The Samsonite Incident

We left New York with many tears. Being a little more seasoned than a few days before,  I ensured I wouldn't be ensnared at security again because of an errant underwire. The boys were relieved that we made our way through rather fiesty security with only the removal of our boots and the retention of our dignities intactus.

The Air France plane was a double-decker, and we quickly sorted out me sitting downstairs whilst the boys were meant to fly solo on the deck above. My superb language skills didn't stretch beyond bonjour but luckily it didn't need to.

That was not until we got into Charles De Gaulle airport ... my French was all bundled into my two travelling companions. Who needs Berlitz? Staff were well dressed, and the queues were spectacular, as we shuffled towards customs. The young man who surveyed our passports had left his smile at home, and didn't appreciate my bonjour or merci.

Finding ourselves on the concourse of a bustling early morning Parisian airport, we were a little flummoxed at what to do next. Here we were, in Paris! Paris-Paris! What a feeling!

So we went in search of a taxi. Sacre bleu! The taxi driver didn't speak English but worse, much worse didn't take credit cards. But alas worse was yet to come ... when I handed the crumpled piece of paper which I scribbled our Parisian address, he shrugged and Jack translated that the driver had not heard of the suburb ... Sevres ... unfortunately he'd read my S as a P ... his Nav-homme was proving to be partiuclarly unhelpful.

That was the first little French bump in our journey. Next was ... ooops ... I'd written the name of our Parisian street address (Waffy's!) down incorrectly. Waffy lived at Rue Léon Bourgeois not Rue Bourgeois ... big, big ooops. Somehow, Jack with his untarnished memory, remembered a Skype conversation of long ago where Waffy mentioned her address. Saved again! This was getting embarrassing.

As we trudged through heavy traffic, on a grey Parisian day, we were delighted by the signs as we pushed through the heavy veil of rain. I was sitting on tenter hooks, worried that Pevres would never eventuate, let alone Nav-homme find us our lovely Waffy. 

Suddenly, we saw the sign for Sevres! My day brightened with relief. After winding up narrow roads, we found ourselves outside the apartment buildings. Square, sturdy buildings which once housed Renault workers for its nearby factory, were framed by a leafless, winter forest.

Paying the taxi driver, Harry and I practically fell out of the car, entangled in his headphone wires. Taking our cases from the driver, as we tried to disentangle ourselves, Harry took his hand from his case, as we continued to endeavour to avoid garroting ourselves. 

Suddenly, Harry's Samsonite took off with missile-like precision, its target a late model Renault, not quite in our sight. As we looked on, at first impressed at the speed of the inadvertent missile, I suddenly realised we might be at the beginning on an international incident. Harry and I were hapless as we struggled with the cords, Jack standing mouth open holding two other potential weapons. 

Faster than a very speedy thing, our middle-aged taxi driver flew after the missile, intercepting it just before it hit the car. 

Trundling the case back up the steep road, we were grateful to have a handle on the now stilled missile. Beads of sweat stood out on the driver's now pink forehead. We thanked him, and I tipped over and above the call of duty, not realising that we'd already been ripped off with the fare costing about twice as much as it should have.  

Standing waving the taxi driver good-bye, Jack noted pragmatically, "I told you Harry shouldn't have a four-wheeled suitcase." 

I think he may have been right.  

Other mothers

Mother's Day is, of course, a commercial construct, waiting for the guilt-ridden to unburden their gilt on confectionery, chocolates or gifts. Apparently rest homes around the country will find their usually empty visitors' car parks full, as mums are feted and visited. Just as dads are on Father's Day.

I've already tucked into my little heart-shaped cakes and placed my Mother's Day card at pride of place on the dresser.

But a certain sadness, is gathered in the dresser's dust; a tiny tea-cup, a gift from my God-mother, a ginger jar belonging to my mother's mother, and some of the dinner plates on which we chased peas at Sunday lunch at my paternal grandmother's. All these lovely women, who have helped to shape my life. All these lovely women, that I miss dearly.

When I was little, I used to stay with Nana Hall. She lived in a brick house, on Great North Road, not far from Waikumete Cemetery. If I close my eyes, I can find myself there in an instant. After mass each Sunday, we'd find ourselves around the old oak table, with places set for six. The dinner service featured a crowd of blue daisies dancing around the rim. Roast potatoes formed an island as they swum in a pond of gravy on the plate. Peas would float, and I'd chase these across the plate and try and tuck them into a serviette or under the table cloth. I wonder if the squashed peas stained the tablecloth? Nana never said anything. My brother and sister ate their peas.

Nana and I used to sing Rule Britannia as we waltzed around the house. Nana was born in the late 1800s, and had seen so much in her 88 years. But at 15, I'd never asked the right questions. And as I pore over faded and bent images, I wished I'd asked more; asked about her dreams, her loves, her passions. But these questions remain unasked, and the answers remain locked somewhere, far from here.

Nana Lynch, goodness where to start? She shared her flat with a herd of elephants, crowding shelves and doorways. Some were tiny, nestled into a bean. Charlie, the biggest watched over the bird bath in the garden. He was painted many colours over his life time, his last colour was yellow. I remember the toast and the "It's not an arm or a leg". I remember when my sister and I went to tidy Nana's flat, after her death, Dean Martin was on the record player, the arm still resting on the vinyl.

Aunty Margaret, my God-mother in every sense of the word. Imagine having an active God-mother, especially as you near the half-century. She was always on the end of the phone, and dished out helpful advice. It's between us, so I won't go into it. I remember when I was about 10, I was staying the night at her place. A dapper man came to afternoon tea. To the surprise, disbelief and eventual delight of family and friends, my spinster God-mother became unspinstered! Whatever next!

So what's this about, lovely women who have been big part of my life, and all who I love and miss dearly. I raise my glass to you all, with love, of course.

Bedazzled in the Big Apple

Boarding the train at Hicksville Station, we rumbled along to Penn Station. Bored commuters uncrumpled newspapers and tapped on Ipads, adjusted their glasses and rummaged around in their laptop cases. As we rattled over the tracks, the Manhattan skyline came into view, even on a sober grey day, we were all popping with excitement.We were clutching a map, drawn with Suzala style with arrows and odd shaped boxes depicting the must-sees on the Manhattan skyline. Central Park was a manic blob and the Empire State a tiny deranged polygon.


Whether real or imagined, Manhattan is tall, noisy and FABULOUS!

Tourists clamour for their postcard shots as harassed office workers negotiate paths around them (well ... ahem ... us). Tourists are easy to spot, walking in front of cabs and bikes as they take in the wonder of the tallness ... Chrysler Building ... Flatiron ... Empire State ... all big tall buildings. Sometimes, we had time to glimpse a gargoyle or some other delightful art deco artifice. But at full throttle, it was a little difficult to take in the bigness, the tallness, the fabulousness that is New York in a mere couple of days.

Reminders of the parts of the city that had fallen, are scattered throughout the city. Tiny plaques and memorials, for souls that were lost.  We were ill-prepared for the massive, sorrowful site that was where the buildings had actually fallen.The sense of loss is still palpable, but there was also a feeling of hope.

So we hot-dogged ... and walked ... and looked up ... and walked.

Eyes in the top of our head would have been invaluable. For starters, if we had invisible eyes in our scalps, we would not have to fend off the glare of real New Yorkers having to go about their day-to-day business, with huffs and puffs as we loitered or lingered in irritating spots, taking in all that was Manhattan while all the while getting under the feet of real-lifer New Yorkers. They were oblivious to our excitement and our very big adventure.It may have been because we were three out of thousands having their great big adventure in the Christmas city.

It's fair to say that we can't add to the many tombes and nifty guides which cram the internet and bookshop shelves. And we had one or two ourselves weighing down our bags.

However, one of the treats ... were the stuffed animals at the American Museum of Natural History. After walking through Central Park, and walking more big blocks with weary feet, we found ourselves in front of animals which had wandered cheerfully on faraway plains, over a century ago. Little did they know, that their eternal dignity was soon to be  at the mercy of a taxidermist who might be having a bad hair day. A perpetually perplexed leopard, and an purgatorially pointing jackal are testament to this. The Victorian cases which now entomb these once proud beasts, are really quite a treat.

My favourite resident at the museum, is a grinning turtle. I don't even think many New Yorkers could outshine this reptilian welcome.

And as we plodded around the city, bedazzled ... but alas, no smile was more dazzling than our favourite museum friend.

Blingle bells

New York suburbia is something to behold. Big Christmas house bling everywhere. Twinkling and sparkling, and most importantly, out doing the neighbours.Christmas is my favourite time of year, and to be in the Big Apple, in the run up to Christmas day is akin to be a fairy on top of the tree.


After a little while, we arrived in Plainview (I know the address by heart now), there was Suzala! The last time I clapped eyes on her in the real flesh, opposed Skype flesh, was in about 1994 ... last century! It was over 20 years since we'd played snow angels in Queens and been buffeted by Buster on the way to the bathroom. It could've been yesterday!

It's hard to explain the real joy, when you reunite with a good, good friend after too long and a lot of world in between. What to compare it to? I don't think I'll try to attempt a cheesy analogy ... no ... no ... no ... I will. It's the cheese on the pizza of life ... and I'm talking pizza supreme.

And here we were, the American family, and the New Zealand family ... and Smudge the cat. Hard to believe we were standing in the living room, with squirrels in the backyard, in our winter woolies - a warm sun left in another hemisphere. Suffice to say, lots of talking (three days solid), lots of hugging, and laughter.

Arriving on December 10, the city was gearing up for Christmas. On the first day, after a slumbersome morning, we found ourselves in a massive discount mall. An ice-skating rink, a perfectly pointy Christmas tree and toy soldiers fit for a giant's toybox. The only thing missing was shoppers ... we were it. There were puddles, and robotic albeit delightful good manners.

Our hostess with the mostess ferried us around the shops -we were swallowed by Nike and burped out into Reebok. As the shopping bags filled ... our eyes tired ... boy these folk do good Christmas!

Tomorrow,  our adventure was to take us into postcard New York, well Manhattan, where you need eyeballs on the top of your head. But there was a bit of sleep before that and some French toast, and some donuts ... and then a bit of sleep. 

Little bite of the Big Apple

 So we were finally on the plane ... Delta ... nicely dressed staff with snacks less so.

Squeezing into our seats - all next to each other, all on the same plane! What a treat! Only a few hours before we'd been booked on different flights. Although dignity was squashed into the overhead, thanks to zealous Delta security staff, all was well in the world. The sky was dark, the stars were sparkly and we were practically in New York!

Excitement was pounding away as we nipped through the night sky, faster than Santa. When the pilot announced we were approaching landing, I expected everyone to spring into song ... New York, New York ... the obvious choice but anything from a Broadway show would've been accepted with grace. Looking around, the faces were bored and just wanting the trip be over. There were yawns and stretches, putting away of books and snapping laptops shut. Disappointment sat squarely on my face, how could anybody not be excited?

I suspect it being about 4 in the morning may have crushed some of the excitement. Party poopers!

So we struggled down the aisle with our pillows and coats, out of the plane, to the a fantastic array of accents and polite-tities. I could've done without the "Mam" but the "thank yous" all hit the right spot.

Dragging ourselves out of the airport, the fresh, cool air hit us like a refrigerated pillow. The yellow taxis ... the accents ... the lateness, or more to the point early-ness ... but then out of the belly of a people mover ... Rick! We couldn't believe our luck ... Rick had staggered out of his lovely warm home, on a drizzly, cool night and come to JFK to pick us up.

Soon we were bundled into the car, and hurtling down an empty highway to the bosum of his sleepy family.


And as Hula Girl nodded and strummed on the dash, we were in wonder as we bumped along through the rainy night towards Long Island.

Our eyes widened at each signpost, each piece of the jigsaw that told us we were in New York. Long Island ... Brooklyn ... Queens ... Bronx ...

In a car, in New York ... the boys and me ... zipping along to a sleepy family in New York ... pinch ... pinch ... pinch!