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!

Burglare

Well it had to happen, statistics would strongly suggest that some unsavoury character (s) is quite likely to pop into your home, hopefully unbeknown to you, rifle through your drawers and leave you with the headache of a clean up and worse, dealing with the insurance company.

When we had our visit, only last weekend, I didn't actually notice that we'd had uninvited guests. In fact, due to living at the lower end of the tidy-scale, I assumed the boys had been errant in their put-away ways. But alas, that was not the case.

The empty duvet cover was straddling the day bed, and windows ever so slightly ajar, with lids of jewellery boxes a little askew.Slightly odd but not alarming.

Arrival of the boys confirmed that they were not the culprits.

Open the sash window in the sitting room, past the Oleander (poisonous - apparently killed a couple of Gengis Khan's elephants - another one though, story and oleander) and out went Harry's laptop and an asortment of jewels and other bits and bobs. Some were left in a Hansel and Gretel like trail up the garden path before leaving by the open gate. 

Unfortunately, sentimentality is far more valuable than the preciously clawed stones. And the computer had a memory card embedded in it, that was the total of Harry's photographic efforts on our great big adventure.

So here I sit, grateful. Grateful we were not home. Grateful our burglars didn't trash the place. Could've been worse, modern day mantra.

But with the trinkets and stones, also went that very fragile and transient albeit precious peace-of-mind. No amount of finger-printing or insurance balm can magic that back.

Traveller trinketry

When adventuring (block your ears Sir Ed), the best bits be the souvenir and gift shops. There, encapsulated in a few square metres, is the whole museum or city, or sometimes, even country. It is a world where plastic meets fantastic, where Union Jacks are tortured into all manner of shapes or forms and where King Kong is larger than the Empire State Building. Ducks wear the crown jewels, Eiffel Towers are shrunk and twisted, posted and pasted. In New Zealand, the very beautiful paua shell is entombed in dollops of shiny, come-hither plastic.

All this travel trinkery to wrench the travel dollar from the unsuspecting tourist who may suffer delusions of grandeur, that these little trinkets will look quite magnificent on the mantelpiece back home.

But before you even lay your first coins on some far-away counter to claim that miniaturised prize, there is a little travel temple much closer to your doorstep. It is, I've no idea what it's called, the "traveller's column" perhaps. There, in a pharmacy or department store, is the rotating display unit, where travel "things" are balanced and jammed. This leads the unwary traveller to believe that everything on the stand is needed for the great big adventure yawning in the not too distant future.

We were ensnared.

A lovely orange, bean filled pillow, perfect for delayed travellers or when aero-snoozing. It could be just a little orange pillow, or just unzip and squidge the beans along and you have a neck-resty pillow. What genius thought of such a thing? (Time could probably be better invested in world peace but I digress). It quickly became a burden.

The travel wallet nearly garotted me (these things should really come with instructions). When the zip stuck, an emergency caesar was needed to birth the spare credit card. The Samsonite nearly caused an international incident but that's another story.

And so it goes on, with hand luggage weighted down with aero-potions and wipes, eye-drops and nasal sprays. Funny on the way home, these little must-haves have usually made it into a bin somewhere, often unopened, on now far-away soil.

But alas, although many tourists treats may end up in "that" kitchen drawer where things are put that might be useful post-armageddon, there is the post-holiday display.

Currently on a little sideboard, in a little villa in an Auckland suburb, a diamonte Eiffel Tower twinkles, King Kong hugs the Empire State and a tiny Sacré-Cœur is waiting to grow up. 

Alas, the world on the our doorstep. What a treat.

Security files

Travelling, how hard can it be?  It's just a matter of booking tickets, grabbing your passports and heading to the airport. In this day and age where the world can fit into the palm of your hand, travelling must be as easy as pie.

Now might be the opportune time to think of a pie, a great big pie filled with wiggling, worrying, niggling worms. And you don't even know what's in the pie till you've taken your first bite. And then it's too late as the worms are making their malignant way into your gullet.

But let's start at the beginning ...

I'd checked that we had our passports at least 17 times. The boys and I had wrestled with the suitcases and closed them with not a bubble of air left to exhale. The zips had been stretched and strained, the cases locked and tagged. We'd been picked up by our lovely "Trusties" (our two lovely friends), dropped off and waved goodbye to.

Auckland airport is a treasure. I was nearly chuffed when I was checked for explosives. I smiled widely and knowingly, only just noticing that I seemed to be the only one pulled out of the queue for this little travel-taster. Lost Mr Nearly-13 in Duty Free when engrossed in nostril pursuits. Mr 16 found him (this became a bit of a travel pattern but ... laters).

Oh well ... on board ... slept and sampled the alcoholic beverages on the tinny trolley. Well it's not as if I was going to have to drive was it?

Tahiti ... frisked ... oops left the laptop on the plane ... mild panic as boys clambered behind me as we tried to find the right uniform to talk to ... laptop retrieved ... another queue ... another wrestle with officialdom ... back on plane ... back in the air ... another trolley ... another sip ... zzzzz ... LA!

Well the excitement of landing is usually knocked on the head as soon as you join the immigration queue. LA offered a chaotic queue with the added help of folk directing the grumpy, human traffic ... that little bit of authority may have gone to head of some folk as we where herded and yelled out. Even using "ma'am" this and "sir" that, didn't remove the mini-dictator tone from the yeller.

After shuffling about and looking about apologetically ... we arrived at the customs desk. And what a nice, officious young man was there to meet us.

His smile was worn and tight. He reminded me of a young Erik Estrada ... some of you might not remember CHiPs but if you saw this bloke, you'd think CHiPs and not the blond one, the black-haired one, Ponch.

Anyway, it went like this. "Blah ... blah ... blah ... well ma'am?"

"Pardon?" me.

"Where are you staying?"

"At my girlfriend's," I said.

"Do you have an address or telephone number?"

"She lives in New York," me again.

"Do you have an address or telephone number?"

I thought. "No, not exactly."

"Blah ... blah ... blah ... you do realise that's the sort of thing a bad person would say."

"I expect a bad person would be more organised."

Pulled aside, we had to wait for an airline official to come along and help the wayward travellers out of a spot of forgetful bother. Mr 16 had pulled out a plausible address but I was thrown into mild panic.

We were in the US of A ... I'd forgotten to write down the address where we were staying ... we were going to get sent home before we'd even started our great adventure. Serious crappola!

Anyway, the airline official somehow untangled this web of forgettion and we found our way back in front of Ponch. Ponch rolled his eyes, stamped our passports and wished us well.

And that was that. We were in America. A-M-E-R-I-C-A!

But oddly, LA provided another little hiccough in our journey.

After finding our way to the Delta terminal. All very nice, a bit stark and of course I nearly got sucked in by a bag toting "traveller" ("Ma'am I just need $10 to make up my fare" ... well I nearly gave him one of the boys to sell so he could further his travels until a very tall, travel-wise, African-American man, stepped in and suggested I keep my son, as the "traveller" scarpered from the terminal no doubt clutching ill-gotten gains from other daft travellers).

Oops ... then it was time to go through to catch our flight to New York.  Goodness, there are more uniforms than travellers and there was even a Dr Whovian traveller-scanner. While I was oggling this machine I'd read about somewhere or other as I traversed the metal detector, the little bells went off.

"Come this way please ma'am,"

I'd set off the blooming alarm as I tootled through. I would've happily gone on the conveyer belt with my boots, dignity is over-rated.

More "Blah ... blah ... would you like a private room?"

"No." My thinking being, let's just get this over with, not wanting to be away from the boys.

Standing aside, on a lovely big rubber mat, the uniformed woman officer explained what she was about to do, in some detail. My contenance obviously looked as if I'd lost interest, I probably had.

"Are you listening ma'am?"

Nodding enthusiastically, "Yes, of course."

She proceeded the rather intimate search. It wasn't the fly-by pat-down we'd received in Tahiti. It was right up and down each leg. Then it was around each boob. They hadn't had so much attention since being wrestled by midwives when trying to show me how to breastfeed the boys (and can't remember it being so much fun then either).

So as I stood spreadeagled in a rather public area of LA International Airport, I felt the real burden of having bigger boobs and the curse of the underwire bra. The boys stood just to the side, trying to pretend they weren't with me.

And then that was it for travel glitches. Of course the lovely lady on the Delta Sky Lounge desk sorted out the little problem of the boys and I being booked on different flights to New York, who'd have thought it, eh? 

Travelling, what fun!

I think when they mean as easy as pie, they really mean "pi" ... and I've never really understood circles.

Pt Chev Team's great big adventure!

I'm not sure the exact day, the day that it was decided that instead of talking about taking the big trip with the boys; actually booking it. It's all of course thanks to a combination of happy couplings and stark realities. Time is not always a given, nor is health. The Pt Chev Team was in fine fettle, but others' bad news made me think.

So thanks to a golden bank and a sterling will (only becuase I thought it needed a bit of plating), tickets were booked and dreams dusted and polished.

In 2004, the year we became three, I wrote down in a long-forgotten notebook, some things that we would do within 10 years. One was to visit a very good friend, who lives in New York. The other things were things that needed to be done, and were written with a number of other lists that you think you should write when your world has turned purple and is gasping for air. Lists help to make a bit of sense when sense has donned its cloak of  invisibility and danced a merry dance off into the night.

So we were going, not just talking about it. The Pt Chev Team were going to climb into metal tubes (well a few really, as we do live on the bottom's bottom of a rotund globe) navigate the globe.  Except I wasn't navigating, I'm not sure if pilots need to flip their maps to see if they're going in the right direction, I sort of hope not.

As a grown-up, it was up to me to plan, and organise, and book and dive into the cyber sea to let it throw up all sorts of earthly delights.

I can see why folk get wedding planners.

Luckily, there was a grown-up in the travelling mix of three, and low and behold it wasn't me.

Pearla of a problem

I'm not sure if many folk suffer this particular dilemna. It's something I really haven't talked about before. It could be either embarrassment or because it's completely inconsequential. I suspect the later.

But here goes. What do you do with miscellaneous molars and gnashers that you've garnered over the years as you stole into darkened rooms as the Tooth Fairy, stumbling through Lego towns and embeding prized Matchbox toys into the soles of your feet, as you approach to do the "swap"? The swap entails, searching under a heavy-headed pillow, rootling around for the tooth, then secreting it out and popping a paltry monetary sum in its place.

Simple. Once you've got the enamel and swapped it for the gold, your job as the soft-footed Tooth Fairy is over until the next wiggler makes its way out one way or t'other.

But what of the teeth? What do you do with them? One made it into my purse, and when I was offering a beggar a few coins, out rolled the molar. Oops! Grappling with the molar, I retrieved it, much to the relief of the poor woman at the receiving end, and replaced it with a more useful coin. 

I was cleaning under my bed and among the dust, hairballs and dust muffs, a molar rolled out. By the time I'd figured out what it was, it had popped out of my hand, to be found on another day in Cleaning Future. Anyway, for some unknown reason I've stashed them in all manner of places, and I'm not sure why they haven't simply been binned. I mean, I have locks of hair from the boys' first cuts. I have a splendid collection of Harry's particular house of horrors. There's the piece of paper he folded into a tiny square and put into his ear (when the doctor got it out, she took it around to show her colleagues), there is the silly putty that required an emergency haircut and the straw which nearly popped his retina out when he fell over whilst holding it (I'd told him he'd choke on it, didn't realise it was a danger to his sight). But what of the teeth? I can't bring myself to toss them, I'm not sure why I have such an attachment to these rootless wonders. I'll think about it on another day.

Looking back, my last venture as the Tooth Fairy. Two eyes opened very widely, and looked the Tooth Fairy straight in the face.

"Phew! I thought the Tooth Fairy was Ben's mum."

What with Santa taking the credit for most things, it was more than a bit miffling to think Ben's mum was getting all the credit for my little monetary deposits.

Oh well, I wonder what would happen if I balanced my pillow on a little Everest of pearly whites. I'll let you know.

Smoke gets in your eyes

Dad is a good story-teller, the stories we have grown up with have been retold and embellished. Dad's past is as much a part of the fabric of our lives as any of the stories we've actually lived through ourselves.

So this is one I'd not heard before, which is unusual. Forgive me, Dad, if I've missed something ...

Take yourself back to the fifties. It might've even been before the harbour bridge, it was certainly before the Auckland motorways carved up the city properly. Elvis was banned on the airways and transistor radios were still a faraway dream for many.

It's hard to imagine Dad as a teenager (he might've actually been older than a teenager - in those days you were a  teenager until you were about 28). So he was tall, over six foot foot. He was skinny, skinny as. He was Catholic, which sends you one way or t'other - either rebel or saint. Dad veered towards the halo ... mostly.

A club in town, I think in Swanson Street, was reputed to be a veritable den of iniquity. It was called Heaven and Hell, apparently two separate bars in a Victorian building. You can guess the decor, one more virginal, the other screaming in hot, hot red. I doubt Heaven recceived much attention.

Dad, unlike most normal teenagers, both then and now, told his mother that he was going to the club. Hello? He also noted that on the night he was going to drive his mates in, there was to be adult entertainment in the form of a stripper.  I blanch at the thoughts, both telling my grandmother and my father at a strip joint.

'How could you!' Nana exclaimed. 'And your father a lawman. How could you! That place is full to the gunnels with criminals and law breakers.' I'm sure smelling salts and cushions would've had to be sought upon Dad's announcement.

My mother, sitting in the lounge during the recount, noted 'I wasn't allowed to go there.' Which is saying something, as Mum veered towards rebel, and still does today

Luckily for my Dad and his curiosity, my grandmother's companion, Aunty Mary, was also part of Dad's revelation. 'Syd, should go,' she said, I can imagine very matter of factly. 'It will do him good.' And I'm sure she was right.

And with that said, Dad took off into the night in his '36 Chevy with his friends steaming up the back windows. Hooning into town, Dad (a non-smoker) procured a packet of cigarettes somewhere along the way. Dutch courage? Rite of passage?

The old Chev was parked up and the boys made their way directly to Hell as any good Catholic boys would. The atmosphere. The music. Smoke. Booze. It was a teenage dream. Soon the lights were dimmed, the music setting a sexy tone. It was only a matter of moments before the lovely young woman would be on stage and slowly derobing.

I can practically feel the throb of anticipation, as the boys held their breaths and widened their eyes. 

At about that moment, Dad lit up one of his purchases. Somehow inhaling all the smoke with his eyeballs, he was blinded by smoke as Candi's clothes were peeled and dropped to the stage floor.

He missed it. Missed the whole tantalising show. Missed it completely.

When he regained his sight, he drove home, leaving his friends to find further fun in the Auckland night. Disappointment and itchy eyeballs were his only companions on his journey home.

Dad's cloak of morality remained inadvertently still intact. I wonder if he ever told his Mum? I somehow doubt it. I suspect Aunty Mary knows.