August 28, 1975: Thursday

Somewhere we cross the International Date Line and Wednesday was very short.

I dream a weird one about a lady who thinks we are derived from photons being quanticized across the universe. Life is a particle of light following a titration curve path. Billy Graham speaks against her. This all takes place in central Missouri and I have to take secret pictures of it. The airplane taxis down the highway and crosses a big, steel-girdered bridge to get to a high school, where this all happens.

I awake for breakfast. Then read. Then snooze. Dinner is roast beef. The sun is coming up. We are flying farther southward than I had thought. Sunrise is nice. I think, “Sun arise, come every morning.”

The clouds stretch out below us in all directions. In the distance they look like the hills around Auburn, covered with snow and devoid of trees and buildings. Peaceful, calm, and inviting. We descend into the clouds and they are gray and swirling, but not threatening. I have lost directions.

We come below the clouds. New Zealand looks like a Nebraska flooding spring. It looks gray, through the rain, and homey. I was afraid the plane’s 150 passengers would double Christchurch’s population, but it’s as big as Omaha.

We land. They spray some sort of aerosol that makes us gag. Then we de-plane. I get stuck having my baggage checked. Cal says it was my long hair. But I have an honest face, don’t I? They checked everything, but missed my quartz crystal. The lady had a flat face. She spoke with a Scottish-English accent.

I get 55 N.Z. dollars plus one Florin (20 cents). All for 60 dollars, American.

We got a cab. The driver was a lady, very friendly. She drives on the wrong side of the road, with a car that has its steering wheel on the wrong side. Of course, my directions are 180º off, too.

The Town Hall Motel is somewhere between Quaint and Rustic. Our room has three beds. Across the hall are two. We share a living room, kitchen, and bath. It’s cold. The space heater is spacey and the radio is even wilder. T.V. doesn’t come on until later. It’s only 10:30, after 9 hours and 50 minutes of flying from Hawaii.

We meet our two roommates. One’s a wide open Freak. The other looks like a Frat Rat. We talk. I learn about Antarctica. They’ve been before. The NSF guy’s name is Dave. They don’t respect his dignity.

The Freak had trouble with the inspection, too. They took a dog near him. “Come on, boy! Smell something! It’s got to be there! Sniff, boy! He’s a long-hair! Find something!”

We took off for lunch, walking through the rain and the streets. All the houses have walls around them, secluded, reserved. Dr. Treves says the British think New Zealand’s quaint and the Australians think it’s backwards.

Downtown is rows and rows of shops. Most of them are tiny one-family operations. Lots of produce, meat, bakeries. Almost frontier-like. Fifty-four cents for fish and chips; it was very hot. We huddled outside the door, protected from the cold and trying to stay warm.

The gutters run full of water and it splashes when you walk. Cal, Dr. Treves, the Frat guy, and I go looking in stores. I enjoy rain. Always have. And shopping in the rain. It’s just a pleasant feeling. Ninety cents for post cards. The Frat’s name is Doug. He’s all right.

We walk over to Canteberry Museum. It’s free and not bad. Learn things about Captain Cook and Moas and Maoris. Fifteen cents for tea. I could get to like hot tea. Very British.

We walk back to the motel. We see two Chevys. Cars are real out of sight here. Over $4000 for used cars. We sit around and talk and tell stories. It’s all right. I wish I could remember the stories.

Tim (the Freak) comes back and we’re reminded it’s time to eat. I write nine post cards. I still have to write Andria and Mom.

It’s bitterly cold out. We talk to the manager. She’ll get us an extension cord and another space heater. She introduces us to her husband. She remembers our names.

We walk back downtown, briskly, to keep our circulation going. Tommy is showing at the State Theatre. I wouldn’t mind seeing it again. Christchurch is like pictures of London, with the long streets intersecting each other at haphazard angles, shops wedged in the triangles. Things are painted gray with gold lettered signs in the windows. Hardly any neon signs. There are only a few new buildings over three stories tall. It is all so delightfully old-fashioned. We pass a shop with an alarm ringing. There’s not a policeman (constable?) in sight. We walk (shiver) a block farther, past more curious squares (the city is full of Monuments, Statues, Plazas, and pleasant things), shops, and cars, turn left, and there is the Shanghai Café. The interior is the same size, shape, and color as Marie’s Café, but it doesn’t have a counter or calendars on the wall. The man at the table in front of us looks half black, half oriental. Maybe he’s Maori. He enjoys his food noisily and gets the very last drop. He has not a fine set of teeth, but the waitress does not find him offensive. He gives a kid a shilling (10 cents) or a florin (20 cents). I’ve found those out. Everyone (except us) in the place looks so typically English. I mean you couldn’t mistake it. I feel like I’m inside Quadraphenia.

I eat shrimp soy something for $1.90. It’s very, very good. Another first for me, a Chinese meal. Pay when served. No tips. The waitress could be very pretty, if she tried. The girls walking about at night seem nicer, prettier. I wonder if that means anything.

Doug got a huge steak for $2.50.

We walk, I mean hurry, back to the motel. There are some Constables (Bobbies, perhaps?) at the alarm scene. Still don’t see anything inside. It’s 6:30, dark, rainy, cloudy, cold, wet, windy, and thoroughly enjoyable. They tell more tales about what McMurdo is like. They have a diffractometer there. I am very anxious to get to work.

We get back, fool around with wholly inadequate electrical connections, watch a British soap opera, “M*A*S*H,” and part of a “Streets of San Francisco,” the one where the guy’s son is killed by a deaf burglar and he goes after him himself. That’s a confusing sentence, ain’t it. Oh, well.

I read another chapter. I like the way Heinlein’s story line is going. It’s the way I would have done it.

We talk about McMurdo. It has a radio station, FM. Whoever wants to play records and isn’t busy can go ahead and do so. This might be fun. I must not rush things and act awed, respectful, and eager to get my hands on it, but in a polite way. Unfortunately it isn’t KOOL, but there’s four months ahead of me.

Boy, am I an ambitious one tonight.

Hurrah for electric blankets.

What I Spent:
$0.54....Fish and Chips
$1.90....Dinner
$0.90....Post cards