I flew into tiny Hokitika airport just north of Greymouth 4 days ago.   Think McDonalds size building,  but with snow capped peaks visible to the North, South and East and the Tasman Sea to the West.  So, beautiful. Fortunately all my 14 billion pounds or rather 6.545454… billion kilograms (damn metric system – more on that below) of luggage also made it.  Fortunately they know what pallets and forklifts are for. Anyway the limo driver was this good humored but crusty old guy who has an opinion on pretty much everything and strongly believes your well being is greatly enhanced by him telling you what they are and , as a guest in his country, you were free to agree or walk.  Peter; an I.T. guy from Germany,  the other passenger and my first friend in Greymouth and I just nodded and laughed

Greymouth and the west coast area is the least densely populated and wildest area of New Zealand.  As such, some of the long time locals, the limo driver definitely being one, feel it gets shuffled off to forgotten by the government in Wellington and  so would not object to fortifying the south island’s north coast and seceding from the north.  I know there are lots of Washington 509ers that have similar treasonous sentiments

So what do you think was my worst case night mare fear of moving to New Zealand?  …..Getting totally disrespected by Santa because Christmas in summer is just wrong?......Nope.……..Developing a nasty allergy to sheep?…….. Guess again.……..Squishing a family of cute little fuzzy baby Kiwi birds as I speed down the highway texting to make sure they put  extra peparoni on the take-out pizza I just ordered?........OK, well maybe that’s second……but no.  It’s getting smashed to bits in a full speed head on car crash because they drive on the wrong side of the road down here.  So I get to the Greymouth Hospital, check in and pick up my loaner car. It’s getting dark and I am pretty sure I am going to die in the next few minutes but then I get behind the wheel on the RIGHT (wrong) side of the care and Oh #%*$ it’s a stick shift.  But wait, it gets worse. Within the first 50 yards (meters) of leaving the hospital parking lot I come to a round-about.  NOW what do I do?  Well when you are really up against it, I figured, go back to what you know best so:  “In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.” And here I am.

The town of Greymouth (population 15,000) is a mostly a working class town transitioning from gold and coal mining to eco tourism, lumber and fishing.  The people are your basic salt of the earth farming types with exceptionally well behaved dogs.  A real plus when I am out running.  The hospital is old and dated and the clinic even more so but they are just about finished building a new hospital / clinic complex and God willing and the creeks don’t rise we should be moving in a few months. 

I’ve spent the last few days wandering around town getting the lay of the land, getting my internet connection set up and even going to the grocery store.  Now I know many of you think I am a complete but lovable, domestically incompetent, totally clueless dunce incapable of surviving on my own without constant supervision……and you know who you are…..Helen….Rachel….Laura…..Sarah… All of Chelan……Everybody I’ve ever met.  Well to prove you all wrong and firmly establish my culinary creds I decided to start cooking for myself and for my first creation I decided to make salmon with pesto and goat cheese. Simple, right?  One would think.   I smear some pesto on a slab of salmon, crumble some goat cheese over the top and pop it in the oven just like Helen does.  I remember Helen telling me to cook it for 20-30 minutes at 350 degrees or so.  But I’m confused because the stove dial only goes up to 250?  Oh well.  I figure close enough.  So I am blissfully watching a rugby match (two street gangs fighting over an overinflated yellow football from what I could see) on Kiwi TV smugly anticipating imminent culinary redemption when hey, why is there smoke coming out of the oven?  I scrambled my way to the kitchen my thoughts rapidly flashing all the possible reasons that….then, as I reached for the oven door, epiphany and total enlightenment.  I wasn’t in the good old USA but in a foreign land among blissful but misguided barbarians who worship at the pagan alter of the Godless metric system.  So the 250 on the stove dial was in centigrade or about 525 degrees God fearing Fahrenheit.  Anyway, the meal was salvageable but redemption was not to be had.  Tomorrow? Spaghetti.  And yes the smoke alarm did go off.