Flew to summertime

We are two pasty-white, travel-weary souls stumbling around a foreign city, trying desperately to blend in amongst tanned, eclectically dressed locals who call this place home. Like the orphans tripping through the fur coats in the Wardrobe, we had found the time portal from winter into summer and a land entirely unknown to us. We traded our jeans and winter jackets for shorts and t-shirts. We found comfort in the fact that we weren't the only non-kiwis. Neither of us expected the incredible Asian population here. It makes complete sense but i don't think, in the midst of packing and preparing for this journey, we'd stopped to even consider it. Exhausted, we weaved through the masses on Queen St. in search of food, both feeling overwhelmed and wondering how clearly we thought this venture through. After a night of rest, or stone-dead slumber if we're being completely honest, the city took on a more promising hue. (i awoke with not one but both arms completely useless.) We donned our running shoes and crossed Grafton Bridge toward the medical school. We found what we think is Auckland's version of Central Park. It is absolutely gorgeous. After climbing the hill toward the Museum we had a view of the northwest harbor and ocean. We crossed over toward the south side rugby fields and the district beyond. You can't flick a flea and not hit a cafe/coffee shop. I couldn't believe the sheer number of starbucks on queen st. and now on the other side of Grafton Bridge were even more privately owned cafe establishments. Wearing our exercise duds we skipped the first two, observing ties and high-heels. We settled on "Jones the Grocer". Which may be too early to tell, but could very possibly become our new favorite specialty shoppe. We selected two fresh cranberry/maple syrup muffins and lattes to-go (i mean, take-away) and walked back to the park to sit and process the last 48 hours. We are still reeling but not feeling quite so frantic. Last night we had acquired a loaf of bread, peanut butter, boysenberry jam and fresh strawberries. We sat on a bench outside of the UofA International building. Lacking utensils, we spread the pb&j with our fingers. Sparrows gathered at our feet, waiting not in vain for crumbs. Spending the past month at my grandparents house, which should probably be given national recognition as a premier coastal bird sanctuary, had given me a new affection for our feathered friends who skittishly hopped near our feet. I tossed chunks of crust. One brave beaked fellow grabbed a chunk from my fingers. Another two shared a piece between them. The rest practiced their speed at grabbing crumbs and escaping to the rooftops to indulge. I think word spread over night because by this morning we were discovered and implored by some new winged buggers, who, this time waited in vain. It's a little harder to give up a cranberry muffin than a crust of bread. Disappointed they returned to their friends on the other side of the bridge to call them imaginative liars.