Travel Rant

Los Angeles International Airport


The line for Starbucks stretches down the terminal, at least sixty grumpy people in desperate need of coffee on this monday morning. The tiny American Airlines terminal at LAX is entirely inadequate for the amount of people it supports. One of two restrooms is closed for construction, resulting in an enormous line for the one functioning bathroom. I feel a bit guilty for taking the extra time to change into jeans, brush my teeth, wash my face, and put on deodorant, while dozens wait in line, but two-thirds of the way into my 36 hour sojourn from New Zealand to Cincinnati, I cannot possibly pass up the opportunity to wash away a bit of the travel grit, and to feel like a human being again. I am fairly certain that my fellow passengers on the upcoming flights will also appreciate my efforts. 


I have just arrived at LAX after a 12 hour flight from Auckland. I have very strong feelings about LAX, and they are these: I hate LAX. I hate the layout that makes everything impossibly spread out, and inevitably strands one in tiny terminals for hours on end with little more than a newsstand and a Burger King. I hate that no one bothered to put up adequate signage in the one of the busiest airports in the country, so that bleary eyed after a long flight, I clear customs, drop my bag, and am deposited in a completely signless hallway with a couple hundred other people, and I have to rely on my barely functioning brain to remember how to proceed. I hate that there's no way to transfer between flights without having to go through security again. I hate that "security" in this country still involves taking off my shoes since several years on, TSA still hasn't figured out that barefoot travelers aren't safer, they're just more likely to spread fungal infections. I hate that "security" now involves a digital strip search while TSA employees, wielding the power that they have, bark orders at passengers about where to put their hands. And when I listen to one woman scream at a foreign traveler over and over again in such poorly articulated English that even I (native speaker) have a hard time understanding, I feel my blood pressure rise. Airport security is so atrocious in this country that it often makes me seriously consider emigrating, perhaps high- tailing it back to New Zealand. If nothing else, it makes me loathe coming home. 


After 12 hours on a plane with nine infants under 18 months in my cabin area, none of whom seemed particularly interested in sleeping, what I'd really like to do is get off the plane, wander down to my next gate, grab a coffee, a bagel, and a piece of fruit along the way, and find a nice quiet corner with a comfortable chair to wait for my next flight. LAX offers none of this. 


Now, about those nine infants. I am not a parent. I have never traveled on an airplane with a small child in tow. I have, however, spent a lifetime with a variety of children, and generally have great appreciation for them. I have also traveled A LOT. Often with children on the same vehicle, and have watched a lot of parents. I don't mind the babbling of little voices on buses, planes, and trains, and I don't mind the occasional swatting arm of a curious tot, jamming it's way between the seats. But dear parents, the fact that you have a little person in tow is no excuse for bad behavior. 


Regardless of your preferred sleep tactics at home, it is NEVER, EVER, NEVER acceptable to let your child "cry it out" on an airplane. EVER. The long flight and leaping time zones is going to totally screw up any sleep schedule anyway, and if you are not okay with the disruptions to your child's routine, you have no business traveling internationally with your infant. Whether you let your child cry it out at home is beside the point entirely. When you are in a tiny space with 300 other people, it is never going to be okay to let your child wail. Kids cry. Yep. Got it. But you better be making a valiant effort to quiet said crying child. Especially when it's the middle of the night, and your screaming child has now woken up and set off three other crying babies. Your crying child's need to learn to self-soothe has just fallen way off the bottom of the priority list when there are that many other people involved. 


Whew. Okay. There's my rant. And important notes for other travelers. Now, just two more flights, three more airports, and a week to get my body on the right time zone. 

Today

WANAKA, SOUTH ISLAND, NEW ZEALAND

Coast to Coast

SOUTH ISLAND, NEW ZEALAND

If not for the 10 am checkout time, I might have been tempted to stay in bed all morning. It is true, I am in this beautiful, amazing country, and I ought to not spend my time sleeping, but I could really use with just a few more hours under the covers.

Instead I peeled myself from the sheets, and packed up the contents of my bag which had somehow ended up scattered across the giant motel room which I occupied for exactly 17 hours.

I stopped for breakfast supplies at a nearby grocery, and then headed to the USAP headquarters to pick up my bags before heading west. I followed Rte 73 west through endless pastures until the mountains rose up in front of me. The Transalpine is surely one of the loveliest paths across New Zealand. I had followed the route by train several years back, but today was the first time I’d actually driven the highway. 

Every turn on the winding highway opens up new and amazing views and the Southern Alps and the braided rivers that wind through them. Just as the road began to climb, the raindrops began to fall. By the time I reached Arthur’s Pass, it was a steady downpour. I opted for a hot chai latte instead of a hike and continued west. The relentless rain was tiresome, not to mention interfering with the views down the Otira gorge. A few hours later found me on the west coast, the scenery having changed drastically, but the weather not at all. After filling up the car with gas, I pulled into the grocery store parking lot. I dashed into the store, my chin tucked against the cold rain, thinking “Man, this sucks!” But ten minutes later, cheese and tangerines in hand, I stepped out into a warm sunny day with blue skies and only a few puffy clouds.

The improved weather sufficiently improved my mood, and I headed south to Hokitika. There, driftwood sculptures dotted the beach, set against the backdrop of a violent gray ocean. But Hokitika was not to be my final destination, and so I headed south on the windy highway, weaving inland slightly, on to Fox Glacier. 

Anniversary of an Earthquake

CHRISTCHURCH, NEW ZEALAND

Despite her scars, Christchurch is always lovely to return to. Granted, the first time I arrived in Christchurch last week, it was after six months of snow and ice and cold wind, and this week it was after four days of tramping in cold rain, and both times Christchurch has blessed me with warm sunny days.

I mostly avoided the CBD (the Central Business District), largely because there is not much left there, but also because it makes me really sad. I walked down to the Cashel Street mall, where some creative city folk have replaced some of the fallen buildings with brightly colored shipping containers, now home to many of the displaced shops and cafes. It is wonderful to see some forward movement of any kind, and to see some business return to the city, but it only reminds me of what once was. It would seem that moving on is not my strong suit….

I walked to the end of the mail where fences blocked off the rest of the city. To the left, I could see Cathedral Square in the distance, the spire now on the ground, and a gaping hole in the old church. It was my first glimpse of the square since last year, and while the tourists nearby chatted about the similarities between this and other international disasters, tears welled up in my eyes. It’s an odd thing, really to have tourists come to see what remains, to gawk at the tattered remains. I suppose I am hardly more than a tourist, but somehow I feel like I’ve earned my moment.

One year on from the earthquake that brought the city to her knees, but it’s hardly been a quiet year. The Christmas earthquakes altered the landscape further, and have slowed progress. Here’s hoping for a better year for Christchurch this year.  

A Year of Hiking, Week 8: The Kepler Track

KEPLER TRACK, TE ANAU, NEW ZEALAND

This week's hiking the Kepler Track surely made up for the last two weeks of strolls to Hut Point, and trodding the same old paths I'd been walking for six months, my boredom with which left me uninterested in writing about them. What follows are excerpts from the good old fashioned journal I keep, with some bits and pieces about the walk. 

Monday, February 20

From Brod Bay, the trail rose steadily for the next four hours. Though the incline was seldom steep, it was always relentless, and I found myself stopping often to catch my breath. As the elevation increased, the undergrowth thinned, and the occasional gaps in the trees afforded increasingly expansive views. Near the treeline, a pale hairy green moss hung from every tree and plant. The faint green fur draped on every surface leant a sort of ethereal, muppet quality to the forest.

Tuesday, February 21

The raindrops started to fall just as I left Luxmore hut this morning. The cold rain wind and rain nipped at my cheeks as I made my way across the open mountaintops. The rain eventually stopped, and the walk was a long series of moments of awe, stopping to gape and gasp at the splendor stretched out in every direction. I walked across several narrow saddles, the mountains falling away on either side of me, plunging into deep fjords and crystalline waters. For most of the morning, I hiked above the clouds. As the day warmed, the clouds thinned to bare wisps, winding around the mountains far below.

Wednesday, February 22

The forest in this hanging valley is lush with ferns and moss, sopping wet from last night’s rainstorm. I stumbled upon more of the colorful and amazing fungi with which I am rather enamored- one called “Purple Pouch” and another named “Puffball.” I do believe they put the four-year-olds in charge of naming the mushrooms. The severed end of nearly every stump and fallen log blossoms with an oyster-like fungus. I spotted a few more of the large red-capped variety.

The cool lake at the end of today’s walk was the perfect thing for my tender feet, in spite of the massive sandfly population.

Thursday, February 23

The last leg of the trail was an easy 1 ½ hours through mossy beech forests, but the steady cold rain made me all too happy to reach the end, where a shuttle delivered me to a hot shower and a cup of tea. 

Dusk

McMURDO STATION, ANTARCTICA

The evening sky is grayer than it has been in quite some time. It has been snowing for hours now, and as the flakes flutter past my window, I am reminded of nighttime winter drives, with the snow illuminated in headlights and streetlights. It is 11 pm, and the sky appears almost dusky. The low sun and grey skies tempt me with their taste of evening skies. After almost five months of broad daylight, I am craving the depth of night. If all goes well, in less than 24 hours, I will be plunged into the dark night sky in Christchurch, New Zealand.

I have spent the better part of the last week and a half sorting and packing and cleaning, wrapping up loose ends at work, and making travel plans. The transition from this sheltered life in a barren land to traveling freely in lush New Zealand is a significant one. Planning out the details of where to stay and how to get around is already overwhelming, not to mention the shell shock of having to actually pay for things again. The transition is leaving me a bit scattered, and I have set aside any other goals or intentions for the week.

This afternoon, the hobbled Green Wave docked at the meager ice pier. The ice pier this year has been an ongoing problem child. The original ice pier drifted out to sea in a storm, and so a new one was started. Warm temperatures kept the layers from freezing solid, leaving most of the nine feet of ice a slushy mess, hardly to be trusted for driving vehicles on. The aging Green Wave, this year’s cargo vessel, arrived nearly empty because of the need to carry it’s own floating causeway system to replace the inadequate pier. The work of offloading and assembling the floating pier system has begun, but appears to be moving painfully slow. After years of jobs directly tied to the offload of the cargo ship, it is both strange and wonderful to be leaving before the real work begins.

I would love to see this progress. I’d love to see the shipping channel open further. I’d love to see the influx of orcas and emperors. But it is time to go. And more than the Antarctic wildlife, and the comings and goings of boat season, I can’t wait to put my feet in the grass, to inhale the scent of anything growing, to indulge in fresh food and beer on tap, to bask in a warm sun, and to fall asleep in the dark of night. There is this moment, when the plane touches down, that the first hint of humidity seeps into the aircraft. It happens before any door is opened. And there is so much relief in that moment, to have made it back to the world. The following day always brings an allergy attack (and I don’t have allergies anywhere else in the world) as my system is overwhelmed entirely, but in those first moments, there is nothing but joy and relief.

The snow has stopped for the timebeing, but the wind howls, and whitecaps rise on the ocean. As I fall asleep tonight, I will cross my fingers and hope with all my might that the weather calms, and the skies clear, so that my hulking metal chariot arrives on schedule tomorrow. 

A Year of Hiking, Week 5: Ob Hill Loop

McMURDO STATION, ANTARCTICA

Black and white and gray is all that the world has on offer today. The usual variations in the color of the rock, illuminated in the sun, are muted today by the overcast skies, and so instead, the hills appear coal black, tumbling down to the frozen white sea below. Open pools of water are grey and glassy. On the back side of Ob Hill, the wind drops off suddenly and the whole world is still. I stop for a moment and spot a single Emperor Penguin, nestled just below a small ridge in the snow so that only his head peaks out about the hill. The only sound is the watery breath of a seal in the pool below. I can’t spot the owner of the gasps, but assume it is a Weddell clinging close to the ice edge. A tiny iceberg bobs in the otherwise open pool. I walk on a bit, and as hut point comes into view, I look back over my shoulder to catch a glimpse of a single Minke whale grazing the surface. I had heard there had been some whale spottings, but hadn’t expected to see any in today’s flat white light. The lowhanging clouds obliterate both the mountains across the sound, and the airfield out on the sea ice. I am thankful for the silence, for the complete lack of any sign of a human being except the trail blazed in front of me.  

Grey skies

A lone Emperor peeks up over a ridge.