When we rolled out of the Auckland international airport, we woke up to a gray dream. Anna noticed it first. The highway's side-streets were littered with lava stones and feathery evergreen trees, the sort of landscape for which I think she was destined. We were riding a large double-decker bus into the heart of the city, our backpacks slung against our knees and our heads weary from so much traveling.
Still, it was beautiful. Achingly so.
The clouds lifted in various parts over the hills, and wisps of rain made the city feel so fresh after so much dank air that is the purgatory of international travel. We had no idea where we were truly headed. Serpentine roads took us past rugby pitches and soccer fields, through commuter tunnels and past billboards that were just familiar enough: large media promoting their broadband, cell phone companies, and sports cars. The language was the same, but none of the brands or logos made sense.
In front of us were a wall of hotels and business suites. The sun would break through occasionally, and off in the distance you could catch a glimpse of the wide ocean. The Pacific. We had done it. Twenty some hours of traveling, and we had finally landed in a land we circled first in our imagination.
New Zealand!?
Why not? I mean if we had the chance to go anywhere in the world, I mean, anywhere, why not go to the one place that seemed almost unobtainable, a land further than most maps would even chart.
But, here we were. Auckland. A city resting in the Pacific. A city for adventurers and travelers. Sticking up towards the upper end of the North Island, Auckland is a harbor for harbors. Sailing ships and big merchant vessels festooned the boardwalks around the city. Life radiated up and out, volanic hills circling the city like an emerald version of Rome. From here you could launch out west towards Sydney or northeast towards the other Polynesian islands - Fiji, Somao, Tonga.
The bus brought us to the base of the Auckland Sky Tower and city center. What terrible good fortune! Someone, we had managed to take the one shuttle destined to land us right at our first hotel's doorstep. And after bumping our way through the Sky City Hotel lobby, trying to track down an ATM, we made our way to The Grand by SkyCity.
Even better, the check-in counter let us into our rooms at the ridiculously early hour of 8:30 am Auckland time, something like a day and a half ahead of our where our bodies had left. They most have seen the desperation in our faces.
Languishing for rest, they gave us two key cards, and we checked into our room on the sixth floor. We were determined to keep ourselves up for another few hours at least, determined to beat back the effects of jet lag. So after dropping our bags and taking a quick shower, we headed back out to the street.
The air in Auckland in winter seems clean, cleaner than most ofther cities I can remember. And while big, it's nothing obnoxious. The city seems decently sized for being the biggest commercial and economic center in New Zealand. But, what smells I did notice were - easily - the food.
Down the way was a coffee shop selling the things you'd see in any shop around here: cappuccino, latte, but also this. A short black. A tall black. The place we eventually stopped must have featured a bit of the tall black. Whatever it was, it was good. So good. The deep, smooth, rich flavor of European coffee without a hint of something bitter to ruin it all. The kind they pour into white, sturdy mugs and that you take into your hands like a sort of sacrament.
Even better, the place we landed for breakfast gave us our first introduction to just how rich and fresh the food in New Zealand is. It's like it's all farm-to-table fresh. Ironically (or maybe not surprisingly), we had chosen the "Federal Delicatessan," a knock-off of a New York big-counter place, full of clanging plates, fried potatoes and creamy spreads of lox on toasted bagels. I opted for the pastrami plate (the "Mish-Mash"), full of those crispy potato chunks along with charred cubes of pastrami and two perfectly over-easy eggs, their orange yolks ready to burst over the plate. I picked up the "yellow" mustard and drizzled it over the potatoes and hash, not aware that the label actually read "yellow curry mustard." It was sweet and pugent, good and spicy with just enough zest. The same went for the ketchup, just enough different than anything you'd find stateside to make us realize we were someplace wonderfully new.
Anna's salmon lox bagel ("The Best Ugly Bagel") was equally delicious, her face softening as she closed her eyes after the first bite. We knew we were in for a treat. We knew we had landed someplace special. We knew we were home.
If New Zealand was one of the best breakfast plates I'd ever had and all on a random whim and chance drop-in, well, we were going to be okay. In fact, we were going to be in love.
And such is the first memory I want to capture from 2023. The one I had waited for so patiently. The one I hung so much of that word "hope" on. New Zealand, you did not disappoint. And this will not be the last time you make the list.
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