Barging Into France

I expect to post a new note or two while I spend some time in France with an old boat neighbor... let me re-phrase that.. an "old boat" neighbor not an "old" boat neighbor. We elders get fussy about those detailed modifiers. Henri and his wife Sylvie have been magnanimous hosts during past visits and I hope to make it worth their time during this visit. We'll barge in the South, spend a little time in Provence and then return to their home in the Bordeaux region. I fully expect we will be able to lessen the vast oversupply of wine currently plaguing the country. Feel free to comment since I rarely read them anyway.

A New Low

Although my first paragraph or two here are aimed at my boating friends, I promise to get beyond the boring nautical details if you hang with me for a couple of minutes. This note is important to me and I hope to you as well.

Yesterday’s barometric pressure here in Milwaukee fell to 962 millibars (28.40 inches of mercury), the lowest recorded since the early 1900’s. This precipitous drop was accompanied by a sustained wind speed of 46 knots (53 mph) for a period of about 12 hours in the middle of the three day storm. Several gusts were recorded at 62 knots (72mph) which is only 1 mph below the official designation of “hurricane force” winds. Nevertheless, the sustained wind speed is classified as “strong gale” just a knot or two beneath “whole gale” and produced much wind damage locally here in Southeastern Wisconsin. With 100 year old Oak trees blown over, roofs lifted and semi trucks overturned it was an exciting couple of days that also produced the tallest wave ever recorded in Lake Michigan at a mind boggling 21.6 feet. Period and fetch information were not available as of this writing, but regardless, this is a lake. It’s not an ocean! Period and fetch will both be far shorter than any ocean storm and that makes this storm exceedingly dangerous if you are afloat. The turbulence of waves steep and short is the bane of all vessels regardless of size. The Edmund Fitzgerald, a 1000 foot steel ore carrier, encountered 30 – 40 foot waves in Lake Superior and sank with all hands.

During my lifetime, I have spent thousands of hours in boats on Lake Michigan including some scary storms that tested both me and the boat but I have never experienced anything larger than nine or ten feet in all those years. I cannot imagine nor do I wish to contemplate a 20 foot wave on Lake Michigan. This recent low was quite fearsome for anyone familiar with the Great Lakes, but it brings into sharper focus the merits of the concept of fear. Fear is healthy in small doses and I have learned (sometimes the hard way) to listen to its message. It is a valid warning of dangerous shoals ahead. Hence I come to my main concern in this Bad Whine letter.

Fear. I am afraid. Afraid for my grandchildren. (and soon to be Great Grandchild) Afraid for yours as well. Afraid for our nation. No, it is not about the vitriolic nature of these recent political campaigns, although I find them scary as Hell. No it is about something even more frightening. It is about the disappearance of the one life line necessary for our Ship of State’s safe passage. That crucial lifeline is tolerance. The disappearance of tolerance for anything I dislike or anyone not like me is a rapidly gathering storm that frightens me to death. “My way or the highway” has become this nation’s mantra, and “Live and let live” has disappeared in the black cloud of our collective fear-mongering. It is NOT a Republican or a Democrat problem, it is an AMERICAN problem. It is a raging divisive storm every single one of us must prepare to weather if we expect to come out of the other side of this intact.

Actually it is worse than divisive. Divisions amongst us will always be a part of our society because that is what being a democracy is about. A free society must always protect our right to be different. It must respect the divisions between us. But chasms? When a chasm becomes un-crossable, when it becomes a bridge too far, freedom will always reside on the opposite side, out of reach for anyone and everyone. That is where we are headed as a nation: Me, here on this side and you over there on the other side. Be it politics, money, ethnicity or any one of a myriad of recent chasms, if there is no way for us to join up and break bread together, none of us will be free.

Am I being overly dramatic? I truly hope so. However, I have several close friends who are not of the same political persuasion as me and I have noticed a reticence recently to broach subjects upon which we disagree. OK, respect and simple civility you say. Wrong… in the past, we were always able to discuss differing points of view and yes, many times quite heatedly as I recall. We no longer venture there. Not in good faith, not in satire, not even in jest. We reluctantly sidestep delving into deep differences because… why? Because neither of us wishes to lose a friendship over a clash of ideas. Because neither of us wishes to test the limits of our respective tolerance. Because both of us are afraid of what we may learn about ourselves and each other. Because there is no trust in our or their… tolerance. This is the crux of my fears. No tolerance, no civil discourse. Without civil discourse, how can one experience the intensity and validity of brilliant ideas in our increasingly digitally separated worlds regardless of the source? We cannot.

And thus deepens a new low in the history of our nation. A record low. Will this storm pass? I don’t know. Will we weather it intact? I don’t know. But I do know I must make an attempt to deflect its course. I will make a small personal change in my life; one tiny action to help deflect the damage of this raging storm of intolerance. I will listen to the arguments from the other side of the chasm without screaming that they are stupid. (Yes I have done that). I will make a supreme effort to see clearly to the other side of the chasm. Perhaps then it will not be quite so far from where I stand that I may still be able to throw a line all the way to the other side. And isn’t that how one begins to build a bridge?

The record low and its resulting local wind storm damage here in Bay View just a block off of Lake Michigan’s western shore had a good news/ bad news component. The good news? All of the leaves from my trees got blown into my neighbor’s yard. The bad news? I chased down the alley after my garbage container four times during the day. The last chase extended nearly the entire block before I brought it back and laid it safely on its side between my garage and my neighbor’s.

Are there any larger lessons here for me? Oh yes, and for you as well I might hope. First, although a strong breeze can cleanse the air, it can also wreak havoc. Think carefully and thoroughly about your desire for a fresh breeze and what it may bring along with it. Secondly, chasing after garbage down the alley is not all that much different than looking for Mr. Goodbar in today’s political climate. Absolutely fruitless unless you have the fortitude for due diligence. That necessitates one exercise the ability to see all the way to the other side of the chasm. Be forewarned, a thirty second TV spot will NEVER allow one to see the other side.

So why do I take up your time with this diatribe? I do not care what your political leanings are nor your station in life, but I do have a request. Go out and vote next week. I don’t care if it’s raining, snowing, sleeting, and your back is aching. A part of it is your responsibility and what you owe your family and friends. More importantly, you owe it to your country. Be a true patriot. It is small payback for your incredible good luck to live in this magnificent country of ours. And it IS ours… not mine… not yours. OURS.

Day Twenty – Chasing the Dawn

Although we are not leaving until 7 PM, the day flies by quickly repacking, viewing the pictures of Rick and Judith’s 6 year Dreamweaver cruise and a then a final “bit of a wander” with Rick around the property that is now his “deck.” Kris and I express our deep gratitude to Ray and Ann for making our trip so complete and all encompassing. Kris reminds Ray of their exchange three weeks ago when he asked what she wanted to see in NZ and she told him “everything.” He tersely replied, “Lady, I’m over eighty years old and even I haven’t seen “everything.” But on the contrary, we feel as though we have missed nothing thanks to him and his exquisite route map. A tearful parting over a glass of wine at the airport with Rick and Judith and then off to the second deck of direct flight NZ 6, a Boeing 747. The last time I was on the second deck of a 747 it was on a TWA plane and the second deck was a piano bar. Times change and now I’m displaying my advancing years once again. This second deck is half beds and half quite comfortable seats. Service was excellent and that included the meals. US Customs agents in LA were actually friendly. And that is a FIRST for me.

Since this will be the last of these reports to my son and friend Peg, I thought I might briefly sum up a few salient points about this fascinating country. Fuel is far more expensive than I had expected whether it is for your car OR your tummy. Much more so than I budgeted but then who ever stays within a budget on vacation? The people were exceedingly friendly regardless of which Island, City or Café one might happen to wander through. However, do NOT mention that you have friends in Auckland. Regardless of their apologies about the quality of NZ seconds, I found everything to be first class. Every public bathroom was spotless, signs easy to read and easier to understand. If the sign suggests a speed on the curve of 15 km per hour, BELIEVE it. I also now know that when a NZ map shows a coast road, it will rarely be in sight of the actual coast. When the map shows a straight line it will be lying. Do not look at a topographic map unless your heart is in excellent condition. I have learned that a bike can go uphill as well as down, a fact I was never aware of in Santa Monica Bay. (I feel no urgent need to test out this particular new nugget of knowledge but I am happy to pass it along.) When the menu says lamb, it really IS. I have observed that every store on every street in every city on both Islands has an overhang that covers the sidewalk, and have further deduced that it is not there to protect you from the sun. There is a reason why this country is green. I have learned that NZ Possum fur is warm and easily combined with Merino wool to make exceedingly expensive scarves and sweaters. In three weeks of driving mountain roads I read many signs warning of rocks on the road but never saw a single one. The road crews are magnificent with rock fall but their job description does not include picking up dead Possum road kill of which I stopped counting when I reached a thousand. I know that the possum is a nocturnal animal but don’t rocks sometimes fall in the night as well?

I am convinced digital cameras are the downfall of quality photography. When bytes are free, one’s trigger finger grows a callus. 96.37% of digital vacation photos should be deleted not copied. I took 791 photos, Kris snapped 368 plus I took about two minutes of video of the baby seals. Our photos of course, do not fall within the purview of my previous statement. I will edit same and include some with an edited and corrected version of the transcript from these past days. Anyone masochistic enough to wish a copy, contact me and I will forward a PDF file. My publisher is hoping there will be three or four salvageable paragraphs but I have warned her not to hold her breath. Special thanks to all of you who have read these missives for letting me into your private time. The granting of one’s time is far and away the most valuable gift of all. May the wind always be at your back, may the sun warm your face all your days and may every one of your dawns be sunny. RK

Day Nineteen – Chasing a Full Circle

Today we have only 150 kilometers to travel to return to the Clarke Homestead, soon to be the Turrell Homestead. I fill up the gas tank in Thames and look for a coffee shop because I am not a pleasant person without a strong morning waker-upper. Kristine will gladly attest to this truth as well may several of you. We stop at what appears to be a busy bakery in a working section of the town and when I notice a young Asian man behind the counter filling display shelves with great looking pastries, I immediately recall Rick’s specific warning many days ago. “During your travels you will stop in many bakeries for coffee and pies. Beware bakeries run by Asians,” he said, “their sweets look great but are inedible. They can work wonders with pork and a deep fryer, but sugary bakery is not their forte.” I’m glad I recalled those words because the bakery DID look great and I WAS tempted. Kris and I settled for a good coffee, (EVERY place in NZ has wonderful coffee. You just have to pay for the second cup) but she needed to drag me by the sleeve to get me away from the deep fried goods counter. Before 8AM this counter was chock full of deep fried chicken parts, deep fried pork chunks, deep fried hot dogs, deep fried spring rolls, deep fried lamb kebobs and several other deep fried un-recognizables. I will ingest ANYTHING deep fried, and this place was nirvana. I could live inside that display counter for a week… well maybe at least a day or two before my arteries congealed.

After nearly three weeks of driving and finding our way effortlessly through this beautiful country with its concise and accurate signage, the last 100 kilometers are the most confusing. Three separate roads with the same designation forced us to guess at the direction we needed to travel. Karma once again guided us directly into the Clarke driveway and Ray came out to greet two tired wanderers. The new house under construction now had walls and a roof and a floor and siding and… oh well you get the idea. It was looking like a real house. It was so real in fact that Rick and Judith along with her folks Ray and Ann had brought a picnic lunch out to it two days prior to our return. Ann fell off one of the steps and broke her arm. I was happy to report to her that the incident was exceptionally good luck because now no accident will ever happen in the finished home. I think the pain killers may have had something to do with her wane smile at my revelation.

Rick, Kris and I returned the rental car to the airport and stopped at the local butchery on the way home and I bought a large leg of lamb for our parting dinner that night. I paid $28 NZ for a piece of meat that would have cost $40 at any major grocery in the States. I thought it a terrific looking piece of meat but also remembered having at least half a dozen conversations in the past three weeks where Kiwis complained bitterly about everything produced in NZ as being of second quality. First quality goods were all exported. After Judith prepared the leg of lamb, I found the Kiwi complaints to be unworthy. It was one of the tastiest and tenderest lamb meals I have ever experienced. That “second” was a serious “first” in my mind. We easily emptied the two special bottles of wine Kris and I had brought from the vineyards and a hard rain drummed us to sleep. Our last full day in New Zealand and the end of one more outstanding day in a continual string of outstanding days. The full circle of this life episode is now nearly closed.

Day Eighteen – Chasing a Hot Bath

Once more it is raining as we depart and I opt for a no-walk around the harbor area but I do drive through a small boat yard because I spotted a sailboat of about 30 feet in length at a weird angle of heel while at anchor in the shallow bay and was curious. It turned out to be a design I recognize as British based on it sporting two bilge keels one port and one starboard on the hull. The tide was on the ebb (going out) and one bilge keel was on the mud while the other side of the hull was still slightly afloat. This type of design is common in areas with extreme tides like the one we were viewing. When 15 feet (5 meters) of water rushes out of the harbor and boats are left to rest in the mud, the twin bilge keels keep the boat upright until the tide comes back in and lifts the boat off the mud. My first cruising sailboat as a teenager in Wisconsin was a 19 foot pocket cruiser of this same design. The tidal range in Lake Michigan may only be less than 3 inches but I was told the twin keels would allow me to sail into bays much shallower than any other keelboat could access. This process of visiting small shallow bays is referred to as “gunkhole-ing” and no, I do not know the etiology of that term but I did take that boat into much shallow water. Often TOO shallow and my bilge keels both showed scars attesting to my thin water exploits.

Once again aiming the Toyota Puke northward, I was looking forward to our first stop, a small bay on the map labeled only as Hot Sand Beach. Again local knowledge alerted us to the place, having been recommended by the nice lady who had reminded us to turn on the bed warmers before we went out for dinner the night before. The Coromandel Peninsula appears to have been completely forested at one time but now is intensively logged as evidenced by the constant stream of double bottom log carriers flying at me around every sharp corner and rising over the top of every hill. The lanes are 8 foot wide and the trucks average about 9 foot wide. There are few side-of-the-road shoulders and those are rarely more than 2 feet except at turn outs for trucks going uphill. Also one must carefully consider tonnage rights when demanding one’s share of the lane since the Toyota Puke probably weighs less than one log being transported on a 20 log truck. As has been the case for the past two and a half weeks, gasps are audible from the passenger seat and I see more chocolate from the replenished supply disappear, but the sun has come out and the blue sky is radiant. In spite of the intensive logging, the road winds its way north through dense forests of pine varying in height signifying their respective age but also indicating a clear choice to harvest in a sustainable manner. Every now and again, one can glimpse a logged-over section and it is easy to see it confirms my theory about harvesting trees in a sustainable process. Nowhere is there evidence of the massive clear-cut logging that I have seen in many places in the world including the US.

Hot Sands Beach must be a bit of a misnomer since after walking a quarter of a mile the sand seems normal temperature (cold because it is winter) until we reach a group of about 30 people dressed only in swimming suits sitting around in mud puddles. They have dug little pits in the beach sand with rented shovels and are wallowing in the holes they have dug. After nearly three weeks here, my bathing suit is at the bottom of my suitcase with no expectation of ever seeing daylight and the sight of these intrepid folks doing a “hog” imitation would be humorous if my teeth were not chattering. Standing on one of the few “sandy” beaches we have come across, I marvel at the bravery of these hardy souls. When Kris steps into an unoccupied mudhole, she yelps and jumps backwards. The water is near boiling. . . well maybe not NEAR boiling but much hotter than a 106 degree hot tub.

The woman in the adjacent mud hole warns her to be careful because some to the pools are quite hot. The woman has an American accent and she and Kris start a conversation. The woman is here with her husband who is a Kiwi but they live and work in Ohio. She asks Kris where she is from and when Kris tells her Milwaukee, the husband says he had just been there a week ago. He mentions he works for a company in the marine supply business called Forespar. I chime in that I know of the firm as they are major providers of racing sailboat equipment that I have installed on several of the sailboats I’ve owned over the years. He then mentions a name of the one person he does business with in Milwaukee and of course, it is a person with whom Kris not only knows but shares a Board position with at the Community Sailing Center on the Lake Michigan waterfront back home. So here we are half way around the world, 10,000 miles from home in a tiny village with a population of 300 and the six degrees of separation has been reduced to two degrees. We do live in a mobile, global society. Kris and I exchange a few more words with them and continue to stroll the beach attempting to locate the source of the hot water that bubbles up into any depression one makes in the sand. Strangely enough, the sand is not hot to the touch nor on one’s feet, but when you scoop a few handfuls out, hot water immediately begins to fill the depression. Apparently it is only in this one section of approximately a hundred yards on a beach well over half a mile long that the phenomenon occurs. Nevertheless, just as when we drove through the Rotorua volcanic area with its many steaming lakes and ponds, I would feel a bit nervous being a resident here and living atop what can only be described as the lid of a huge pressure cooker.

Our next stop is a small city just across a bay about 25 kilometers up the coast but our map shows a ferry crossing so one is not forced to drive a 70 kilometer circuitous route to reach Whitianga. We still have not adjusted to the WH letter combination pronunciations as “EFF” and are corrected by a local but the ride is pleasant in the rolling hills and sunshine. Unfortunately, upon arriving at the ferry landing carpark, it is full. Then it becomes apparent. . . it is a passenger only ferry. We laugh and I am happy to report that although gas is about $8.00 US a gallon I am grateful the reliable little Toyota Puke gets about 40 miles to the gallon. We drive back out the way we came and do the around-the-bay-the-long-way trip only to find the little harbor town of Whitianga is missing the charm described so eloquently in the brochure. We can only assume the author of the brochure was a moonlighting wine label writer. We cross more small mountains to the western side of the peninsula and find an absolutely charming restaurant in an old hotel in Coromandel City but arrive well after the lunch hour.

The Pepper Tree owner invites is in to have seat anyway and produces an interesting menu that includes their entry into a country-wide “wild dish” contest sponsored by the NZ brewing company, Montieth. If you try the dish you get a free pint of an appropriately matched beer and a chance to vote on the entry’s “wildness.” I personally am not anxious to sample any dish that combines pork belly, shrimp and a local fish. Any or all of these items separately can entice me at any time of day but combined in one tall stack supported by green stuff and held together with glue that is allegedly edible makes me a reluctant experimenter. Call me chicken. The free beer and the opportunity to voice her opinion however, is more than enough to convince Kris to order it. I wolf down my large order of the local version of Fish and Chips done in a Tempura batter. Delicious. Kris is too stubborn to admit an error in judgment and declares the “wild dish” fabulous. The fact that she abhors pork belly is not mentioned in her raves.

Tomorrow we must return to Rick and Judith’s farm before 11 AM and so Kris and I find a small cabin on the shore of the Firth of Thames just north of the city of the same name. Sunset is only semi dramatic and Kris once again is able to dip her toe in another named body of water. My collection of Kris-with-toe-in-water shots is only exceeded by my collection of Kris-with-butt-facing-me shots. Waves crashing on a rock beach lull me to sleep quickly and deeply without a hot bath.

Day Seventeen – Chasing Solitude

Up early, we gaze out the large window to properly appreciate our view of the Lake Taupo and the far horizon where we came from yesterday. This morning those mountain tops are obscured by white clouds and the TV news announces that the Desert Highway is closed due to an early winter storm that has dumped 15 inches of snow across it. When we drove it yesterday, the sun shone brightly on the many sheep dotting the sides of the road and despite the wind, it was downright balmy. We take the news with a grain of salt but the picture on the front page of the local newspaper is of a helicopter hovering with a cargo net holding five or six sheep being airlifted to lower ground. Beneath the net are dozens more semi-buried-in-snow sheep awaiting their taxi ride to warmer climes. Weather Karma once again is overly kind to this New Zealand exploration. We are now quite pleased we did not stay that extra day in Wellington. The TV announcer also mentions that yesterday on his day off, he visited a most incredible place. He describes the small waterfall with the seal pups. He had visited it only one day after us and experienced exactly the same sense of magic as did we. Now everyone in NZ will know about this place and it will be so crowded as to be impossible to enjoy. Or maybe the pups will just stop coming when so many people are about.

Kris goes shopping while I “take a bit of a wander” as Rick would put it, but pull up short beneath the protruding nose of a McDonnell DC-3 aircraft. Renowned as one of the most efficient, safe and forgiving airplanes ever built, this one is now the main dining room of the local McDonald’s Hamburger Emporium. I chuckle at the irony of a McDonnell’s doing duty at a McDonald’s but soon find an empty coffee shop to sit down with a cappuccino to write this blog entry. Why is it that invariably when I choose the coffee shop because it is empty, it immediately fills up with parents and rug-rat offspring? In this instance, three moms with four kids and a screaming baby. They are impervious to their offspring’s annoying racket. This may be the only time I appreciate the New Zealand custom of no re-fills on coffee. I am too cheap to pay for a second cup (about $4.50 throughout the country) and therefore can leave sooner than I would have if they had re-filled my cup. I locate Kris but as we drive out of town, she realizes she has missed the best shopping district by one block. Alas, New Zealand roads are narrow and I am forced to keep going since I cannot find a wide spot in the road to do a U-turn. Kris thinks plenty of places are wide enough but like every woman I’ve ever known, she has spatial relationship issues and obviously is not qualified to assess the width of the safe U-turn distance.

Soon enough, scenic vistas and rushing waterfalls dull her sense of loss and we stop in the heart of the Rotorua Volcanic Area. Lunch consists of fries and “the World Famous Rotorua Lamb Burger.” At least this time they are not hyping it as the “best lamb-burger” in the world. With good reason I learn, as mine contains three large chunks of bone so I assume it is local lamb, ground locally, if imperfectly. The bone hunks do not affect the interesting taste however. As we drive through the national park, we pass numerous small streams and ponds with steam rising from them but having spent much time in Yellowstone, we stop seldom. Been there, done that, got the Tee shirt. Another narrow winding mountain road leads us to the base of the Coromandel Peninsula.

As dusk turns to night we locate a little two story motel at the harbor’s edge but the woman explains she has only an upper available. The price is a bargain… or so I thought. Twenty-two wet and slippery outdoor wooden steps later, I put down the two suitcases just inside the door. At once I know why she advised me to turn on the bed warmers before we went out to dinner. Three degrees colder and frost would cover all the surfaces inside of the rooms. Again, no internal heating except for a small electric heater in the living room and of course, the ubiquitous electric blankets. We turn them on and go out to find dinner. The only place open is what Kris describes as the “sorriest bar” she has ever seen in her life. We make do with a bit of cheese, bread and fruit left over from our car snacks. However, the bed is warm and the rooms clean in this isolated outpost of humanity replete with a large dollop of solitude. Kris may not have found any bargains in this morning’s shopping but we certainly found one here in Whangamata. That’s pronounced “Fangamata” for you Yanks.

Day Sixteen – Chasing a Rainbow

We rise early to the sounds of thunder and a hard rain and leave during same. Agreeing that our decision to bypass Wellington on the Queen’s Birthday (today) is the right one, we head off to Lake Taupo in the central highlands of the North Island. The rain stops but a wicked, warm crosswind screams in off the Tasman Sea and our last sight of that fabled body of water is one of raging, white surf blasting the rocky coastline as we head inland and of course, upwards. While the wind pipes up to about 40 knots, the road signs along the central “Desert Highway” which normally warn of frosty conditions now warn of high winds, but the road remains open. The miles along this “Desert Highway” are difficult driving as the Toyota Puke gets pushed all over the road. It is a challenge to keep it in my lane. We stop only twice, once for a streetcar museum a bit off the beaten path, but Kris snaps a few pictures for her “business deduction.” I am confused as to why there are several horses on the property until it occurs to me that really old streetcars were pulled by horses. Duh! Our only other stop is for a taste of the “world’s best lamb-burger” and I will remember it primarily by the grease spots it left on my favorite shirt.

In the space of a couple of hours, we traverse four entirely different geologic landmasses. It is as usual, quite picturesque driving in and out of a number of thunderstorm cells while bright sunshine is visible on distant peaks outlined by partial rainbows. At one juncture, we marvel at the most perfect rainbow either of us has ever seen. Coming over a hilltop, the rainbow extends over the entire horizon in a perfect half circle arc with every color of the spectrum brilliant and clearly delineated. I desperately look for a place to pull off the road but alas, no such luck on this narrow no-shoulder road. I doubt any photo attempt would capture the majesty of this sky filled with the half moon of color.

Lake Taupo is the largest lake in NZ and we follow along its eastern shore to the city where the TWIN PEAKS Motel speaks to us. Again, clean but as Kris explains to me, it has a bathroom designed by a man. “Huh? It looks just fine, modern and plenty of hot water pressure. What’s not to like?” I ask. She points out it has no shelves, no hooks, no soap or shampoo dish. I say, “What’s your point?” She rolls her eyes and asks about dinner. The innkeeper is a Brit and sends us next door to a British Pub. Hmmm. He claims the lamb shanks are to die for. They are terrific and against my better judgment I eat two of them, but in the interests of my arteries, I do not finish the garlic mashed potatoes and green stuff on the plate. I’ve now had Lamb Rump, Lamb Shanks, and Rack of Lamb in spite of Kris referring to me as the Baby Killer. I only regret that I cannot afford these lamb meals back in the US. Our view out of our hotel room is back across Lake Taupo looking towards the south where earlier in the day we had driven the wildly windy Desert Highway between two snow capped mountain ranges. The view is wonderful but it is not the end of our rainbow.