JOAN: I've said it before and I'll, hopefully, say it again. It is marvellous to return home to Whanganui after a trip abroad. I felt this especially strongly this year. We spent three months in Europe, three weeks in wild and glorious Northumberland, a week in my beloved Paris after a 20 year absence and a whole month in Venetia.
The second leg of our long flight home was shared with a super young lad from the UK. He had completed a degree in Business Studies and was off to enjoy New Zealand. Full of vigour and enthusiasm, he planned to spend a week In Auckland, buy a car and drive down to Queenstown, there to obtain a tourist-based job on his work permit and view this land that he had heard so many good things about. As the plane came in to land, I could feel his mixture of anticipation and apprehension. We lost sight of him in the busyness of the airport but I decided to imagine our arrival was his. The airport was smart, kindly and welcoming. A Maori lady smiled a welcome as we entered via that Whare Archway and Maori songs played our way through Customs. The whole feeling was amiable, unlike the tension and necessary suspicions of European and Asian airports. He must have felt relieved and relaxed. I felt so proud and grateful. Our family hugged us home and I know he would be offered New Zealand hospitality wherever he went.
I have just been for a walk with Zoe, our beloved bichon. She was well cared for in our absence and, over the last two weeks, has joined us on sunny walks as we admired gardens full of spring beauty and relished the bright blue sky, sunshine and neighbourly greetings. I cherish our luck in living here.
I wonder if we are coming to the end of our long visits abroad. I hope not but age brings its tricky moments! The lift at Charles de Gaulle airport was out of action and we had to take 'l'escalateur'. I stood on the narrow step with a small case, Mike behind me but with our large suitcase on the step in front of him. The weight proved too much and, half way down , the case swung left throwing him on to me and we both fell! I shouted to him that we must get up before we reached the bottom. We did so and then were surrounded by concerned fellow-travellers. 'Les pompiers' arrived. I always thought they were firemen but in this case they were medics with backpacks of necessary medication.We were led, via escalator (!) up three floors then along vast corridors to the very impressive and amazingly-equipped medical centre where Mike's hand was stitched. Still feeling wobbly, then remembered that we were very late for our rendezvous with the owner of the apartment we had rented. All ended almost well in that I was able to request the nurse to phone the flat and we managed to retrack down to a taxi rank, Mike unable to manage the case with his newly stitched hand. I'll just mention that he was obliged to remove his own stitches in Venice and that I am still having treatment for the shoulder I injured in the drama. Whew! May I remind ex-pupils of mine that speaking French makes a whopping difference when in France and it sure helped me!
Venetians have two difficult things to cope with, one which we shared during our month's stay there. Living in a city for that length of time brings a new, deeper familiarity, and we felt like locals. Twenty thousand tourists arriving and departing each day and exploring the city in packs meant all areas of the city were jammed as excited foreigners lost themselves in narrow alleys and wandered around famous buildings.