Back from New Zealand and Filling the Well

 

Auckland, New Zealand and the 40-storey high rise
I called home for six weeks. Waving from Floor 24! 

Hello, Everyone! I'm finally back in Albuquerque and the high desert after six amazing weeks staying ("luxuriating" might be the better term) in downtown Auckland, NZ.

Until today, I haven't blogged for weeks. Months. It wasn't intentional. Before I left home I had all kinds of sincere plans to keep posting and sharing my life down under, but the truth is that after only a few days in my lovely apartment I decided I was on vacation. 

Instead of blogging--or any other kind of writing for that matter--I spent my time visiting wonderful friends, going to the movies, shopping at every bookstore I could find (I ended up bringing home a total of ten paperbacks. "Heavy" doesn't begin to describe my carry-on load.), eating at incredible restaurants (NZ food is still the best in the world), exploring Auckland's very clean and very green neighborhoods, and yes, sketching every chance I could with a small watercolor set I bought at the art museum. 

The sketchbook I used was one I found in a great little stationery store called Typo which appealed to me not just because of the name, but for what they carried, too. I managed to fill the entire book with my impressions including a day trip to Bethell's Beach (my husband's favorite childhood hang-out) where some Buddhist monks were also admiring the scenery.

Just a few miles outside of downtown . . .

I couldn't eat of enough of these.

Rain or shine, I never tired of the view.

 

A long time ago--decades ago--Auckland was home. New Zealand is where I finished high school, attended the university, got my first job, and most especially, it's where I met my husband. It's also where I became deeply influenced by the country's art--especially ceramics--as well as the literature, music, film making, and overall sense of "do-it-yourself." When I stop to think about it, I really have to say that without New Zealand there's no "me," nor is there any of my writing starting with my YA novel Better Than Perfect set in suburban Auckland. Without New Zealand, I don't think I would ever have ventured into art, beading, and pottery. New Zealand set the stage for the rest of my life, even being the reason I ended up in Albuquerque thanks to my husband's own unique business brand originating in, where else, but New Zealand.

But regardless of the past and all it means to me, returning wasn't easy. I had been gone for a long time, and Auckland has changed so much it took me several confused weeks to even know where I was. One of the strangest things was I had completely forgotten that Auckland is built on a series of hills and that walking anywhere can often feel like mountain-climbing. More than once, puffing my way home with an armful of books and groceries, I couldn't help but marvel at how strong I must have been in the "old days." Not once as a student had I ever thought it was difficult, or unusual, to run up and down numerous ravines to get to a lecture or to meet with friends for lunch in the park.

Besides feeling that I was on some kind of endurance test just to buy a sandwich, I couldn't help but also feel a genuine sadness at how much of the past had disappeared. Beloved shops and buildings had not only been demolished, but the buildings and businesses replacing them were light years away from my memories. Where there had once been shops selling gumboots and sheepskins I now found Prada and Tiffany's, Dior and Ferrari. Very fancy, very international, but oh, how I longed for the innocence and simplicity of the past when we only had one television channel and talked all night over a jug of beer rather than cocktails. I hope I didn't become too boring with my constant questioning: "Where is . . .?" "When did they go out of business?" "Where can I get a lamington and an asparagus roll? You know, afternoon tea?" 

Oh, well. Enjoy the new and go with the flow. And I finally, after a lot of searching, did find a lamington during a visit to the sugar factory. Yum!

A difficult choice between raspberry or chocolate. 
Both with the obligatory cream and coconut.

To prove I did more than look for cake, here are some other highlights:

Loved taking the ferries to cross the harbor.

As well as the places the boats landed,
e.g., Waiheke Island for lunch.

Coming back to town. Queen Street view
from the Ferry Terminal (pictured below).

My daily route on the way to buy groceries,
books, and art supplies.

One of the many views from my living room: I never stepped
onto the balcony, not once!

Although I did sit close enough to the window to
sketch my cardigan drying in the sunlight.

Auckland University's "wedding cake" where
I spent four years studying Spanish Lit. and politics.
It's also where I was led to eventually meet my
literary mentor, the late author, Hugh Cook.

Auckland War Memorial Museum, always my "go to"
on a rainy day, both in the past and this visit too.

Because who can resist a Giant Moa?

Or a gaggle of kiwis? (Don't ask why they have
a ferret friend. I have no idea.)

The Maori displays at the museum were unfortunately closed
for renovation, but these carvings inside the Auckland Library were a
good compensation for what I missed.

As was this contemporary Maori sculpture
at the Auckland Art Gallery (below), two blocks from my apartment.

Rangitoto, Auckland's most scenic volcano.
Photo taken at Takapuna Beach only hours before
a cyclone hit.

Last view of the Sky Tower.
I'll be back!

As I mentioned at the beginning of this post, I had truly planned to continue blogging when I set out on my travels. I didn't mean to stop, or for so long, but I'm glad I did. Because, more than anything else, I needed a break--from everything. I needed a genuine vacation; a chance to rest, watch the sunrise, read, go slow and in particular: fill the well. New Zealand, even this modern, unfamiliar version, gave me that in bucket loads. I feel re-inspired to paint, design more jewelry, and to keep writing. More than anything, I feel inspired to meet the future, not just dwell on the past.

Tip of the Day: One of the things I love best about travel sketching is how easy, and quick, it is to capture mood and atmosphere for future writing. Whether it's laying down an abstract watercolor wash in neutral grays, or going for a more detailed study of the greens and blues of sea, sky, and land, there's something about the physical act of painting and/or drawing, especially with some accompanying notes to the page, that a photograph can never duplicate. On this particular trip, I deliberately left my sketch kit at home so that I could check out, and purchase, foreign supplies. It was a good decision and one I recommend to anyone else wanting to experiment with some sketching of their own. Best of all, now that I know where the art supply stores are, I'll know exactly where to go on my next visit!

Remembering Hugh Cook

Here’s what I’m thinking: If I hadn’t jumped up on a hot spring day in Auckland, New Zealand in the middle of an interminable political studies tutorial and declared myself an anarchist because I couldn’t think of anything else to say, I would never have met the late New Zealand author, Hugh Cook, and I would never have become a writer. Unraveling this tangle of clues I also know I would not be writing this blog, or publishing my new book, or even maintaining a Facebook page if it were not for Hugh.

Why I signed up for that dreadful class on Scandinavian politics is still a mystery to me. I was in my third year at Auckland University, majoring in Spanish (taught by Welsh professors who insisted we speak with a dithinct Barthelona acthent) and for some crazy reason thought political studies would make a nice fit with Marquez and Lorca. I think I had the misguided notion the professors would be showing Ingmar Bergman films all day, or serving smorgasbord for lunch—whatever, the class was a horrible mistake. Instead of “Wild Strawberries” we studied middle-class voting statistics. The class was sheer torture and for no good reason except that I was bored, I remember standing up, the lone American in a sea of Kiwis (long story for another post), and shouting to some fellow idiot, “I don’t care what you think because I’m an anarchist.” After the few seconds of stunned silence and airless horror, the class became quite animated. Within minutes I’d been invited to several sit-ins, a street march to protest student fees, and numerous action groups. Except for one very interesting woman sitting next to me that day and who had just returned from Viet Nam where she had been working in an orphanage, I thought they were all nuts. I was also highly embarrassed. Despite my red face, the interesting woman promptly invited me home for lunch to discuss anarchy in what turned out to be a very civil setting. We soon became good friends, and from there I met an entirely new set of creative and fascinating people, including a fun-loving girl who introduced me to her best friend who before any of us knew it had fallen in love with the up and coming young New Zealand writer, Hugh Cook. And that was a shock because Hugh at the time was known as an eccentric, irascible, unromantic curmudgeon who delighted in writing cynical poetry for Craccum, the university newspaper. He scared me to death and I hoped I’d never have to meet him.

Fast forward a couple of years to London where I was working as an executive secretary in Europe’s largest advertising agency (yes, it was a lot like Mad Men. A lot.). One day as I was walking home from work, taking my usual route via up Regent’s Street and about to stop in at the chemist’s for soap and toothpaste, suddenly right in front of me was Isla in brilliant Madras plaid on a glorious summer evening all blue and pink and gold like her dress. I remember the sun shining off Isla’s freshly hennaed hair and that she was wearing hot pink lipstick and she was just so sunny, nothing like her old New Zealand gray-cardigan-black-skirt self. She was dazzling. The surprise of meeting was overwhelming to both of us. I think we started screaming and jumping around and in a rush of words and unrelated phrases while she told me that she had married Hugh and that his first book, Plague Summer, had just been published. It was for sale in the New Zealand bookstore in the Strand and I had to see it, and, and, and. Our thoughts were all jumbled in the excitement of finding each other unexpectedly in London. Our adult lives were finally just starting out and there were so many stories to tell. But more than anything I will never forget the thrill I felt when I learned that someone I knew had actually written and published a book, a real book, and it was for sale in a bookstore.

Within hours that night my husband and I were having dinner and a nonstop conversation with Hugh and Isla that lasted for hours. For the next several months we stayed together as a tight group: tea at the Ritz; art exhibitions at the Royal Academy; drinking tequila on my birthday; Isla and I rowing in Hyde Park. And Hugh was so much fun. Kind, sweet, witty; he was nothing like his Craccum persona. When he learned that I harbored a desire to write, he invited me to afternoon tea because he wanted to help me.

Try as I might, I can’t remember if we went to Fortnum & Mason’s or some funny little place off Charing Cross Road. It was after all, a long time ago. But wherever it was we went, for me it was one of the best and most important afternoons of my life. Although we talked about many aspects of writing, the one thing that has always stuck with me was Hugh’s injunction that I buy a journal and “write every day.” He told me that if I did that I would be a writer and that he believed in me. I have never forgotten his words, and I have done my best to follow them.

At the end of that year my husband and I moved to San Francisco and Hugh and Isla left the UK to continue exploring the world before returning to NZ. And then one day out of the blue, Isla came to visit me in America on her own. When she arrived, she told me she and Hugh were too different from each other and they had grown apart. Eventually after she got a job and her own apartment, she admitted to me that she had decided not to go back to New Zealand. I was devastated. She and Hugh were the first couple in my immediate peer group to divorce and it frightened me. I didn’t know what to think or feel, but I was smart enough to know it wasn’t my place to interfere in their decision.

The last time I saw Hugh was at his home in Auckland. Isla had sent me to pick up her belongings: a box of clothes, books, and table linens. Hugh was glad to see me, glad I was writing, and especially glad to get rid of Isla’s stuff, but the visit was too loaded with emotional baggage to be as comfortable or as easy as our socializing had been in the past. While we parted on a friendly note, I knew that by representing Isla I had “taken sides” in their divorce and that I wouldn’t be seeing Hugh again. When I published my first book, a nonfiction book about New Zealand for young readers, I did my best to thank him by including mention of his acclaimed The Wizards and The Warriors series. After that I learned Hugh had moved to Japan, remarried, had a daughter, and of course continued to write his heart out. He also became very ill.

Last year, Hugh passed away from brain cancer. His memoir Cancer Patient details much of his thoughts, treatment, and grueling experiences with the disease. The other day on Twitter I saw someone had written, perhaps because of the approaching anniversary of his death: Hugh Cook was the best sci-fi writer ever! I wanted to add my own hearty “yes” to that. Yes, he was and I’m so glad his fans are still as prolific as his writing.

In a tragic side note, Isla also died far too young many years ago in California. She had also remarried, leaving behind two children. There rarely is a day that I haven’t thought of her or Hugh in one way or the other, especially now as I am preparing to release my next book. Every time I pick up my pen and journal, I hear Hugh telling me that to be a writer I must write. Although our lives circled in different orbits, the memories of those unique friendships continues to prod and inspire me. So I just wanted to say thank you, Hugh. And thank you, Isla. Thank you to everyone who has encouraged and helped me to be a writer. I hope I can pass the magic on.

Tip of the Day: List your mentors. How did they help you to become who you are today? Thank them by simply following their advice the best way you can.