Kindness of Strangers

Friday, November 21, 2008

We find ourselves in Windy Wellington, the capital city’s nickname based on its famous weather conditions. In 1968 a ferry boat capsized just off Wellington’s shore in windy weather, killing 15 people – not what you want to read in your Lonely Planet guide as you negotiate your way into the city via the Interislander, a ferry that connects the north and south islands, which is what we did two nights ago. It’s a beautiful ride, surrounded by lovely vistas and stunningly blue water. But we were tired. We had spent the day driving from Christchurch, winding our way through Dr. Suess hills, cartoonishly green bumps sprinkled with crazy palm trees. We passed through the town of Kaikoura, where craggy, snow-capped peaks dramatically descend into the cobalt waters below. If only there was more time.

By the time we reached Wellington, we were ready to crash. It’s not a big city, particularly by capital city standards – just 100,000 people. But in a sparsely populated country of four million people, where sheep outnumber humans (honestly), it felt huge. We circled the block to find a parking spot, finally settling on one across the street from our hotel. The sign said we should vacate by 9 am, and the owner of the hotel said as long as we moved it by 8 am we should be fine.

I awoke at 9 the next morning and found Tim flipping through a phone book. “We need to move our car,” I said. Tim said, “There’s one other thing we need to do first.” My stomach sank. “They towed our car, didn’t they?” “Yep,” confirmed Tim. He had gone to move the car at 8 am, and found the street eerily free of vehicles.

Apparently, we had missed the small sign, cloaked by darkness, 30 meters away from our car that read, “Clear Way, 7 to 9 am.”

I’ve never had a car towed in my life, but I’ve seen the signs in the US, threatening $500 fines. This would be much worse than the ill-fated fine we received in the Portuguese toll booth. And we would waste our whole day getting the car out of the impound lot. I imagined having to decode Wellington’s undoubtedly complicated bus system to find the lot in the next town over, where a surly Kiwi with a wool knit stocking cap would be holding our car hostage, demanding to keep our passports in his possession until the check cleared.

Tim and Maikael set out to free the car. The gentleman at the front desk – the absent-minded one who had told us the car was fine until 8 am — called City Hall to help us locate our car. Apparently, it was parked in an unsecured lot just a few blocks away. Not only did the city have the decency to tow it to a convenient location, but a ticket was slapped on the windshield, allowing us to pay the ticket online and take the car immediately. The staggering cost? About $110 NZ, which comes to about $60 US.

Before coming to New Zealand, we were warned about speeding tickets. An Aussie told us that, in 50 years of driving, he had only received two speeding tickets, both in New Zealand. They will zing you for driving one or two kilometers over the speed limit, but apologize profusely while issuing the ticket. Our tow was the equivalent gesture, the embodiment of that famously polite “aw shucks” Kiwi attitude: while they hated to tow us, they would make the whole ordeal as easy as possible.

Just like Wellington’s blustery weather, which can turn on a dime, the day improved quickly. After fortifying ourselves with breakfast at Sweet Mother’s Kitchen, boasting cuisine from the Southern US (the menu helpfully translated: huevos rancheros [ranch-style eggs]), we spent the morning wandering through the city. I expected it to be much larger, but it’s really a collection of cool boutiques, tons of bookstores (at Arty Bees, one section of books was titled, “Whining About NZ/NZ Politics”), funky coffee shops, good pubs, and an eclectic mix of eating establishments (I was bummed that the Maori restaurant had closed). We didn’t have time for the tour of Parliament, but saw its neighbor, the spectacularly ugly Beehive. A modern architecture monstrosity, the Beehive houses office workers who buzz around the concrete, beehive-shaped building, which I expected to be delicate, soft, and creme-colored (maybe with cute little bees painted on the side of the building?), but most certainly isn’t.

Next stop, the Embassy Theatre, which hosted the world premiere of Lord of the Rings. Although it was completely refurbished for the premiere, the outside of the theatre is charmingly unassuming, just like New Zealand itself. Hand-lettered signs, advertising Show of Hands, a new Kiwi flick, as well as the new 007 movie, graced the front of the theatre. An entire New Zealand movie industry has sprang up in the wake of Peter Jackson’s success, most of it based in Wellington, whose second nickname is Wellywood. We flipped through the newspaper, noticing that movies that were released six months ago in the US were finally being released here. Even movies that were opening in Australia when we were there a month ago haven’t premiered here yet. The manager at our hotel explained the connection between lagging openings and a burgeoning film industry: “It takes so long to get movies here that we just make our own.” I was eager to see a Kiwi movie, and Show of Hands was the perfect pick for the day: the movie begins with a meter maid who issues a ticket in the most polite way possible.

The movie was great fun, and we stayed to watch the credits roll to see where it was filmed, which I never do (as it turns out, New Plymouth). As we exited the theatre, people began filtering in. Suddenly, we were approached by an employee cradling a white basket filled with ice cream bars. “Would you like an ice cream cone?” he asked. We thought this was a very odd gesture at the end of a movie, but maybe they do things differently in the Southern Hemisphere, we thought? We stood there, dumbfounded by our luck, and had difficulty choosing between chocolate-covered vanilla or boysenberry ice cream; Maikael studied one of the cones and enthusiastically cried, “Two scoops!” After selecting our cones we thanked the guy profusely; I’m sure we looked like total rubes who had never encountered the mysteries of ice cream in our entire lives. As we made our way out of the theatre, Maikael innocently asked the employee, “So what’s playing next?” It was the premiere of the new 007 movie, and as we made our way into the opulent lobby, we were greeted by a wall of well-dressed people. Finally, we put two and two together: we were in the midst of some super special screening, and the guy had mistakenly thought that we were going into the theatre rather than coming out.

We practically skipped down the street, delighted by our ice cream cones and laughing at our good fortune. It was certainly better than spending the day at the impound lot.