By the time we rolled into Akaroa, we’d been on the move for about 30 hours. Car, bus, plane, bus’ish, plane, plane, car, including a 13 hour stretch from Los Angeles to Auckland trying to sleep while origamied into American Airlines’ notion of “economy” seats.

But worth it. Not that we’re not ready to get horizontal and catch some not-in-motion snooze hours and reacquaint ourselves with the wonder that is the hot shower. But hey, back when the “speedy” clipper ships were doing it, Seattle to New Zealand or Australia could take six months. And time savings notwithstanding, the American Airline route practically eliminates the risk of scurvy, or getting washed overboard in a storm.

Honestly, the thing I was most worried about was after we landed. I’d be the one tasked with driving our bright-green low-budget camper van the hour and a half over winding mountain roads to Akaroa, in the fog and rain. One the wrong side of the street, mind you, and after those 28 or so hours of the aforementioned transit.

Turned out not to be an issue. The road wasn’t nearly as windy (/ˈwɪn.di/) or windy (/ˈwaɪn.dɪ/ – damned bastard language) as I’d remembered, and the scenery, popping in and out of the clouds coming down into the collapsed caldera that is now Akaroa harbor was spectacular enough to keep us on our toes. I mean, without being so distracting that we followed it off the edge of the aforementioned windy (you get to choose) road.

I made it back to New Zealand in 2017 – unnervingly, like now, about a week into the previous term of our current president. I remembered being a student in France during the Reagan years, and feeling like nearly every Frenchman I met personally blamed me for his re-election. In contrast, in 2017, when my traveling companion and I pulled into the truck stop near Arthur’s Pass, cold and wet, the grandmotherly lady behind the counter looked us over as she handed us tea and hot soup. “You’re Americans, are you?” We nodded and cringed, waiting for the onslaught. But she shook her head and smiled. “You poor dears. You don’t have to go back, you know. You could stay here…”

But speaking of disasters, the last time I was in Akaroa proper, and the only time Devon’s been here, or pretty much anywhere in New Zealand, was back in February of 2011. February 22nd. We were out on a boat in the harbor with the kids, doing a “swim with the dolphins” thing when the earthquake hit. Needless to say, we didn’t get to stick around and see as much of the town as we’d hoped.

I’m not going to say “no disasters, natural or otherwise yet.” Because, while I don’t believe in jinxes, I do believe in irony. But the weather’s supposed to clear mid-morning, and we’ll get to see then what Akaroa has to offer us this time. I’ll keep you posted.