent to pick up that handpiece and use it.

And it was my kind of day.  One patient in the morning, a two hour lunch and one in the afternoon.  All went well.  The evening was spent reading and then off to see The Dark Knight again.

Tuesday is a day off, whew!

Today was a simple day.  A long stroll in shirt-sleeve weather along the costal walkway way took me past various parks, an aquatic center, a squash club, a water park, a marina (of a sort), and a working port.  The return trek passed through Motorua village where I chatted with the owner of a tack store who bemoaned the high cost of feed and pastures.  I saw a handsome house for sale just above the village that had a great view to the sea.  Three bedrooms, one bath, panoramic view for $350,000 USD!

But the weather is changeable here.  I entered the CBD just as the rain began to fall and took lunch next to the  world famous Govett-Brewster Art Gallery.   I will tour the gallery later when Kathryn arrives.  After lunch, I dodged rain drops by darting from awning to awning through downtown and took a detour through a mall.  The mall was as insipid as all others but it holds a real find.  Inside, on the ocean side is a coffee roaster that also serves meals.  Through its floor to ceiling windows is a great view of the ocean .  I bet I'll have a few flat whites there. 

So back to the motel where I plan on reading, writing and napping.  That is if I ever stop talking to people back in California.

The females, whether free range or farmed, go into egg or meat production. In production farming (think Foster Farms, Costco, Safeway, Kroegers...) layers are put into cages of about one foot square, four to a cage, from which they will never be removed until they become less than optimally productive, after about a year.  They are then destroyed and:

• Worked into animal feed
• Breasts into chicken pies and such
• Feet and wings to China
• The carcass, bones, gristle and all is put into a pressure cylinder that expresses ground meat which finds its way into all sorts of food products like sausage, chicken nuggets, hot dogs, etc.

Fortunately, in England at least, consumer demand has caused many but not all of the major egg and meat producers to alter their practices (free range, penned but not caged, or at least less crowded cages and cleaner facilities that do not reek of ammonium).  It still is not a happy ending being a chicken especially if male but at least their lives are more humane and the quality and taste of the product is better.

If you want to see the process that creates what goes in your gullet, you might possibly find this on BBC America or online. The title is Jamie Oliver's Fowl Dinner.

The first day of week three starts with a brilliant sunrise, white clouds with undersides of coral, and blue skies after a blustery night.  I set into a half hour walk to the village of Fitzroy, a suburb of New Plymouth.  Turns out this is the same area where I went with Dominic and Teri for lunch on day two in NP.  I strolled past the shops, along the avenues, and looked down at the beach where a few surfers were catching kindly shaped waves.  Fitzroy is a very nice area of modest and well maintained cottages that are available from around $280,000 USD: a block from the beach park, a couple from the water, and a couple from the shops of the village.

On my return to the city, I went directly to the full ocean view coffee café that I mentioned early.  A flat white so large you could fit a softball in the cup - well at least half a softball -  and a blueberry muffin held me through several chapters of a book, The Great Railway Bazaar, that my good friend and college roommate recommended.  Searching the new book stores of Tauranga there was not a single work of Paul Theroux; but, I found several of his efforts in a used bookstore and bought this copy. Afterwards, I returned to the motel, chatted with the owner who was gardening with her sister and her assistant, and got dressed for my tour of duty in the afternoon.

Work was a snap with a couple nice people.  Afterwards, I found myself with nothing to do and a beautiful afternoon on my hands.  I considered another exploration of a great neighborhood of old homes, but decided that a walk to the shore and a cold beer sounded better.  The reasons for that conclusion were deeply influenced by one of my patients.

In the middle of the city sits the Puke Ariki Museum which represents the local and national history.  Adjacent to it is a bar and restaurant with a full view to the sea.  I took a seat at a table open to the full afternoon sun, so warm as to make me shed my fleece almost immediately.  It was one of those perfect pictures; the temperature could not have been more ideal, the breeze just enough to circulate but not enough to chill, and the soothing warmth of the sun directly upon me.  The sea was like a lake, not a whitecap in sight.  Even the jet skier who flashed across did not disturb the portrait as there was no noise of the motor to bump me out of the moment. But the calm water out the window stood in marked opposition to what I had seen days earlier and, more importantly, to what my first patient of the afternoon told me.  Being the owner of a wooden sailboat marked him as a long time and possibly long-suffering sailor.  He said that the sailing off this coast is poor due to the temperamental and volatile nature of the Tasman Sea.  One minute it is placid but the next an angry mess of confused seas. Those words were all that was needed to convince me to look elsewhere regardless of this area’s many other charms and great homes.

On my way back, I was in route to the market when I had a first view of an almost cloudless Mt. Taranaki. A truly beautiful sight in person, pictures do nothing for it.  Photographs make it seem far off but in person it looms above the suburban hills. At the store, I picked out a couple ingredients to make a quick veggie pasta at “home”. Shopping quasi-daily like this is a habit I have now fallen into and cherish.  Even though I often walk in Auburn, too often I fall back to using the car for meaningless and redundant errands.  Do I ever walk to the store to pick up dinner? No never.

I began thinking about the freedom of living within walking distance of everything vital and recalled having the same feeling many years ago.  I was visiting an ex-friend of mine in a Southern California beach town.  Why he is a former friend is not fit for this publication; but, let’s just say there are some loosely defined taboos he should have been bright enough to observe.  Anyway, he lived in a beach town and rode a three-wheeled bike to the store.  I thought at the time, what a luxury that was; to leave the car behind, to be close enough, and to live where it is flat enough to manage a full basket of groceries back home.  And on my walk back to the motel tonight, I realized it is not so much a luxury as a choice.  In California I jump in the car reflexively and rationalize that I am coupling several errands together; that it is efficient and not wasting fuel.  But, in reality, I could accomplish those same errands on foot or by bike which would be a win-win-win.  It is a matter of altering the habit and I enjoy my self-ordered transformation.

Back at the motel, Lyle Lovett is singing and the sun is setting on a warm and perfect afternoon as I cook away, beer in hand.  Not a bad day for the middle of winter.

The last couple days the weather continues to be pleasant and dry, sun and clouds.  I went to a rugby match last night between the home team, Genesis-Taranaki, and the team from the Northland.  I do not pretend to completely understand the game, but it seemed to be well played with the home team bringing home the victory.  The setting was a nice upgrade from the stadium in the Bay of Plenty.  This was a very modern one with covered stands and even sky boxes!  The local team won handily.  A ticket was $17, a beer $5, and a hot dog $4 (I passed on that one).  Those are NZ dollars so multiply by 70% for US money.  I hope to be back in the same stadium this coming Wednesday night when the national team, The All Blacks, plays a friendly with Somoa - a tune-up for the ongoing Tri-Nations tournament mentioned above.  I've been bidding for a ticket on Trademe, NZ's version of eBay, but do not yet have one in hand.

After the game I streamed out the gates with the rest, thinking I'd take a taxi rather than hoof it back, but then I saw a bus. "Where you headed?" I asked.  "Icons," he said which meant nothing to me.  He added that it is a bar in the center of the city and I climbed aboard.  I asked him how much and he said, "nothing, the bus is already paid for."  We waited five or so minutes as groups and couples of all ages loaded up and then headed down the hill for the five minute commute.  As Icons is the kind of place for serious drinkers, smokers, and video poker, I passed on going in and headed up the hill towards my room. 

Today (Saturday) is starting off with high clouds and a threat of blue off to the west.  I went into the city looking for lunch at an Indian place I'd walked past several times.  It was open but without a customer.  I took a seat as the one waitperson headed my way.  She offered me the menu and placed a bottle of water on the table.   We ended up talking about her training.  She has a three year diploma, as distinct from a degree which is a higher level, in hospitality management from the local school.  She filled me in about the other Indian restaurants in town and life in NP in general.

I left heading for Pukekura Park, just blocks away from downtown and about equidistant from my motel. What a beautiful place it is.  Walking through the main gates, immediately to the left is a cricket pitch surrounded by terraced earth and benches that would seat thousands.  Walking further into the park, I happened upon an obelisk standing near the bandstand and an artificial lake.  It commemorates Queen Vicki's Diamond Jubilee in 1897 .  Over to the right, a man-made waterfall cascaded down and to the left was a tea house, not of the Japanese kind.  I toured past the lake, up a hill to the very limited but tidy zoo, past the amphitheater, the rhododendrons, the azaleas, and finally to a hot house filled with tropical flowers of all varieties.  Leaving that, I returned to the tea house, grabbed a flat white and took time to sit, read, and admire the view over the lake.

I took a wandering course through some neighborhoods of old house on my way back to the city center catching a good look, and a picture of Mt Taranaki.  Many of the houses on the street were getting a little threadbare, it was not one of the better areas.  On several, the paint on the old siding was in sad need of a scrape, sand, and repaint. At another, the masonry of the garage wall had degenerated, plants sprouting from the cracks, until probably irreparable.  And I think the benign neglect is telling.  There seems to be an acceptance of how mutable and impermanent everything is; houses, walls and even people grow weary and haggard as the decades roll past.  That is a viewpoint that I respect much as I admire a person who descends into the water, surrounded by great white sharks. I'm in awe of them but I'm not sure I'd want to try it.  The States' boom time was from about 1950 to 2000, years that cover most of my life.  Never knowing want and always having the resources to satisfy most any possessive desire, I and others of my age have had the ability to own the new and even combat time as it slowly wears away our bodies. So while I accept the impermanence of everything on the macro level, there is that ingrained thought of it not actually applying to me and many of my contemporaries.  Clearly, I need to work on being a better Buddhist.

Afterwards I passed through the CBD to collect some rent money from the ATM and grab a sandwich and a cookie for dinner later.  But before I got back to the motel, I walked past an Irish Pub advertising the Tri-Nations test (Ozy and South Africa) on at 12:45 AM Sunday morning.  I was curious to know if they were also airing the repeat of the rugby game which comes on at the decent hour of ten.  Yes they were and breakfast would be available - a full Irish mess of eggs, potato, bacon (more like slices of ham), and sausage.  I'll be there!

The end of the day is here.  I'm writing, Larry Carlton is playing a favorite blues tune on the computer (actually he plays guitar, I'm listening to it on the computer), and I'm ready to go mindless with the television or do some more research via a Noam Chomsky book about terrorism and foreign policy.  Tomorrow is a day to move to the new digs and maybe buy a bike so I can venture farther afield.  The news is reporting an advancing hurricane on New Orleans.  After a deplorable "immediate" response and an incompetent rebuilding effort, even the Bushies couldn't foul up three times. Could they?