We had come to Queenstown with high expectations, having heard (admittedly, by Americans) that it was the most beautiful place they’d ever been. After the walks and horse back riding in sleepy Te Anau and the cruise through Milford Sound and the “not bad” drive to Queenstown, we were ready to be wowed.
And wowed we were. As we stood blinking on the beach at the shores of the lake, we (well, at least the grown-ups) had the most surreal experience. There were lovely young things sunning themselves on the sand in elegant bikinis. There were coiffed and polished couples meandering through the park or sipping cocktails at the lakeside café. The place was packed—and mostly with European faces and accents (not Pakeha, the European New Zealanders, but serious European—people speaking French, German, etc.). “Did I get a stamp on my passport?” Michael said looking around. “When did we leave
This was the most touristy and American place we’ve been to in our time down under. We heard few kiwi accents, saw very little of the rumpled and beautifully casual kiwi style, and passed shop after shop selling either over-priced clothes or adventure activities like bungy jumping. All of this took place on a backdrop so magnificent it easily compared with the other spectacular landscapes of the trip—several different ranges of lovely mountains reflected in a massive and icy cold lake.
After dinner and a good night’s sleep, we got used to the hybrid NZ/US experience. We headed out to wineries where we sampled the smooth and full pinot noirs, stroked ripening grapes and toured a wine cave. We sat in a winery courtyard and ate a spectacular lunch, each bite a jewel. We crossed a gorge and drove through fruit orchards, fresh peach juice dripping down our faces. We visited a historic town centre (from the mid to late 1800s—very late for here) and panned for gold in the hills. In each of these non-Queenstown places, we were firmly in
On our last morning, we gave into the Queenstown mystique and just decided to be to
urists there. We climbed to the top of one of the mountains in a gondola and rode down again and again in a luge, the track snaking down the mountainside with a breathtaking backdrop. We lunched at another, more posh winery where a snooty (British) waitress looked down her nose at us as we ate yummy food and listened to bees in the lavender hedges. And then, wishing we were speeding in a luge again, we hurled our crammed rental car southwards to catch our plane. We got more and more tense as the minutes ticked until pulling into the airport exactly 2 minutes before the plane boarded. In the
It wasn’t until we got home that we discovered the Great Tragedy of the trip. Naomi had left her stuffed Pooh bear—the bear who was Michael’s when he was a little boy—behind. 
Wednesday morning, I began making phone calls to every place we stayed—and to the rental car agency—to see if the bear had been found. Lovely, kind, sympathetic people, but no deal (although, in typical kiwi style, the rental car agent hoped we had a lovely trip and explained that since we had been in such a hurry and left a nice note, they wouldn’t charge us the refueling fee and would only charge us the retail price of the petrol). Melissa and I, running over all the possibilities together, were stumped. “The bear has to be somewhere,” she kept saying. “It must be in the sheets.”
So yesterday, I made one more call to the last hotel to ask about the sheets. Had they done the laundry yet? Well, they don’t do the laundry, they send it out. Could I have that number? Yes. One more phone call and finally a hopeful voice. “I think we did get an old bear in the last day or two. Could you hold on while I check?” And so I held on, and when he came back with a “Yes” there was such whooping and delight at this little house, that he laughed and laughed with us, all the way from the deep south.
And so, the pictures from yesterday were of joy and new vistas, which has been the them
e of the week. Naomi, jumping on the trampoline outside a vineyard, Melissa, the first to peer out the brand new window in my study at the new house, and the new stairs to lead us up to the upstairs room which will house happy guests. The pictures from today are Aidan on the sign of an old New Zealand town, where a dam has flooded the river (with some serious protest) and the historic buildings have been moved to a different place; Rob, Aidan and Naomi panning for gold (all we found is a chicken egg); the kids on the chair lift to the luge--and then coming down again.
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