Friday, February 1, 2013

My Queenstown Holiday

Hi there.  Well, I'm back from Queenstown, South Island, New Zealand.  It seems like 50% of the time was filled up with traumatic stressful happenings and the rest of the time, I quite enjoyed.  Honestly, there should be a sitcom about my life.  I figure it's sort of a cross between "The New Girl" and Betty White.  This holiday episode would be billed as "Keys?  What keys?"  Read on.

I picked up my Ace rental car at Queenstown Airport.  Funny, I thought, I can't get the door lock to activate.

"Hey," I yelled out to the Ace guy as he walked past - "This lock doesn't work."

"You'll discover the knack," he called back.  And I did.  Discover the knack.   Eventually.  But later that afternoon, after my swim in the lake (cold and invigorating), I tried to get in the car again.  Neither actual key nor remote-key worked.

Seven, count them, seven people clustered around me and all had a go at trying to unlock my car.  I felt sort of like a princess in a fairy tale -  whichever stout heart could open the lock got the hand of the king's daughter. 

Finally, of its own accord the door opened, but the following day I went to the company.  They oiled the lock, said everything was okay and I was good to go.  Two days later, in a soaking wet bathing suit, and hastily thrown-over dress, I again stood looking at my car's non-budging lock.  This time a locksmith was called and I hung around for two hours.  Finally, success, and I did get a day's refund from the car company. Good on you, Ace.

Ah, but that's not the end of the key-lock saga:  Different lock, same trauma. 

Imagine a beautiful evening.  It's 8.30 pm.  I went out to sit on the deck of my rental house to admire the view and read my new Kindle (yay, my Kindle!).  I had slammed the sliding door shut behind me.   At 9.30, I discovered that I was locked out - the lock must have snipped shut by accident.  And I'd locked the front door from the inside.

I was standing there in a sarong, knickers and men's carpet slippers (because of my sore feet).  How many times had I seen this situation acted out in sitcoms or cartoons?  Oh dear.

I tried a neighbour. Not home.  I tried another neighbour.  She was in her 20s's, as glam as they come.  I was certainly not dressed for the high life.  It was so embarrassing.  We used the neighbour's phone to call the rental house's caretaker (thank goodness his number was on the key lock-box).   I could only hear the neighbour's side of the conversation.

"No.  No, she can't get to her phone, or credit cards, or key. ...  She's just wearing a sheet...  And slippers. ...  (I felt like I was on a slave auction block the way the neighbour was eyeing me up and down).  I'm telling you, everything is inside."

Thanks goodness, there was a hidden key!

For the next three days and nights I never went out onto that deck, or to the clothesline, or the recycling bin without my phone, my keys, my wallet and wearing my I'm-Going-Somewhere-Special-Clothes.

Here's some Q'town pics:  1)  view from lounge window of my holiday home,  2)  view of historic Arrowtown main street (gold-mining town from the 1800's about 20 mins from Q'town),  3)  view from inside gondola looking down on Queenstown. 

More Q'town adventures in future episodes.  Stand by.

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