I'm writing this to you from inside of my sleeping bag sprawled out in the back of Shannon the Subaru, which I should mention is pronounced Sue-BAR-oo by the Kiwis.
|Top is where we parked and slept, bottom is the view we had.|
The sound of waves crashing up against the beach is louder than casual conversation, so it's better to just sit still and listen. New Zealand is a good place to run around crazily, but it will inevitably force you to be stilled by its beauty.
|View from the Rainbow Warrior memorial site.|
You have to stop every once in awhile--in my case, about ten times daily--to allow yourself to gawk in amazement at the green hills that pop with color when the sun shines sideways on them from above, to admire clumsy little lambs fumble over mounds of thick grass to stick close to their mothers, to watch waves consistently wash up new shells on the sand, to breathe in the deep aroma of a "long black" (two shots of espresso cut slightly with hot water), to pull over at a turnout before descending into a valley walled in by a bay, to attempt pronouncing Maori words that name most of the townships we pass through, to eat Cadbury chocolate, to eat black licorice, to contemplate the source of the waterfalls and their mist, and to look back over photos that were taken moments earlier to remind oneself that this is not a dream.