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:: Frances' Blueprint
July 2, 2000
Frances' Blueprint
The South Island, New Zealand
Chicago's Museum of Science and Industry. The Transit Museum in Brooklyn. The Museum of Television and Radio in Manhattan. To this list of favorites I've added Te Papa, New Zealand's national museum in Wellington.
I spent four hours at Te Papa roaming among impressive exhibits including the yellow and red feathered helmet and cloak gifted to Captain James Cook in 1779 by the high chief on the island of Hawaii. But my spontaneous discovery of an art exhibit tucked away in the Aarangi Room influenced my travel throughout the South Island.
"Journey of the Heart," told the story of "The Travels of Frances Hodgkins." Born in 1869, Frances left her home in Dunedin, New Zealand at the age of thirty-one to study painting for a year. Except for returning home briefly after her mother's death, for the next forty-seven years of her life she never came back. In a letter home Frances wrote, "...perhaps I ought to have been content with what was a very interesting life but I felt I was only groping; that I had not realized myself..."
I checked to confirm Dunedin's inclusion on my itinerary. I was compelled to learn more about the woman whose insatiable yen for travel echoed familiar, a woman who, after leaving New Zealand in 1901, had no permanent home, yet established long-term friendships and acquired international acclaim as a painter. Perhaps by learning more about Frances' life, I would somehow inform my own.
On the Interisland Ferry to Picton I met Claire. I don't recall who said what to whom first but it was a short three-hour ride.
"So how come you don't eat pretzels in New Zealand?" I wanted to know.
Claire's face wrinkled. "Of course we eat pretzels."
"That's not the opinion of the guy at the snack counter. Besides, I've been to the New World supermarket three times. No pretzels."
"Gina, we have pretzels in New Zealand." I told Claire I'd take her word for it.
We continued our conversation another five hours on Tranz Rail's Coastal Pacific to Christchurch, the South Island's largest city.
The Tranz Rail is a privately owned consortium, which operates New Zealand's railways. It also connects with the Intercity Coach Line and together they transport tourists and Kiwis across the country on a schedule that puts Swiss timing to shame.
Claire was starting a new job the next day. My revised world itinerary was in the making and a mystery beyond Australia. No, I don't have any children. Claire has two.
Claire suggested we walk back to the observation deck so I could snap a picture of the Kaikoura Mountains and coastline. It was too windy and fast. At the next station the conductor announced a five-minute stop. Claire said, "Let's get off. You can get a good picture here."
"Uh, I don't think I have time, Claire," I said looking at one of the rail attendants giving me the hairy eyeball.
"Oh, sure you do. Run! I'll hold your bag." Claire grabbed my backpack, I ran over - click - and back just as the attendant motioned all aboard.
We scrambled to our seats, giggling like teenagers. Facing each other across the table, I leaned in and whispered, "This may sound strange but I've been wondering about something ever since I got to New Zealand."
Claire smiled with curiosity.
"What's with the half moon and full moon buttons on the toilet?"
We cracked up as Claire confirmed my water conservation hypothesis. Later we picked up Delores who was visiting her son in Christchurch. Claire and Delores talked Kiwi as I listened to the lyricism and vocabulary of New Zealand English.
When we disembarked the Coastal Pacific at Christchurch, Delores waved goodbye. Claire introduced me to her husband. Then we exchanged business cards and hugs.
From Christchurch I traveled 230 kilometers northwest on the Tranz Alpine to Greymouth. As I sped from the Pacific Ocean to the Tasman Sea, I crossed the flat Canterbury Plains, then followed the Waimakariri River through mountain gorges and the Otira Tunnel beneath the spectacular Southern Alps.
I was in Greymouth just long enough to connect to the bus for the 189 kilometer ride to Franz Josef Glacier.
With the help of a guide, his pickaxe and specially designed footgear with metal teeth, I climbed icefall terrain normally traversed only by experienced mountaineers.
Queenstown, the adventure capital of New Zealand and my next stop, was a bust due to unexpected heavy snow and ice. But the weather let up just in time for my bus to travel to the southwest corner of the island for an eye-popping two-hour cruise through the Milford Sound. A one-night stay in Te Anau and I was off the next morning to Dunedin.
At last, Frances and I could pick up where we left off.
The folks at the Early Settlers Museum led me to the Hocken Public Library and finally, the Otago University bookstore. Otago had two books left on Frances - a biography and the complete collection of her letters. I bought both.
Ten years ago I wondered, "How does one travel around the world? How does one step out of a well-established life to follow the dream?" I've answered those questions. But now new ones emerge.
There's a rhythm to the randomness, the moment-by-moment living, the coming and going of buses, trains and people. The energy of change becomes the rule rather than the exception. Ideas, epiphanies and new models for living move round like carousel horses, individual colors blending into a kaleidoscope of continuity, a mosaic whose image becomes clear when seen from a distance.
Frances' books were heavy. I wanted to ship them home. I wanted to read them right outside the Otago bookstore in the middle of Great Kings Street. I wanted to curl up with them on dark cricketed nights when I couldn't remember the why behind this journey. I want to know. I think Frances knows.
Back in Christchurch, my final stop in New Zealand, I venture to the Kaikoura coast one last time to see the whales. They surface. Breathe. Then dive down deep again.
A package is waiting for me at the hotel.
"Is it your birthday?" asks the reception clerk.
"No, it's not. Even better." I fondle the bundle through the wrapping paper. Whatever it is, it feels broken.
Back in my room, I read the card. It's from Claire.
A bag of pretzels.
I laugh out loud. It's coming back to me, now. The why behind this journey. I open the bag, climb under the covers and turn to a page in Frances' book.
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