I've just got back from a week in Queenstown, so-called Adventure Capital of New Zealand (I think Americans would write it as 'Capitol'). I was surprised and happy to discover that about 95% of people trooping around Queenstown wore bacpacks of all sizes, shapes, and colours. I fitted right in.
I only took 7kg of cabin baggage, and in this bag I crammed in two sheets, a pillowcase, three towels, my clothes, my swimming gear, and all my needed extras. The holiday house I rented was up a very, very, very high hill that I climbed two to three times a day. I'm telling you, my five readers, that I cursed and growled and panted and puffed all the way up that hill every time. There was a playground three-quarters of the way up, and sometimes I sat there for a rest. But if anyone from Dublin Street is reading this, the rather wholesome pensioner with a heavy backpack that you might have seen cavorting merrily on that kiddie swing was not me, and I repeat, not me.
I had a lovely meal at the restaurant named Rata, which I hadn't realised beforehand was so upmarket, nor that it was run by Masterchef New Zealand judge Josh Emmett who had been Gordon Ramsay's right-hand guy in New York. I arrived in a plastic raincoat, my hard-worn trainers, and wet weather pants. The staff treated me wonderfully, they even elegantly hung up my plastic mac!
I still can't get photos into my blog. I will have to call in a professional someone later this week to fix all my computer problems. Sigh. Please don't leave me just because there's no visual wonders ...