Better than Emirates First Class. Seriously.

Oct. 27 (Sunday)

Honestly, I thought I was a world-class money-spender. A classic spendthrift. But I am NOTHING compared to my sister. She’s put us in a paradise even more luxurious than the Marlborough, and I AM HERE FOR IT.

Our sojourn in Murcheson got even more exciting. Not only did the ONLY road out of town (or so we thought) have a wash-out ahead of us (which apparently consisted of an overflowing river AND several boulders threatening to come down the mountainside) but also had a wash-out BEHIND us. No getting in; no getting out. No one in Murcheson was going anywhere.

“Does this happen often?” Twig asked the kindly Kiwi at the Murcheson Museum.

“Oh, only maybe four times a year?” she said. (Only she really said “Eow, ohnli mybee fa tahms a yiah?” LOVE that accent. She also told us one of the major industries in the area before Covid had been deerers. “Like, herds of deer?” Twig asked. “Nah—like milk and cheese. Deerers.” “Oh. Dairies?” “Roight. Deerers.”)

Fortunately the owners of the Grand Suites Murcheson could not have been lovelier. No one who had a reservation could get in, so they were happy to have us stay as long as we wanted. And Twig really ought to be put in charge of invading Armies, because she is ON THE SPOT with the new plan. Apparently if we could get to Reefton, all the washed-out roads to Arthur’s Pass were now clear—but getting to Reefton was (insert shrugged shoulders and What The Hell Can You Do About It smiles. You know--boulders.).

So Twig and Harry developed a second plan: As soon as the road behind us cleared, we’d head back north to the town of Nelson, which had two very big advantages over Arthur’s Pass. First, it had the Pīhopa Retreat—more about that in a moment. And second, Nelson has an airport that could get us to Aukland for our flight home on the 31st. In contrast, Arthur’s Pass had a fresh six inches of snow on the ground (after telling Twig the weather there at this time of year could get up to 70F) and more storms in the forecast; who’s to say more roads wouldn’t get washed out, dooming us to more delay and missing our flights?

I DID meet a man outside the museum who wanted to know where we came from. “The US,” I replied, “Just outside of Washington, DC.”

“Yeah, nah,” he said. “I mean where’d you come from?”

“Um, Marlborough?”

“Yeh? And where you want to go?”

“Arthur’s Pass.”

He squinted and eyed me judgmentally. “And what kind of cah ah ye drivin, can I ask?”

“Toyota RAV-4.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Alpine Springs Road. Take you all the way to Reefton.”

“Is that right? It’s not on the map, is it?”

“Well, nah. It’s not for the faint of heart, that road…”

“Ah. I see. Well, I’ll ask my sister and her husband.” (Knowing that there was NO WAY we’d be risking a not-for-the-faint-of-heart road, but absolutely loving the conversation.)

“Yeh. Roit. Cheers, then.”

I waved as he drove off. He waved back, and I knew HE knew we’d be waiting until Route Six opened up for the road back to Nelson. Alas for a New Zealander’s adventurous spirit!

And then the road to Nelson DID clear, and Twig and Harry swung into action. The wilderness lodge at Arthur's Pass was canceled, as was the extra night in Christchurch. The Pīhopa Retreat was alerted that we were on our way. The rental car company was informed that we'd be leaving the car in Nelson, not Christchurch. Our reservations on Air New Zealand from Christchurch to Aukland were changed to Nelson to Aukland. In the course of about ten minutes, Twig the world's most magnificent strategist had us totally reallocated, and we were off. So now here I am in the most posh cottage ever known. Twig and Harry have already decided to drive an hour away to the Abel Tasmen park where they’re going to go for a nice long hike tomorrow; did I want to go with them?

FUCK NO.

I’m going to stay here in an armchair by the fire (until I decide to curl up on the huge bed for a nap) (or soak in the massive bathtub) FOR THE ENTIRE DAY.

I’ve already succumbed to the first overt sugar I’ve eaten on this trip (not strictly true; I had a small scoop of lemon sorbet on the ship and three bites of a crème brulee) and ate an entire chocolate bar made with Manuka honey that wasn’t even that good—but if you say “no thank you” for week after week, eventually the “no thank yous” mount up to such an epic volume that when confronted with the immense relief of no longer driving on the wrong side of the road in a strange city, when suddenly being catapulted into overwhelming luxury, I found I was unable to say “no thank you” even one more time. So—bad chocolate bar.

And I don’t even feel bad about it.

(Although I hope this isn’t the thin end of the wedge; the camels’ nose under the tent. I hope my “no thank yous” have now been recharged and refilled. I’ll find out tonight when we go to dinner.)

Here are photos of the cottage I’m staying in, blissfully alone. You should definitely envy me, because I’m once again dipping hard into Rusty’s inheritance. And once again, I LIKE IT A LOT!!

If I really do nothing tomorrow, I’m not going to blog. Might not come home at all. Just FYI.