Maybe I’m getting old and  crotchety or maybe I’m just tired and am ready to go back to the States (I can’t say “go home” because I haven’t got a home right now …) but I sure turned into a cranky pants once I arrived in Auckland. How does one adjust to a new place after the wonderful experiences in Melbourne and the over-the-top New Years in Sydney? Poor Auckland hardly stood a chance.

I’m sure that Auckland is a very nice place. Most of the people were certainly nice. No – all of the people I met who live in Auckland were terrific. Okay, one was a little flaky. And I can’t say those who were visiting from other countries were great.

   In the quest to keep costs down, I’ve mentioned using some different Web sites – WWOOF, HelpExchange, hostelworld, couchsurfing, etc. There’s one more. Crashpadder.com, a site for those individuals who have a room, mother-in-law quarters, guest house, or sofa-bed to rent for a night or week or month to total strangers with ready money. I fell into the total stranger with ready money category, and secured a room with a lady who lives in a western suburb of Auckland. My understanding when I booked was that she was going to either pick me up herself, or arrange for a shuttle/taxi pick up. Since I had trouble getting Internet access at the Sydney airport, I thought I would just check once I landed in Auckland.

   The flight from Sydney to Auckland is not a long one – only three hours. But there’s a two hour time difference, so you really lose five hours. My flight left at 5 p.m., got in at a 10 p.m. But we ran a bit late out of Sydney, and then I had to get a bag and clear New Zealand Customs. By the time I got to a computer terminal, it was getting on close to 11. But yes, there was Internet and yes, there are computers right there but no, they won’t, for some reason, take an American debit/credit card so no, I could not check my email to see what shuttle company she secured or if someone was waiting for me somewhere outside – in the rain.

   So I trot out into the drizzle (not exactly cold, because it’s summer, but still uncomfortable) and chat with the shuttle driver, who speaks broken English with a Chinese accent, but is very kind to me and tells me no, no one has reserved a shuttle for a Kimbel Westerson (I won’t attempt the phonetics on that) but he will call to make sure, and no, they don’t have a reservation, either. Since I don’t know the number of shuttle services in Auckland, I figure I should call to make sure I’m not taking off and getting stuck with two fees, one for the shuttle I didn’t take. But no, I don’t yet have a phone that works in New Zealand, so I find a pay phone but no, I don’t have any New Zealand coins. I remembered to exchange Australian for New Zealand dollars, but didn’t think to get coins. So the shuttle driver, who calls himself Michael because his Chinese name is too difficult for most white people to pronounce, gives me a dollar coin so I can call this nice lady at 11:15 p.m. who tells me, oh, no, she didn’t reserve a shuttle – didn’t I get the email?

   So Michael, bless him, takes me to Henderson, Auckland, New Zealand for the price of $48. A cab would have cost me $80. Along the way, he talks steadily about his job (okay, I was asking him questions) how it’s hard to make a living as a driver, he’s planning to quit at the end of the month but hasn’t told his boss yet, but he’s quitting because sometimes he makes as little as $8 on a run, and the airport charges a fee each time they enter the premises, but his girlfriend works at Subway (Subway?! Gawd, the things that America exports …) and she can get him a job there for minimum wage. Which is about $18 an hour.  Better. Much better.

   He also explains to me that drivers don’t want to go to the western suburbs because it’s more expensive especially for a single fare. There’s better money going east through the city center where there are lots of hotel drops. But he’s okay with taking me. I asked him if he was missing out on a better fare, and he said no, no. It’s okay. He got me to the address (of course he did – he had a nifty navigator on the dashboard of the van) and R. was still awake, with her friend C., who is visiting from Canada. They’ve been friends for 30 years. Both of them used to be flight attendants for Air Canada.

   The house was immaculate and looked just like it did in the photographs online (praise be) and the room was quite comfortable. She had mentioned that only the single room was available because she had a couple other “girls” staying in the double, and she couldn’t kick them out. Of course not. The single was just fine: tiny bit clean, a cozy down comforter on the bed, just fine. R. fretted about her coughing and hoped it didn’t keep me awake. “Oh, this virus is awful – I’ve been sick since before Christmas!” That comment went over my head at the time. The only concern that crossed my mind as I was dropping off to sleep was that there were four women in the house and one bathroom between all of us. I needn’t have worried about the bathroom.

   In the morning, R. was keen to feed me espresso, but I declined due to the caffeine. I like my coffee, but have to have it decaf. (You don’t want to put jet fuel in a Toyota. The results are astonishing, but only for a short period of time.)  R. was going into downtown Henderson, so she offered me a lift and a brief tour. The tour was brief – a mall, a couple blocks of shops and cafes, the train station and bus stop. Ta-da!

   Since I had managed to find another house sitting gig, I did all the necessaries to get a phone, and proceeded to the train station to check on train times. R. had warned me that train service is reduced on the weekend. She didn’t warn me that train service was currently reduced to nothing. Auckland transit system is in the middle of upgrading their trains to be all electric (instead of steam driven?)  and repairing track, so buses are replacing trains until January 19. January 19?! But, no worries, helpful transport personnel were on hand to sell me a ticket and get me to the right bus. Happily, K., half of the couple for whom I was house sitting, was picking me up at the train station closest to her. The three of us met, had a cup of tea, chatted, agreed on when I would arrive, and M. gave me a ride back to Henderson where I found some pretty darn good Indian food.

*

   When I met C. the night before, she was wearing red, black and white plaid pajama pants; when I saw her the next morning, she was wearing the same; when I got home at seven o’clock she was wearing them and whether she changed out of them or not during the day is a matter for speculation. Built like a potato held up by slender toothpicks, with blonde hair skinned back into an untamed bun on top of her head, she shifted on the sofa like a child, shushing us as R. and I talked about the state of U.S. and New Zealand politics. She interrupts occasionally to tell me that I’m wrong about the U.S.’s policies. She calls George Washington “idiot boy.” She tells us that American schools no longer teach history, and she doesn’t say that in a, “Sheesh! Schools nowadays!” sense, she means that literally, U.S. schools have stopped teaching history.

   R. finally says “Stop it!”

   “Well, they don’t.” C. pouts

   “C., stop it. I mean it.”

   Something is happening here that I don’t understand. C. ignores R. completely. Canadian curriculum is counted off a finger at a time in detail: Grades 1, 2, 3: Nova Scotia history. Grades 4 and 5: Canadian History. Grades 6 and 7, U.S. History (she emphasizes “U.S.”, forcing the last letter into sibilance).  She snaps her fingers at me, tells me what Americans don’t know, shakes her index finger at me, “No! No! Nonono. You don’t know.”

   After I tell her that I know, firsthand, for sure, that at least one American school still teaches History because I have seen a student’s grades in the subject, I do my best to bite my tongue, or at least keep it still. Finally, I ignore the running commentary and shushing from the couch while R. glares in that direction.

   C. gets up, goes to her room, comes back to the kitchen, returns to the couch with a glass of water – wait – (sniff)  … vodka? Aaaahhhhh- that explains it. The petulance, the impatience, the bad manners, the insults. Of course. She’s a drunk. I so badly want to give back to her what she’s been dishing out, but I haven’t any real desire to be rude, dismissive, ill-informed and insecure. She can’t help it. She’s a sick pup. I can help it. So off to bed I go.

   The next morning C. is fast asleep when I get up. R. asks me if I’m okay, not to take it personally, that C. just gets like that sometimes. Of course. I understand. And I find that it works to my advantage that R. feels bad about a paying guest being abused in her home, because I have to tell her that K. and M. need me to house sit a couple days earlier than I thought, and I’ll have to leave tomorrow. The problem: I’ve already paid R. for the six days I wanted the room. We agree that I’ll return after the house sitting job and stay the remaining nights.

*

   K. and M.’s place is in the suburb of Blockhouse Bay and yes, close to the water as the name implies.  The house is situated down a steep slope, so the car is parked at the top of 43 – yes, I counted – stairs. At first glance, the place looked a little dodgy, as they say here. Tiny. Oh, sheesh. What have gotten into? Pleasebeokaypleasebeokaypleasebeokay … And it was quite okay. The structure has a tiny footprint, but is three stories of comfort. Hard wood floors, a large deck, great view of the water, natural landscape (what M. called “bush”) hydrangea blossoms big as melons, tree ferns and other lush green things that I can’t identify. The cats were content, as were the fish, although I was told that the fish didn’t like to sit on your lap and purr in the evenings. Ah. Good to know.

   New Zealand’s North Island is considered sub-tropical and has acres upon acres of rain forest. Consequently, it does rain on occasion. In fact, right now, most of the North Island is experiencing record rainfall. Wettest summer on record, matter of fact. And I saw nearly two weeks of it. Happily, I was ensconced in K. and M.’s place with the cats, who managed to bear the wet quite well and the fish, who , it turns out, don’t mind being wet.  I did laundry, hung out, got a lot of work done, was on Facebook more than I ever have been. And K. had generously offered the place if I needed it for another night after she returned. I needed it.

   While house sitting, I took a day trip with the other guest at R.’s, M. We drove off to Helensville one day, in the rain, and cold, to see … not much of anything, really. One main street stretched several blocks and boasted a couple (bad) cafes, and a few antique stores, only one of which was actually an antique store. The other two were more like pop-up garage sale sites. Bored with Helensville, we drove out to Shelley Beach, where the inclement weather had not changed, and had (bad) snacks at the café there. Finally, we gave up and left. During this excursion, I heard the news from R.’s place – both she and C. had caught R.’s contagious crud. I was glad to be gone, and did not want to return. My experience is that the Universe tends to grant wishes, and sure enough, I received a phone call from R. who said that I really shouldn’t come back, everyone was sick, she’d be happy to return my money. We arranged to meet at a halfway point, after which I would trek down to the Ponsonby neighborhood to find accommodations.

   Although K. and M.’s place was quite comfortable, getting anywhere from there was challenging. A good 15 minute walk would get me to the shops where I could catch a bus to the nearest train station to catch another bus or train somewhere. Yet the public transportation was surprisingly expensive and inconvenient – three different bus companies provided service, and not all trains were running yet. After an unfruitful day in Ponsonby (where I bought things I probably shouldn’t have, but some of them were gifts, so I couldn’t feel too bad about it) trying to secure lodging at a hostel (eeewww), I stumbled back to Blockhouse Bay. The standard shops line the main road – bakeries, cafes, pharmacies, a grocery store. And a travel agency.

   Stefan, or Herman the German as his mates call him, was sympathetic and checked into an earlier flight home for me. The price? Yikes. That much? Nope. I’ll tough it out and find somewhere to stay. Stefan asked if he might make a few suggestions. Of course.

   So I walked back to K. and M.’s place delighted to have information about the South Island with me, and some of the destinations there. All I had to do was select and they would take care of the details. Nice. But strange – when I opened my mouth to tell K. about it (because she was back by now), strange croaks issued from my mouth.

   “Are you okay?” K. asked.

   “Uh … (ahem)…(cough, cough) …Yeah. I think I might be getting what everyone else has …” and told her my sad story about staying at the sick house.

   But I looked at the info, and chose, and the next morning with a head that felt like it was wrapped in cotton and legs that made me feel like I was wading through mud, I sloshed down to the agency to book my next two weeks and see if there was a doctor who would be kind enough to prescribe an antibiotic, should I need it in the immediate future. Yes, and yes, and $105.90 later, I had some lovely erythromycin to complement my meals for the next 14 days.

   Stefan booked me a whirlwind expedition to points of interest on the South and North islands, and I sweated my fevered self back to K. and M.’s to finish packing and meet the shuttle at 2:30 so I could stay a night at the airport, store one of my bags, and fly standby to Queenstown.