On October 26th, 2011, John and I depart to LAX via taxi. A one-way fare from Irvine to LAX is roughly $125.
Despite LAX’s notorious reputation as a shit fest, we locate Air New Zealand with little trouble. The employees at the counter are unusually kind-spirited, with answers, smiles, and merry accents. But security, per standard, is trying to win the 2011 Asshole of the Year Award. (They’re always in the running with the DMV.) After walking through those controversial Super Man machines, we find our way to our gate with no additional hassle.
During the 12-hour flight to Auckland, a young man, two rows up from us, is celebrating his birthday. Unfortunately, the crossing of the equator swallowed Thursday, October 27th. One day minus four hours later, he’s evaded aging this year.
Where LAX locked us in a single row of two quick-stop shops, two fast foods, and a restaurant, Auckland Airport welcomes us with a full-fledged mall equipped with American and European perfumes. Customs pilfers my jerky – it lacks a required “Made in the USA” – and asks me about the company I work for. What does a Game Master do, specifically? They’re a joy to talk with, especially because their words sound like music. I like them even more than the LAX Air New Zealand ladies.
This is going to be a fantastic trip.
We drive for three hours, with one stop to poop. John nearly kills me. He can drive on the wrong side of the road left side without many issues, but avoiding parked cars is a challenge.
The room isn’t ready yet. My 15- and 30-minute excuses for flight naps set in. We pass out on a bench in front of the ocean. I’m not sure if the bench is designed in the shape of waves, natural body curves, or both, but they go well with the mild, ocean breeze.
Paihia, the village we’re staying in, is small. After our power naps, we get mint ‘n’ chip and chocolate ice cream that makes Baskin Robbins cry. Pamphlets of ecotourism and sports adventures clog our bags. Some of them are from Auckland Airport, when we waited for our rental car. Others are dotted in bright yellow stands at the corner of one of the village’s hillside streets.
Finally, we get our room. John begins to take pictures of our one-bedroom suite.
I, on the other hand, happily pass out.
