Second, things we would apparently prefer to do instead:

“If you released a bird like that in the middle of the city that’s exactly what’s going to happen…the bird’s going to get run over. They’re car fodder,” explained ranger Anita Spencer.

Perhaps the only good thing to come of the incident—other than South Islanders having an excuse to point and shout “Weka!”—is the Stuff caption: “RUN WEKA RUN: A weka is on the lam in Christchurch.”

Weka on the loose in Christchurch [Suff]

Two Cambridge mates say they may turn their unusual method of trimming hedges into a business, after they suspended a ride-on mower from a crane to do the job.

“This is how the Waikato boys mow a hedge,” the ride-on mower operator told the Waikato Times.

The operator, who did not want to be named, is now nursing a broken hand, but said it wasn’t a fall from the mower that caused the injury but one off the crane.

He admitted it was not the safest method of trimming the hedge, but said it was all done as a bit of a joke.

They wanted to film the stunt, put it on the internet and see how many hits it got, but in the end had no video camera.

The unusual sight bemused passing motorists. One passer-by, Bart Dinger, said it was a classic case of Kiwi ingenuity.

“A kiwi classic – jandals and all,” he said.

Trollope was an Englishman visiting an English colony, and he couldn’t help but beam at his little island’s grand empire:

We, too, are English by descent, and speak the language and are governed by the laws, and are therefore as good as you are.” It is this feeling which, with its various ramifications, repeats England all round the world; and it is one with which an Englishman cannot but be in love.

It’s clear that Trollope loved New Zealand, evidenced—as any Kiwi will appreciate, by generously distinguishing her from her bitter cousin:

It would be impossible to imagine any country more unlike Australia—a remark which I may as well make once for all, and which may be applied to everything in New Zealand.

Trollope makes you work for his views on the Maori. He treats them at first with some modicum of respect, saying:

Of all the people whom we have been accustomed to call savages, they were perhaps, in their savage condition as we found them, the most civilized.

But after he explores the well-faught Maori land wars and the Maori’s defiant refusal to assimilate, he reveals the money quote:

At the touch of the higher race they are poisoned and melt away. There is scope for poetry in their past history. There is room for philanthropy as to their present condition. But in regard to their future,—there is hardly a place for hope.

New Zealand’s original colonial governments were apparently not unlike our own, which came as a bit of a shock. It was clear during my visit that government at the state or provincial level was unnecessary, but there was still a harsh intermingling between the local and federal governments, as one would expect from their vastly different focuses and capabilities. It wasn’t always like that:

The colony was divided into provinces, at first six provinces, Auckland, Wellington, Taranaki, Nelson, Otago, and Canterbury,-and to each province was given a separate legislature, under a superintendent elected by provincial votes. This scheme was, no doubt, taken from the State legislature of the United States.

The early provinces also had their own separate characters. The gold fields of the South Island enriched Westport and Greymouth, two podunk towns I was glad to quickly abandon, but which were apparently magnificent in their time. Trollope laughably laments “I saw none of the glories of Hokitika,—to my infinite regret.”

Canterbury and Christchurch were established as purpose-built religious centers that never really caught on. The guy in charge of the operation, Edward Gibbon Wakefield, apparently tried several times to establish other religious communities through New Zealand:

It is rumored of him in New Zealand that at one time he had set its mind on the formation of an Anglo-Jewish settlement, a community which should be subject to the British Crown , but in which the Jews should govern themselves after their own laws. It is told how he propounded this to a wealthy Jew in New Zealand. “What;—no Christians!” said the Jew. “None at all,” said Mr. Wakefield;” not a Christian;— why should not Jews have a happy home to themselves as well as others?” But the Jew dissented. “I do not see how Jews shall thrive without Christians to make money by,” said the wise Jew, and that scheme fell to the ground.

I remember wondering while sailing on the ferry to Picton how a writer might describe the stunning scenary near Queen Charlotte Sound. I was pleasantly surprised with the answer:

The journey from Wellington to Nelson, through Cook’s Strait, which divides the two islands, is very picturesque, especially if the steamer take Picton in its course. The headlands and broken bays, with the rough: steep mountains coming sheer down into the blue waters, the closeness of the land, and the narrowness of the passages, all tend to create a mysterious charm, which he who gazes at them finds himself unable to analyze. He feels tempted to land at every gully which runs up among the mountains and to investigate the strange wild world which must be beyond them. He knows, in truth, that there is nothing there,—that one brown hill would lead only to another, that there is no life among the hills, and that the very spots on which his eyes rest really contain whatever there may be of loveliness in the place. But though he knows this as fact, his imagination will not allow him to trust his knowledge. There is always present to him a vague longing to investigate the mysteries of the valleys, and to penetrate into the bosoms of the distant hills. The sweetest charms of landscape are as those of life,—they consist of the anticipations of something beyond which never can be reached. I never felt this more strongly than when I was passing from one land-Iocked channel to another along the coast of Cook’s strait.

That “vague longing to investigate” was a familiar feeling that accompanied me whenever I went, especially along the coast and through the Lindis Pass. Perhaps the trip’s greatest highlight was the chance to run up into the bouldery hills near Arthur’s Pass, to touch the rocks, run through the grass, and play with the scenery as a toy.

Concluding, Trollope praised New Zealand’s future potential. “I see no reason why Auckland should not rival London,” he wrote before quickly finding a reason:

I must specially observe one point as to which the New Zealand colonist imitates his brethren and ancestors at home,-and far surpasses his Australian rival. He is very fond of getting drunk. And I would also observe to the New Zealander generally, as I have done to other colonists, that if he would blow his trumpet somewhat less loudly, the music would gain in its effect upon the world at large.

Australia and New Zealand, by Anthony Trollope [Google Books]

Q: Ha, I know! But you did make it back in one piece, right?
A: Kinda. Jeff learned a small but important lesson: do not joke with baggage handlers. They will smile, they will laugh, but they have no sense of humor. They will send your bags back on a different carrier, and you won’t see them again for two days.

Q: Yeesh, what a nightmare! So tell us, how does it feel to be back?

A: I’ll be honest with you, it’s a tougher adjustment than I expected. The city is larger and gritter than I remembered. The place seems to have lost its spark, you know? Large swaths of the place are disappointingly familiar.

Q: Well sure, New York has a steep learning curve, even for natives. But how is it being back in the U.S.?
A: The days flow differently. In Wellington, I’d wake up in the morning to twenty emails and those were the emails for the day. I’d answer them and there would be none until the next day. Google Reader would overflow, but once the feeds were read, they sat silent. I’d spend a couple hours working in the morning, and then everyone left work and went to bed. The afternoons were mine, all alone, disconnected from the United States, entirely free to enjoy New Zealand. Kind of what it must have been like when people left work back before cellphones were invented.

Q: Let’s back up a few steps, what part of the return were you looking forward to?
A: Lots of things! I mean, New York City… c’mon… when you’ve been away for awhile, you start seeing the place in a whole new perspective. Of course I was looking forward to seeing my friends and family. And you appreciate how the city really is the restaurant capital of the world, and how there’s always something to do—not that I’d do too many things, but there was always the potential.

Q: So how’s the food?
A: Expensive! But tasty. Not as tasty as I remembered, but it’s still good. I just have to remind myself not to covert back to NZD or I start freaking out. The vegetables aren’t as fresh or cheap either. But it is nice having my good baguettes back.

Q: And how about your friends? It must be great to see everyone!
A: Oh, it certainly is! I definitely missed everyone being on the other side of the world and all, but at the same time I got very used to Skype and IMs. And for my friends in other cities, nothing really changed. Being back, it seems like there’s so much more effort involved. The city’s huge and I just don’t have the patience to sit on subways forever. I don’t want to go to the Lower East Side and spend an hour and a half getting home. And Brooklyn? Out of the question.

Q: So do you miss Wellington?
A: I do, very much. I set for the trip what I thought was a binary goal: fall in love with Wellington, or gain a renewed appreciation for the city. Both happened, and I’m really not sure how to reconcile that.

Q: If nothing else, isn’t it freezing cold over there?
A: Yes, it is, and it certainly is nice being back in warm weather. It’s 80 and sunny here, while Wellington is suffering through their winter. I remind myself that every day over there is 50, windy, and rainy. Still…

Q: You really just miss Wekas, don’t you?
A: This interview is over.

Last night I saw a skyline with tall well-lit buildings, and dark rooms full of colleagues. I saw bags at Kennedy. I felt myself tugging the luggage trolley, getting stuck on the curb. Nothing nightmarish, but I was home and so clearly not here, and it just felt awful. I woke up at 6 a.m. to thunder, lightening, downpour.

The trip is being quickly reduced to meals. There was this pizza, and an exquisite dessert at Strawberry Fare. Tonight is Vietnamese, maybe Korean. Tomorrow is a homemade trade: burgers for lunch, green curry for dinner. Friday, I’ll spend my last day in Wellington trying to celebrate my birthday with lunch at Logan Brown. Saturday, apples on the train. Sunday and Sunday and Sunday. And then… airplane food.

There’s nothing big left to do, but I’m not ready to come home.