Even though you can still book in advance and set the time you'd like, early mornings and Uber appear not to be overly friendly bedfellows. In a nutshell, twice they've never turned up and once they were about 20 minutes late. In fairness, the two times they didn't show they may've only been 15 minutes late before I cancelled, but irrespective of my missing-the-plane-anxiety, you can't afford to be that loose with time when people are airport-bound.
On these three occasions it appears that the previous day's booking is more of "booking". As in, it's registered on the app, but perhaps is still determinate on drivers being willing and available at the requested pickup time, as opposed to having committed when the "booking" was made.
Generally this system works for Uber and I'm a bonafide fan of the app, but take it from me, if it's a crack-of-dawn flight and you're a bit of a stress-pot about getting to the airport, be old-fashioned and order a taxi.
Undies, undies, undies, togs, togs, togs
Summertime means many things in New Zealand, including far more casual dress sense. Mostly this is good — jandals in the office? Yes! For about two weeks while the boss is away anyway. But one thing remains the same: undies are still undies.
Last summer my wife and I took a motorhome along the Pacific Coast Highway that runs between Opotiki to Gisborne. This is remote, wild country and in many ways feels like you've jumped in Marty and Doc's DeLorean from Back To The Future and transported yourself to a New Zealand from several decades ago.
Be that as it may, whether in the present day or way back when, I'd suggest it's unlikely it was ever socially acceptable to pay for petrol in your undies.
The scene of the crime was Gisborne and there was another motorhome across from ours at the station reloading on fuel and supplies. It was when both me and the other driver went inside to pay that I realised the unthinkable was happening: this fellow tourist was in his undies. Sure, they were trunk-style undies, but undies all the same. He ordered some cigarettes and from the accent I believe he was French.
My somewhat limited research tells me this is far from common behaviour in France, indicating instead that perhaps the chap thought this was the Kiwi way. If I'd had the guts I could have informed him that immediate proximity to water can magically transform undies to togs, but indoors at petrol stations means they're 100 per cent undies and 100 per cent a no-no. Sacre bleu!
Tim Roxborogh hosts Newstalk ZB's Weekend Collective and blogs at roxboroghreport.com.
