I am writing on the afternoon of  Wednesday January 16, which is actually Tuesday, January 15 in Washington. We are supposed to be  on a train passing through the beautiful Blue Mountains en route to Perth, about 2,000 miles to the west. Instead we are sitting in the Sydney Airport, waiting for a flight to Adelaide, delayed by two and a half hours and counting. Brush fires and excessive heat (110 degrees F) in the  Outback forced a cancellation of the train leg between Sydney and Adelaide so we are flying there in hopes of catching the train for the second leg of the trip to Perth.  This provides the opportunity for a few more impressions regarding our introduction to Australia.

Australia and the U.S. are about the same size, yet with 330 million people compared to Australia’s 25 million, we are more than 10 times larger. Imagine the U.S. with only New York, Boston, Miami and Los Angeles and a host of smaller cities under a half million each, all scattered about, mainly along the East Coast and the Gulf of Mexico. No Chicago, Saint Louis, Kansas City, Indianapolis, Dallas or Houston. Also imagine a country that was colonized by the Brits about 200 years after we were and where the Brits encountered a local, hunter-gatherer population which had been living more or less peacefully for at least 40,000 years and maybe as long as 60,000 years. Imagine a  country so remote from European civilization that almost 300 years after Columbus discovered America, it was still unknown by Europeans.

 The prevailing winds are from the east, bringing rain to the East Coast, then rising as they hit the mountains where they dump their remaining moisture, leaving the vast interior parched and dry. In so many ways the country seems so similar to the U.S.  but in other ways so different due to climate, location and history. The Australians escaped our horrible legacy of slavery and pride themselves, correctly or incorrectly, of being free from racism. Until recently—post World War II—except for the indigenous  population, whom they exploited and pushed aside—the country was pretty much lily-white. For the past 25 years, however, the changes have been dramatic.  In the 1980s, Sweden and Australia had populations of about eight million each. Today the population of Sweden is about nine million, Australia about 25 million, due primarily to immigration from all over the globe, producing what is now a multicultural, multi ethnic and multi racial population though Asian immigration far exceeds that from Africa, which has been minimal. In some ways it seems to me that the country represents a kind of new frontier, without all the baggage that we Americans carry. 

What they do with this freedom  from the baggage we Americans carry is a work in progress, though I think, hopeful. Crime is very low. Everyone over 18 votes or pays a $50 fine, and Big Money does not play much of a role in politics as it does in the U.S. People seem generally happy and positive, though admittedly this is hard to really know. They are certainly friendly and welcoming to tourists. A lot of people–especially 20 and 30 somethings– have great tans, great bodies, and walk around with backpacks or surf boards, smiling. Sort of reminds you of Southern California.

 The most pressing issue here concerns housing prices, especially in Melbourne and Sydney, which have skyrocketed since 2010 and have priced a lot of people out of buying a home. It is not clear what is behind this since the income profile of the country is not that much different from ours though median household incomes appear to be a tad higher and there is less disparity, all good things. However, where median home values in the U.S. vary from market to market, affordability for “typical,” middle income families has not been a major issue since the 2008 Meltdown. Almost every guide we had in both New Zealand and Australia talked about the “typical” million dollar home (which would translate to about $750,000 U.S dollars). Million dollar homes are not typical in the U.S. in most market areas. Mortgage debt is still readily available in  Australia and comprises a huge share of the economy. Young families now stretch to buy or rent homes and have diminishing funds available for other items after paying their monthly mortgage bill. Sounds a lot like a housing bubble to me. I suspect that a major factor is a lack of adequate, new housing production given the population increases due to immigration. Whatever the cause, this appears to be one of the top areas of concern with few government policies or programs in place to address the situation.

And finally a word about the opera. We saw Turandot (Puccini) last night, and it was fabulous. It was worth the price of admission just to get into the modern, somewhat stark and understated– but in my view stunning–opera hall. The staging, music and singing were, as expected, “world class.”  Also worth the price of admission was viewing the  attire of the audience. Anything now goes in Australia. Genes, tee-shirts, shorts, flip flops, spiked high heel shoes, smart casual, dumb casual, suits and ties, and a handful of tuxes and evening gowns.  I swear there were some dressed  in what appeared to be swim suits. New frontier, baby.

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As the Orion  made its way north up the coast overnight, the fog burned off about 10 AM just as we approached the towering cliffs marking the entrance to Watson’s Bay, leading us  toward Australia’s largest city (5.1 million), Sydney, about five miles away at the western end of the bay. Winds had freshened to about 12 knots, and sailboats and ferries were scooting about in every direction under blue skies. In the background were towering skyscrapers, then the iconic opera house and the famous Sydney Bridge. Behemoth cruising ships dwarfing the Orion were docked along the quay. Yes, I had seen the photos and had an image in my mind of what it looked like, but have to admit, I was awestruck. Taking this one moment, seeing the harbor for the first time, you could say it was worth the price of admission— the cost, the 20-hour ordeal getting down to the Down Under, the jet lag, and the lingering, pesky, respiratory virus. I suppose you could say that this is why we humans—at least some of us—like to travel: to see what beauty the planet Earth has to offer. If you are a sailor like me, it does not get any better than the Sydney harbor.

Now I have already confessed that in typical fashion I had not done much homework in preparing for the Down Under adventure. After three full days in Sydney and saying goodbye to the Orion and our fellow Viking travelers, I found myself saying, “I had no idea.” I had in my mind that the entire country was arid with the coastal areas resembling southern California. Not so. The East Coast is green and lush and gets more rain than we do in DC. The northern coast, which is much closer to Indonesia than the southern coast is to New Zealand, is mostly rain forest. I had no idea of Australia’s beauty and diversity on its East Coast or the dynamism, diversity, and sophistication of its two major cities. I kept repeating, “Hey, these are world class cities, comparable in many ways to a Paris or a London or a Vienna or a St. Petersburg or a Shanghai or even a New York. But, of course, all these cities and other world class cities offer their own unique charms reminding–me, anyway–of the greatness that we humans are capable of and the many challenges we still face. 

My other observation, however, is exactly the opposite. Yes, while each of these world class cities is unique and special, in the era of globalization, cities all over the planet are looking more and more like each other. As I look out our window in the Marriott Hotel in downtown Sydney, I could be almost anywhere. I am not able to see the harbor and am surrounded by towers of glass, steel, and concrete with emblems you see in almost every world city: “Citi,” “HSBC,” “Ing,” “EY,” “ANZ,” “Emirates,” “PWC,” ”Westin,” and that is just what I can see from my window. The stores on the street below are also the ones that are ubiquitous in all major world cites: Louis Vuitton, Sachs, Gucci, H&M, Prada, Tiffanies, Victoria’s Secret, and, of course, McDonnell’s, Subway, Krispy Kreme, and KFC. People now pretty much dress the same way everywhere.  If you were to wake up in the middle of this bustling city and not get wind of  the language spoken or be able to see the harbor, you would be scratching your head, wondering, where am I. 

There have been many special things about our three-day visit here—a four-hour guided bus tour arranged by Viking, ferry rides to Manly Beach (30 minutes) and the extraordinary zoo (15 minutes), and good meals at local restaurants (one thing you really miss on cruises). The highlight of the Sydney stay so far was our lunch today with Richard, one of our son, Andrew’s, Australian friends who used to work for Citi. An internationalist who is married to a Japanese woman,  Richard has lived in South Africa and London, and visited half the major capitals in the world on business. He has resettled in Sydney, between jobs. We spent a leisurely two-hour lunch on the top floor of the historic Customs Building  overlooking the main harbor. There is a big difference between getting the spiel from a tour guide and talking with a local.

Yes, he agreed with my enthusiastic assessment of Australia’s charm, but pointed out that the problems we have in the U.S.  are found all over the world in varying degrees including Australia—growing income disparities, diminishing job opportunities due to immigration and global competition, and the major issues facing the planet like climate change. While we are all in this together, however, it is pretty clear that Australia has us beat on having a higher minimum wage (over $20/hour), better income support, a stronger safety net, free college, and universal health care at  little or no cost to the user. However, the aborigines issue still nags the country, whose record is about as bad as ours. Low income neighborhoods aren’t visible in the major cities (though can be found, he said, in outlying suburbs, small towns and in the Outback), and the cities are clean and efficient with very good public transportation.  There are no utopias on the  planet Earth. Some countries come closer than others, however, and Australia would seem from our limited exposure to be one of them.

Off to the opera tonight, then to Adelaide tomorrow.

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Soon after leaving New Zealand we began to encounter heavy seas and strong winds with lots of rocking and rolling. Moving along inside the ship from point A to point B was a challenge and usually required wall hugging, grabbing for railings when you could spot one, and staggering about like a drunken sailor. Despite this, the dining crew were somehow able to get food on the table without dumping the trays and  fed all who were able to make it—not everyone since plenty of tables remained empty. These conditions prevailed for three days forcing a cancellation of the Tasmanian stopover, which resulted in some grumbling, but given the weather, there was not much choice.

We sailed directly to Melbourne, taking a full three days and arriving a day early since we bypassed Tasmania. By the time the Orion maneuvered along the narrow channel, the winds had diminished to under 10 knots and the skyscrapers in this glorious city sparkled in the early morning sun. The main dining room serving breakfast was packed, and you could tell everyone was antsy to set foot on dry land.

Melbourne did not disappoint. While Viking had managed to pull together some last minute excursions for the unscheduled day ashore, Embry and I decided we would opt for exploring the city on our own. This was a bit of a challenge for me since I still have not quite recovered from the “acute bronchitis” as officially diagnosed by the ship’s doctor. We took the free shuttle to the downtown area and then found our way to the platform serving the free tram which you can pick up every 30 minutes or so. (We learned today that there are more trams in Melbourne than in any other city in the world.) The free tram makes a complete loop around the center city, allowing you to hop on and hop off at will. Our big hop off point was the national museum of history and culture, a stunning, modern building with lots of glass, which was described as the largest museum in the Southern Hemisphere. Lots of fabulous exhibits about rain forests , dinosaurs and the aborigines  people (who have not gotten a better deal from the Aussies than our Indians have from us). After spending a couple of hours in the museum, we decided to walk back through the city to the docks. Pretty stupid idea since I have been borderline disabled for the majority of the trip so far, but I am finally beginning to get my strength back and managed pretty well what turned out to be five miles, though I may still end up paying a price.

Melbourne is a very impressive city. With a population of about five million, it contains more that 20% of the population of the entire country and has the reputation of being the most cosmopolitan and European city in Australia. Towering glass skyscrapers are bunched into the center city area giving the skyline the look of the Emerald City of Oz. The population is much more diverse than what we observed in New Zealand with many more Asians and people with brown skin—not the diversity we have in New York or DC–but still you get the feeling of a very sophisticated, international  city. The few people we chatted with on the tram platform or in the museum were all friendly, helpful and welcoming. I could definitely see how an American could feel right at home here.

When we returned to the ship around five pm, a full fledged regatta was underway with over 50 sailboats of varying sizes—but mainly small—battling 20-knot winds up wind and flying downwind under full spinnakers of red, green, yellow and various other colors. I concluded that this was their version of Wednesday night racing, and what a thrill to see it! I recall a similar thrill in Auckland when we saw two ’95 America’s Cup boats match racing in the Auckland harbor. For a serious sailor, this part of the world is about as good as it gets.

Today, our second here, we took the scheduled tour of the city, which took us again to the busy downtown area making two hour-long stops at beautiful, large city parks that seemed manicured by U.S. standards. Temperatures both days hit the average highs for the season near 70F but the weather here fluctuates wildly. Our guide told us that last week it reached 107F, and two days from now is supposed to climb to near 100 again. Most of the time, however, like New Zealand, this time of year the weather   stays in the Goldilocks Zone. Average annual rainfall is 28 inches, mainly from summer downpours, well below our typical 39 inches in Washington. I chatted today with a fellow traveler who lives in California on the Monterey  Peninsula, who observed that the weather  we were experiencing was identical to what he gets at home.

Just starting this weekend is the Australian Open, the first of the Grand Slams, but we cast off for Sydney after dinner this evening, so we will miss it. 

Bottom line: beautiful city, spectacular modern skyscrapers, fabulous parks, livable neighborhoods, and the feeling of prosperity. Certainly there must be poor neighborhoods somewhere, but our guides did not appear to know where. But all is not lost: plenty of graffiti around, a little reminder that this we are not in the Land of Oz after all.

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Cruises are enormously popular today. And why shouldn’t they be? In contrast to our typical,  mundane lives filled with struggles, challenges and disappointments, a cruise ship experience offers a brief respite and a  glimpse of something else: call it the way life should  be. When you pass through inspection and are  awarded your boarding card, it is like entering a magic kingdom of make believe. You are greeted by a smiling, uniformed staff member, usually a gorgeous Asian woman, offered a warm, wet mini-towel  to freshen up with along with a cold, bubbly glass of Champaign. And that is just the beginning. When your room is available, your bags will be waiting for you, and you are ready to embark on a week  or two or three of living in the lap of luxury. 

Delicious, gourmet meals are only a few minutes stroll away in one of many superb dining venues. All free—or more aptly, included in the price of admission. And to quench your thirst? A bar at every turn. To assure you  never get bored, there is always an activity of some sort going on– a lecture, art class, concert, piano bar or a visit to the spa or gym or one of the swimming pools or hot tubs. A puzzle to work on, a game to play, a movie to watch, a great book to read as you lounge on deck and watch the waves to by. 

Miraculously, your room is cleaned every day and at night someone turns down your bed, leaving a wrapped piece of chocolate on your pillow.

Welcome to the Garden of Eden.

And all around you is a vast sea with dazzling blue waters, with cloudless skies and the endless rolling waves that are timeless and eternal. At night if you are  lucky and the sky is clear, you can gawk when seeing the Milky  Way and thousands and thousands of twinkling celestial bodies, all providing a reminder of  how vast and mysterious our universe is.

And what about the people on this vessel? You are not alone in this alternate “ocean cruise universe” where almost everyone is friendly and courteous. If you are lucky like me, you will be with your spouse or significant other; but even if you are not, there are gatherings for singles groups and chances for romance. The people you meet casually tend to be from towns and cities all across the U.S. and beyond, people who have led interesting lives and have been successful—or at least have made enough money to afford the experience. No one talks politics. I do not believe I have heard Trump’s name mentioned once. No one ventures into controversial subjects. Everyone seems mellowed out. Everyone seems happy.

You wonder: why can’t all life be like this? Isn’t this the way life was really supposed to be. You know the story. Everything was fine before Eve ate the apple and then look where we ended up.

Sounds too good to be true? Pollyannaish? Escapist? Self indulgent? Irresponsible?

Yes, to all of the above, but still. There is something going on here that makes an experience like this  special.

Lest you misunderstand me, I do acknowledge that there is another lens to use when trying to understand the cruise mystique. It takes a “village” to make this experience so enjoyable. The “Orion” carries 900 passengers. Over 500 crew do the heavy lifting to make it happen. Most of these people are in their 20s and 30s,  and come from developing countries where there is also great poverty—like  the Philippines, Indonesia, Eastern Europe, Vietnam, South Africa, and even China. It is very hard work and requires being away from family for long periods. They do not make a whole lot of money but are hopeful, upbeat, and optimistic and see this as their ticket to a better life. They are a reminder, however, of the inequities of the real world. Also cruise guests are rich by world standards. It is an experience open only to those with the money to afford it, which is a fairly small percentage of even the U.S. population and a much smaller percentage of all people living on this planet. Furthermore, on this cruise we have seen only a small handful of guests with black or brown skin. We are (sadly) part of an exclusive club. Life is not just.

But let’s take closer look: who really  are the people who take these cruises anyway? In the case of this Viking Cruise, they are people just like Embry and me–old, white codgers, trying to squeeze the last drops out of the lemon. I do not have the actual numbers but am willing to bet that fewer than 10 percent are still working. My guess as to median age would be early 70s. We are a de facto,  retirement community! In short, we old folks have the demographic profile that makes us prime targets for cruise ship marketing. We are among the few who have  both the time and the money. We are the lucky ones.  

At our age most of us, however, also know deep down that there may not be a whole lot of additional cruises beyond this one. Not a lot more water left in this bucket. You look around and see a lot of gray hair but not that many 80-year olds, and no walkers or wheel chairs. Yes, there is a limit as to how long we humans can  keep going.  Do the arithmetic, as they say: average life expectancy less your actual age equals estimate of time left. Not a lot of years left for the average passenger on this vessel. But that is ok. That is life on the  planet Earth. We are still going strong. That is what counts. We are the lucky ones.

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We are back  aboard the Viking ship, “Orion” and I am in the Explorer’s Lounge, located on deck 7 (out of 9) next to a huge window providing a panorama of the vast South Pacific. The seas have calmed down from raging 30-plus knots to around 10 knots though huge 20-foot swells remain. The sky has turned blue again, turning a gray sea to azure. Samuel Barber’s “Adagio in Strings” is playing in the background. And the crew has started to retrieve the “sea sickness bags” that have been placed in hallways, next to elevators and stairways and almost everywhere you can imagine.

Life is good.

What has not been so good for the past week is my health though I am  pleased to announce that the ship’s doctor has determined that I do not have pneumonia, only a nasty respiratory virus, which he is treating with daily inhalation treatments. Given how the trip began with essentially four straight days of constant vigorous activity,  few opportunities for rest and a 20-hour, six time zone, jet lag,  I suppose a physical meltdown for me was pretty much inevitable. I can almost hear my friend and blog commentator, Dr. Killebrew, remarking, “Duh.”

So what about New Zealand? It now seems a blur. While I did spend several days holed up in our cabin causing me to miss three excursions, I did manage to drag myself along on three and consider the New Zealand leg a success, all things considered. Given its small size (about the same as Colorado) and population of fewer than five million, it surely is in competition for first place for the most beautiful country on Earth if measured on a per square mile basis. The country has it all, rain forests, mountains, volcanoes, meadows and pastures, thriving coastal towns, and thousands of coves and anchorages—the whole package.. New Zealanders are friendly and outgoing,  welcoming of tourists, tolerant and progressive. There is no apparent poverty staring you in the face. Certainly not a utopia but as for life on the planet Earth, well, from the superficial perspective of this tourist, it would appear to be about as good as we can do. (I will post photos when I can figure out how to do it. Hopefully guest blogger, Embry, will weigh in with more insights.)

More to follow on the cruising experience.

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Since the Captain is under the weather, he has asked me to be a “guest blogger” on Faux News.  And since I am a certified “Faux Armchair Sociologist,” I am going to give you a truly Faux Sociological view of New Zealand.  (Actually I am not trying to be “Faux,” but since I have only been here for 5 days so far, my investigations are certainly likely off base to a “Vrais” sociologist.)

What I find most interesting in New Zealand so far, in addition to the spectacular scenery and generally prosperous and relaxed life style, is the relationship between the minority groups and the “Pākehā,” or white people.  The most influential minority group are the Maori people, who were the inhabitants of New Zealand when white people arrived in the 17^thcentury. The Maori are Polynesians who had been here since about 1300 (exact date of their settling the previously unoccupied islands is unsure).  They comprise about 15% of the population. The history of Maori interactions with white (mainly English/Scottish) early settlers has many similarities to the interactions between whites in the U.S. and Native Americans.  This includes broken treaties, stolen land, and wars. However, currently (after wars and disease) Native Americans comprise only 2% of the U.S. population, and thus have less political clout than Maori who are more similar to the U.S. proportion of African Americans. 

Beginning in the 1960s, the Maori have used legal means to seek reparations for their stolen land, similar to the movement in the U.S. to bring about restitution for the horrors of slavery or to seek restitution for broken treaties with Native Americans.  However, in the case of the Maoris, they had a single treaty—the Treaty of Waitangi of 1840– to use as a better political tool to negotiate, and have had considerable success.  This treaty with the British Crown was signed by most of the Maori tribal chiefs.  In 1975 New Zealand passed the Treaty of Waitangi Act, whereby any Māori can take a claim to the Tribunal that they have been disadvantaged by any legislation, policy or practice of the Crown since 1840. The Tribunal does not enforce the law, but has the power to make recommendations to the government.  This is somewhat similar to the Peace and Reconciliation process in South Africa, by providing an opportunity to have disputes aired and discussed in an open forum. It has also led to considerable return of tribal lands to the Maoris, as well as returned fishing and logging rights and individual reparations. My impression is that this is leading to a slow process of integration in New Zealand society with reduced disparities (documented by a great increase in income among the Maori  over the past 15 years than for the Pakeha/white people).  New Zealand also has a large immigrant population, an additional 15+%, with most immigrants coming from other Pacific Islands such as Samoa and Fiji. These Pacific Islanders do not have the Waitangi Act reconciliation process to fall back on in their attempts to achieve equality of opportunity.  They seem to be more like the Latino population of the U.S. in terms of socio-economic disparities.

To demonstrate this, here are the median personal incomes of the three New Zealand ethnic groups (from 2013), reflecting continuing disparities in New Zealand society:

• $30,900:European
• $22,500:Māori
• $19,700:Pacific peoples. 

Corresponding personal income data for the U.S. (for 2008):

• Non-Hispanic Whites: $31,313
• Blacks: $18,406
• Hispanics: $15,674.

As a health researcher I was particularly interested in health outcome disparities. I found  that Māori infant mortality (8.1 per 1000 live births) was significantly higher than that of non-Māori infants (5.0 per 1000 live birth)s, but a bit better than our disparities in the U.S., where black babies are still nearly 2.5 times more likely than white babies. Of course many other factors, such as New Zealand’s universal health system, could play into this better outcome.

Thus, our racial/ethnic disparities in the U.S. are greater (although not by a lot).  Your friendly armchair sociologist, concludes that New Zealand seems to be further along in reducing the profound racial/ethnic divide that plagues both our countries.  Has the Waitangi Act process helped?  I think so, but this may be Faux News.  Well, you are used to that from this blog, so take it all with a grain of salt, and as food for thought about what this means for proposals for reparations in the U.S.

 

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After the baggage ordeal, I staggered through the customs exit where I was met by Embry, who had been patiently for almost two hours as the bag switch was being resolved. We were met by one of the smiling, peppy Viking greeters and escorted to one of their vans, which drove us, along with a dozen other jet-lagged Viking passengers, to a large downtown hotel. Our plane had landed around five a.m., and we stumbled into the lobby at eight, mercifully unable to figure out what time our biological clock thought it was. Besides not yet reunited with my luggage, there was one more problem: hotel rooms would not be ready before three in  the afternoon.

(We had opted for a two-day pre cruise stay in Auckland before boarding.)

So what to do? I had no idea of how many hours I had slept but certainly not many. Yet the day was drop-dead gorgeous with Carolina blue skies, occasional white cloud puffs, low humidity, and temperatures in the mid 60s, forecast to top out at 70—normal for the summertime. Would anyone regardless of how tired and disoriented, want to stay indoors? We get days like this in Washington two or three times a year.

So off we went to explore the city of Auckland, New Zealand’s largest at 1.5  million.(Total population is only 4.8million on a land mass that is about the size of Colorado.)

Now to be honest I had not done a lot of preparation beforehand. The sum total of my knowledge about the country boiled down to seeing one of the Lord of the Rings movies (during which I had no idea what was happening but bowled over by the landscapes) and hearing enthusiastic accounts by the few people I knew (including my son-in-law, Peter), who had visited the country. Embry reads everything she can get her hands on before we leave on a trip. I like to be surprised.

We took a free shuttle from the hotel to the harbor area and then got on a hop on-hop off bus that took us to something like 20 locations. We stopped at maybe a half dozen spots including the city’s major historical museum, a couple of parks, and the Anglican Cathedral. At the end of the day I was astonished to discover that the pedometer showed that on this “bus tour” we had actually walked four miles. Here is what stands out:

• The city is considered by many to be the undisputed sailing capital of the world. Two recent Americas Cup trophies are displayed in the yacht club, and the next up will take place here in 2021. On this beautiful Saturday the bay was dotted with white sails of every size and variety including some very tall white sails on the 1995 Cup boats, which now cater to tourists.
• If you want a parallel in the US, San Francisco and Charleston both come to mind. San Francisco because the city is busy and full of energy and it rises on steep hills providing stunning views of the bay, and Charleston because in the older sections, the houses show the best of 18^thCentury charm, with lots of gingerbread , wide front porches and built on tiny lots.
• There is no evidence in the various neighborhoods we drove through of any rundown or troubled communities, very little trash, and no graffiti. I kept thinking what is wrong with these people. The second day when we drove out into the country we did see some more modest communities but still nothing like what you see in the U.S.
• The city ranks very high on virtually all quality of life scales and is the most ethnically diverse city in the country with about 15% of the population being Maori (whose ancestors were the first humans to discover these isolated islands) and the largest concentration of Polynesians of any city on the planet. Anglos (“New Zealanders” or “Kiwis”) still dominate with over 72%, and you can’t help thinking how ironic it is that in two countries—New Zealand and Australia—that are the farthest away from the US, the two cultures, at least on the surface, are so similar. Same language, same religions, similar lifestyles.
• There is also very little crime, a strong educational system, and less disparity in incomes compared to the US. Voter turnout averages close to 80%. (Parliamentary system,  totally independent of the UK since the 1940s despite the fact that the Queen remains the titular head of state).
• While there is a lot of variation in climate depending on where you live in New Zealand, in most places you are in the Goldilocks’ zone. Summertime highs are in the low 70s, wintertime highs in the low 50s, and at sea level it rarely freezes. Rainfall is generally heavy on the western coast and mountainous areas with 50 or more inches a year on average, about half that on the east coast where all the major cities are and over 75% of the people live.
• Surely there are issues, but first impression: not a bad place to live.

One key to understanding New Zealand is that it is the last land area on the planet earth to be inhabited by humans. The Polynesians did not arrive until the mid 13^thCentury and while a Dutch explorer was the first European to discover the island in 1642 (Captain Cook visited in 1769.), the British migration did not really pick up until the early 19^thCentury. The reason behind this, of course, is the island’s remoteness. The closest Polynesian islands are over 600 miles to the north and Australia about 1,000 miles to the west. Talk about isolation. 

But people do not visit New Zealand because of its political system but rather its unparalleled natural beauty. We got a taste of that on our trip to the West Coast the second day of our visit and that will be the subject of the next blog.

 

 

 

 

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I am looking out  the window of our cabin aboard the brand new “Viking Orion,” a 750 foot, “mini” cruise ship  in port at Auckland, New Zealand, accommodating 900 passengers served by 3,000 eager crew members always at your beck and call. Ok, there are probably not that many eager crew, but it seems like it. The lap of luxury. The life style of royalty. At last, I confess to myself, we’ve earned it. We deserve it.

Well, not exactly. In fact for a life-long, committed Presbyterian, cum-vestry member at All Souls Episcopal Church, (Embry), luxury is a negative rather than a positive term. Not so much, however, for us cradle Episcopalians.

(For those who followed us around the world, you may recall  our only two other ocean  cruises, the first on a Holland America ship from Ft. Lauderdale to Spain, and the second on a Hanjin container ship from Shanghai to Seattle.)

 In any event we are here on this splendid, state of the art vessel because Embry could not resist a half price deal if you signed up in a year in advance, and she took the bait. New Zealand had long  been on our bucket list, and what could be a better way to see this astonishing country–with Australia and Tasmania thrown in as a bonus– than aboard a cruise ship? No need to pack and repack your bags every day, and you get free room and board for over two weeks. Now I realize that room and board are not exactly free, but once you finally clear the arduous boarding procedure, you get a plastic card and that is it. Your ticket to paradise. Cash is not allowed, and at the end of the voyage, you settle up. But, hey, that is two weeks away. It sure feels  free now.

Of course, the challenge with going to New Zealand is that you can’t get there. Well, you can now, thanks to jets that speed along at 500 miles an hour, but it still takes at least 20 hours including layovers and usually involves changing planes. If your goal is to go to the farthest place from Washington, DC (we actually departed from Newark) where there are permanent settlements of homo sapiens, New Zealand is your destination. If you are going to blow a fortune (even at half price) on a cruise ship, you might as well blow the blow the whole shebang and fly business class. So that is what we did, realizing that our chances of surviving 18 hours in steerage would be at best  50-50 .

The two flights (plane change in San Francisco) were fine. The airlines have now really figured out how to do business class with seats that fold down into beds, which allows for the exhausted passenger to get two or three hours of sleep instead of zero. When we stumbled out of the plane in Auckland at 5:00 am, we had crossed six time zones and it was already the day after tomorrow. One day had just disappeared. Poof! I am told we will get it back on the return trip, but it does feel a bit weird watching a live NFL football game on TV on a Monday morning  rather than a Sunday afternoon.

The only glitch at the airport was due to Lynn Johnson. When I grabbed my bag off the luggage conveyor belt, I did the unusual act (for me) of actually checking the name tag, which turned out not to be me but “Lynn Johnson.” No problem, I said, as I strained to lug the suitcase back onto the belt. I will be patient until mine comes around. Twenty minutes later I was still waiting, and there was only one bag left: Linda Johnson’s. Now I will admit that the bags were identical. It could have easily been me who took her bag.  The kind and courteous baggage lady told me that this is called a “bag switch,” and happens on average nine times a day at their airport. Welcome to the club! Two hours later the issue was resolved, and several hours after that  in our hotel,  I received an identical suitcase, this time with my name on it. (The luggage police were able to get Lynn her bag before she left the airport.) I later received a contrite message on hotel voice mail  from Lynn’s husband, Victor, apologizing profusely. If I happen to bump into them on the cruise, I will insist on their buying me a drink, which is not such an outlandish request since all drinks are free.

Paradise, baby.

More to follow on my first impressions of this green jewel, far, far away, down under….

 

 

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I find as I get older at times I reflect back on experiences that at the time did not seem particularly significant but on hindsight appear remarkable. The Angel Story is one of them. Here is another.

In the early spring of 1970 Embry and I were living in the Clay Street neighborhood outside Washington where I was doing “participant observation” work, which a couple of years later resulted in the publication of Hard Living on Clay Street. Part  of the assignment involved belonging to a fishing club. (Yes, the research contract paid for the dues along with the weekly fees for the bowling league we belonged to.) I loved fishing and being part of this club even though at times I  felt that I did not really fit in. This was the big spring trip, and I was really looking forward to it.  The club was going  to the Chester River to fish for perch. I had no idea where the Chester River was, but everyone–usually around 20-25 guys, all part of the “white working class” I was studying — was supposed to meet in the parking lot behind city hall and drive out together caravan style. The departure time was 6:00 am.

An eager beaver with a new fishing rod and all sorts of fancy new equipment, I arrived at the designated spot at 6:01. The lot was empty. They had left me. My immediate reaction was, those bastards, they knew I was coming. They did not wait for me. My next reaction was, I am going to catch up with them.

So here was the challenge. I had only two pieces of information to work with. The first was the name of the river. The second was that I remembered hearing that the drive there would take about an hour and a half. That was it. What would you consider the odds of my finding them before they set off in their fishing boats?

My first task was to locate the Chester River. This was well before GPS days, and people used maps to find their way from point A to point B. I immediately drove to a gas station and purchased road maps of Maryland, Virginia and Pennsylvania. (Since I knew of a town called Chester, Pennsylvania, I figured the town could well be on “the Chester River.”) I spread the maps out on the hood of my old Volkswagen bug and poured over them with feverish intensity. Every minute lost was precious time. No luck in Pennsylvania. On to the Virginia map. I first looked at the map showing  the western part of the state with all the mountain streams and rivers. Many rivers but none named Chester. More precious time lost. The last shot was Maryland, but I was not aware of any big rivers or streams in Maryland; and as my eyes scanned the map showing  the western part of the state, my fears were confirmed. Just as I was about to give up, my eyes wandered to the eastern part of the state and the Chesapeake Bay. Resigned to defeat, with a sigh I glanced at the various  tributaries emptying into the bay—the Severn, the South River, West River, Rhode River,  Patuxent, Patapsco , Choptank, Miles, Tred Avon…. So many rivers.

Then I saw it, “The Chester River.” Bingo! There it was, a massive estuary on the eastern shore of the bay, with a width of a mile or two where it emptied into the bay just north of the Bay  Bridge. My eyes  followed the river on the map to its source about 30 or 40 miles  to the north, originating somewhere near the Delaware border. I now knew where they were: somewhere along the banks of a river at least 30 miles long. And they could be on either side.

I glanced at my watch. It was  6:30. I also estimated the distance to the closest part of the Chester River to the Washington area. It was about 60 miles or about an hour’s drive. What to do?

Here was my plan: I would drive as fast as I could toward the Chester River. Route 50, a major highway, was only minutes away from where I was parked and lead directly toward the Chesapeake Bay, passing by Annapolis  and then over the Bay Bridge. Since I remembered the entire drive was supposed to take an hour and a half, I would drive for approximately one hour and 15 minutes and then take the first road intersecting with the major highway and that lead in the direction of the Chester River. Bound and determined, I revved up the motor and screeched out of the parking lot.

At exactly 7:45 –one hour and 15 minutes of frantically driving like a mad man –I started looking for roads on the left side of the highway and at 7:50 spotted one, an unpretentious, narrow, dirt road with a name I could not even read because the sign was so rusted. Could this be it? My heart started to pound as I turned off. The old VW lurched along, dodging big puddles and huge mud bumps in the road. The bumpy ride seemed to take hours, but the actual time was probably more like 15 or 20 minutes. The road got narrower and narrower, but there was one sign of hope. Ruts were in the mud, and they looked fresh. Could this really be it? My heart was racing even faster. Something inside me said yes, you got it, and you are going to catch them.Suddenly the mud-splattered car reached a small meadow, then I drove down a steep decline leading to a stream.

And there they were!  Yes, yes! I did it! There were about six or seven boats with outboard motors with three men to a boat, and the boats had just cast off, motoring down a small creek. One boat was left, tied up at the small dock, and in it was the owner/guide of the fishing camp. “Come on. Hop in. I am just casting off. I was about to give up on you.” I had made it with less than a minute to spare.

 I waved at the guys in the other boats, and  a couple of them waved back. I gave them a big smile and mumbled under my breath, you bastards.

We fished for several hours; and since I was with the owner, a real pro, the two of us caught more perch than any of the other boats —around 25 for him and 15 or so for me.

When everyone returned to the dock for the traditional beer together, I beamed when several guys came over and marveled at how many fish I had caught. One guy even wanted to shake my hand. It was pretty clear that the reason for my success was my being with the guide, but the guys seemed impressed anyway. One person pulled me aside and whispered in my ear, asking how with no directions I found this god-forsaken location in the first place. I told him I had no idea.

“Well, next time,” he said, “You should try to get to the rendezvous spot at least 15 minutes early. Club tradition. We always leave on time. No exceptions.”

I ended up giving most of my fish away, saving only a few for the dinner meal with Embry when I returned home. Several of the guys had caught only a few, and one who came away empty handed was especially grateful.

“You know,” he said, “If I had come home with no fish to fry tonight, my wife would have killed me. Got laid off a couple of weeks ago, and you know, you gotta eat.”

The departure home was very different from the dismal start of the day. A couple of people said they hoped I would make it on the next big trip, which would be to fish for flounder off the barrier islands in Virginia. This day had been my fourth trip with the fishing club, and for the first time I felt like I was beginning to fit in. It felt a little like a rite of passage.

The drive back was uneventful, and I recall smiling the whole time.

And as I think back on it now, I can’t help asking, what were the odds. How could I have found this place? How could I have found it with less than one minute to spare? You hear the term “following your nose” every now and then. Do we humans have some of the instincts that birds have as they migrate thousands of miles from Alaska to South America or as turtles or salmon have who return hundreds or even thousands of miles to the area where they were born?  Our first cat was lost on the streets of New York for over a week and somehow found her way back to our apartment. The most amazing thing is that deep down as I sped along the highway and then crept along the dirt road,  I felt I was on the right track, like a dog following a scent.

This particular event was trivial and by most standards insignificant. But then again on another level it was not. As important as science and reason and technology are, occasionally we are reminded of the mystery of life and that there still remains so much that is unexplained.

 Someone once observed that “Luck and coincidence are God’s way of remaining anonymous.” I think that pretty much sums it up.

Post Script: I did make it to the Virginia barrier islands where the club participated in an annual flounder fishing derby with several hundred serious anglers. On the second day I landed a 12-pound flounder, which missed winning the first place trophy by only 3 ounces. One of the great thrills of my life. But by this time my work on Clay Street was winding down, and the flounder trip turned out to be my last event with the guys.

 

 

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I remember an experience I had in the fall of 1960 some 58 years ago. Yet it is as fresh in my mind now as it was then. I remember where I was sitting when it happened and what the people around me looked like.

The scene was the Annual Freshman Cake Race at Davidson College. This was a tradition at the school where during Freshman Orientation all freshman were required to participate in a cross country race of about 2.5 miles.  The tradition supposedly was started at the request of one of the early cross county coaches to allow him to identify prospects since cross country running was not a sport in most of the high schools that freshman boys had attended at the time. (Davidson was all male then.) The first fifty finishers out of a total 250 freshmen got to choose cakes made mainly by faculty wives (no female teachers at the time either), and Embry’s mother (wife of the college president) always took great pride in making a special cake. Rumor had it that one of the major status symbols among the Davidson village women  was making the cake that was  chosen by the winner.

The event had special meaning for me. I had been a polio victim in the mid 50s, having had to miss two years of school and never being allowed to participate in athletics. Now as a freshman and away from Nashville, except for my classmates from Nashville, no one knew that I had had polio, and I wanted to keep it that way. My doctor said I could try to do athletics “in moderation” and “within reason.” This was my opportunity to turnover a new leaf and reinvent myself. The paralysis that I had was mainly in my right hand, arm, and stomach, not so much in my legs. I had the fantasy that maybe I might have innate talent as a runner. The night before the race I dreamed that  I charged ahead at the front of the pack and came in first in a moment of spectacular glory.

The  challenge was that I had never run a long distance before. In fact I doubt if I had ever run more that 200 yards at one time. But still, you never know. You would think that at least I would have given it a practice try beforehand and perhaps even train for the event. My excuse was the timing. The Freshman Cake Race occurred on something like day two or three of orientation. In any event, nothing ventured, nothing gained. Maybe this would be my moment.

As we lined up at the start of the race I was impressed with how many upper classmen were present to watch the race. This was a pretty big deal.  I stood on the starting line with my heart beating at twice its normal rate anticipating the sound of the gun. Boom! Off off we charged! I was one of the first across the starting line. The first 100 yards or so were across a practice field before the racers reached an opening leading to a path that would wind through pine woods with their fallen needles providing a cushion  for another two miles. I knew that if I stood any chance of doing well, I had to be near the head of the pack before we entered the woods. My start had been perfect.

As one who at age 30 began a lifelong passion of long distance running, I look back on that moment now in disbelief that I could have been so naïve. What exactly could I have been thinking?

Whatever it was, by the time the pack reached the opening to the trail, my lungs were killing me. My legs felt like jelly, and I had already paused twice to catch my breath. I felt sick to my stomach.  It got worse from that point on. Before I reached the mile one marker, I had dropped back, way back. This was the moment when I modified my expectations of a strong finish and committed myself to a new goal of simply finishing. The hell with everyone else, I said to myself. Dammit, I am going to finish this race, and I am not going to come in last.

About a half hour later, I was edging closer to the finish line. By this time I had run as hard as I could, then walked, then tried running again. Most of the time I was out of breath and painfully aware that others were passing me by, even the stragglers. Keep going, just keep going, I told myself.

Finally, I emerged out of the woods, limping along trying to make as strong a finish as I could. I saw many upper classmen lined along the final 100 yards cheering,  but from where I was  I could see no runners ahead of  me. What had happened to everyone? I had no idea of what they were cheering about. As I approached the finish line,  stumbling, I saw  about a dozen or so guys laughing, guffawing, and pointing at me. Then in a singsong they started yelling, “Dead last, dead last, dead last!” Others chimed in, “Wimp, wussie, war baby…” I looked over my shoulder briefly. No one was behind me. As I staggered across the finish line, the race officials were beginning to remove chairs and barricades, and the top finishers were choosing the last cakes.

At that point I collapsed. I did not hit the ground but fell into an empty bleacher seat, placing my head in my hands and staring down at the dirt. The cat calls continued for a couple of minutes, and then the group dwindled to about six and then dispersed, laughing and pointing their fingers at me, giving each other high fives. I wanted to crawl into a hole.

I just sat there, staring at the ground, totally exhausted and completely alone since the few remaining spectators had moved over to the awards ceremony.

Then I felt someone squeeze my shoulder and gently pat me on the back.
“Nice going, fella, you gave it everything you had.” His voice was soft and gentle. “Way to go!”

I was too embarrassed and astonished to say or do anything, but I managed a weak smile and turned my head to say thanks to this kind and gentle person.

But there was no one there. Not a soul. It could not have been more than a few seconds before I managed the courage to turn and look him in the eye, but where could he have gone? Poof! How could he have disappeared so fast? I thought about it for a moment and realized what I wanted to tell him was that he had transformed one of the worst nightmares in my life to a strange kind of a glory, not unlike what I had imagined in my dream. I wanted to thank him for this act of kindness. I wanted to thank him for making a difference. But where was he?

***

When I told this story to a friend many years later, I noted that what I was sad about was that I never had a chance to let this mysterious person know how much this kind gesture meant to me.

“Are you absolutely sure he appeared out of nowhere?” my friend asked.

“Well, more or less. I certainly thought everyone had left for the awards ceremony.”

“And that when you turned around, there was no one to be seen anywhere near you?”

“That is correct.”

“Oh, well then, he was an angel.” He seemed dead serious.

I protested, “No, You don’t understand. He was absolutely real. I know he was real. This really happened. I did not imagine this in my mind!”

“Of course not,” he replied, “ He was real alright. Angels are like that.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

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