The Awful Day

The *NPR and I were beginning to experience the early onset of cabin fever so I decided we needed a mini holiday. It was near noon when I made this declaration and we spent the next few minutes throwing items into a small suitcase.

There had been some nasty weather up north near my uncle’s place and I thought I would head up there to check things out at his property. The nearest town to his home is a place where I had some interesting experiences last year so I thought I would "pop by," as they say here.

The plan was to spend the night in the small town and drive over to Hanmer Springs the next day to soak in the hot springs.

Before leaving, I called the inn in the small town to see if we could get a room for the night. They were all booked but they referred me to the local Motor Camp.

I found my way onto Highway 1 which skirts the west side of Christchurch and passes the airport. I was driving along, feeling the spirit of adventure welling up when I suddenly caught sight of a policemen waving me to the side of the road. I pulled over and fished in my purse for my license.

“Do you know the speed limit?” he asked.

“No.” I said.

“How long have you been in the country?” he asked.

“One week,” I said.

“The speed limit is 60 and I clocked you doing 77,” he said. “Wait here.”

While he went back to his patrol car I cursed myself for not being able to cry on command. The NPR made some comment about my being “busted” and I realized that there was more to driving in New Zealand than just remembering to stay in the left lane.

The officer returned and handed me my ticket which carried a fine of $120. He also explained that 20 demerit points had been added to my license. Those will remain on my record for two years and if I accrue 100 points in the next two years my license will be suspended.

Ouch.

I’m glad I didn’t burst into tears. I probably would have been given an additional citation for trying to emotionally manipulate one of her majesty’s Royal Grouch Guards whose motto, I believe, is “We’re huffy because we care.”

I set off as a reformed character and drove as if I was 80-years old and suffering from an advanced case of cataracts. I could feel the other motorists exasperation behind me but I wasn’t about to acquire any more demerits against my good name- on that or any other day, thank you very much.

We drove through some very pretty countryside and arrived at Small Town X in the early afternoon. I pulled into the service station owned by a man named L. He didn’t recognize me until I said his name and asked how he was doing. I explained that I had returned to NZ to do a PhD in Maori Studies at Lincoln and he proceeded to say that was pretty worthless and so were most Maori. I was appalled but I tried to be polite.

Next he launched into some speech about this local boy that I had met the year before. I should explain; the boy in question was much younger than me, nice enough and the whole town tried to play match maker with us. Those few weeks were more awkward than my middle school years combined.

Nothing happened between us and he’s long gone from the town but that hasn’t stopped certain locals from inventing a story line.

It was clear that L saw me as some lovelorn spinster who was heartbroken and would likely never recover from her supposed jilting.

Small towns always seem cute and quaint to the casual observer on holiday but let me tell you that many of them are rotten to the core and brimming with small-minded, hateful individuals who thrive on scandalous gossip. It doesn’t matter what the reality of your relationship was with so-and-so, their soap opera-inspired imaginations will fill in details that suit their fancy. They’ll smile to your face and sneer as you walk away, hoping to God you fail in some way so they can talk about among themselves over drinks at the pub. Time is sluggish in small towns and things that happened a year ago will always seem “just like yesterday.”

I was relieved to get away from the garage.

“This is such a dick town,” the NPR said.

“I don’t like your language but you make a good point,” I said. “Let’s go home.”

We got in the car and headed south. I drove so slowly that several snails passed me and gave me the finger.

I questioned whether or not is was a good idea to come to NZ in the first place and then admitted to myself that blaming an entire country for the quirks of a few townsfolk and the surliness of one traffic cop was a bit unfair.

*NPR= non paying resident (how I refer to my daughter on this blog)