My book is out

I would like to thank all of you who have encouraged me to get off my duff and publish my first book. Duff has been left, and my first novel "Overlords of K Street," is now available. Just click on this link  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00C015K5C and you're off. This is a book I finished a few years back, while still in my newspaper days. You'll definitely detect a whiff of the ink-stained wretch in its pages. And how do you like the mystery of my nom de plume, eh?

Here's the blurb on Amazon.com:

All Joel Wilson had ever wanted was to be a newspaper man. He’d made it too. From a small town in Minnesota he’d made it all the way to the Washington Herald. But after years of budget and staff cuts and nothing but a depressing future on the horizon for the newspaper business, Wilson had taken a buyout. He’d moved to Costa Rica looking for a new life. A little seaside town, a Costa Rican girlfriend, and a relaxed, inconsequential life had put a spring back in his step. But soon the world he’d once covered for the Herald, the world of political corruption and power-mongering, sucked him back in. His ex-wife, a U.S. attorney, has gone missing. The police, thinking her dead, have already given up the search. It’s up to Joel, with the help of his old newspaper buddies, to find her. Their search uncovers a web of corruption that leads from a plot of land in Florida all the way to the hallowed halls of Washington, D.C.

Anyway, I hope those of you who have been kind enough to read this blog will hop over and purchase the book. It's just $6.99. And do let me know what you think.

A Kiwi Kaff in D.C.

I ran across this little outpost of Kiwi cuisine in Arlington, outside Washington, D.C., today. After being gone from New Zealand for three months, naturally I had to stop in and have a pie.

Flashbacks to New Zealand

As I happily prepare for our new life in India, New Zealand persistently interrupts. I woke this morning to a kind email from John Glennie. He'd just read a post I'd written long ago about his 119-day nightmare adrift with a hardy crew aboard the capsized Rose-Noelle.

After they'd washed ashore on New Zealand territory they'd briefly been accused of being drug smugglers. Just what they needed after a life-and-death struggle that nearly destroyed their souls. He wanted to bring my attention to a new piece he'd written about what it takes for the human spirit to survive such an ordeal.

The crew of the Rose-Noelle after being rescued.

His email, a typically upbeat and unsentimental Kiwi communication, was a welcome hand across the large divide that has arisen between my now and my Kiwi time.

Then, in Hindi class, we were handed a newspaper article to read and translate. Hindi still looks like a drug-induced hallucinagenic scribble to me. But, bit by bit, I came to realize I was reading about the mega-earthquake Amy and I had been through in Christchurch.

Though we in the class had none of the words in the article, when my teacher asked for someone to translate, I volunteered. I made everything up, of course, but all the words came from my time in Christchurch. Even my old buddy Mayor Bob Parker was quoted, and I knew the sort of thing he'd say.

My teacher, accustomed to looking at me with the sort of pity reserved for the slightly challenged, gazed upon me now as if I were gifted in the ESP-sort of way. None of what I said was In the text, of course, but it was almost as if I'd been there, she said.

 Hindi-schmindi.

 Feelings were coursing through me. Here I was in Arlington, but back in New Zealand again. My classmates said they'd never heard of the earthquake. Then, tonight, I had a wonderful dinner with a gracious and respected colleague from Wellington. We talked of many things from our time in Kiwiland. As I walked through the streets of DC tonight on my way home, I was happily reminded that our time in New Zealand, which seems such a distant memory, will always be a part of our lives. And for that I will eternally be grateful.

Over and Out

Thanks to all of you who have read this blog over the last couple of years. Your readership encouraged me to go the extra mile - in many cases literally. I'm now writing a new blog for the time I'm back home in America before heading off to India. You can read "My Intermittent America" here. Again, many thanks, and stay in touch.

Farewell, Welly; it's been a blast



Wellington showed what it can do on a glorious final weekend.

 It's been such a crazy-busy week that I did not have time to contemplate that this was it: two years in New Zealand over. Done and dusted. Time to move on. The sadness is more than compensated by the thrill of seeing my family again. But, as I sat listening to the Kiwi rain coming down last night and looked out at the sodden streets and twinkling lights of our neighborhood, it began to sink in.

There will be more time in the coming days to try to assess what our time in New Zealand has meant. Sitting in Sydney on a glorious winter's day, New Zealand already seems long ago and far away. There is so much I will miss about the gentle Kiwis: their kindness and dry wit, their wooly, black-clad unpretentiousness - but most of all their common sense and decency. These are folks who try to do the right thing by others. There were two examples of that at the airport this morning - at 4 a.m. no less. A nudge-nudge, wink-wink at my overweight bag and a taxi driver who returned to the airport to deliver the phone a friend of mine had left in the back seat.

The world is not at war with itself in New Zealand. Sure, there are the daily brouhahas and regular political eruptions. Still, the bottom line is that most Kiwis have each other's backs and that of those who share their soil.

But, as I've said, there will be plenty of time for such musings. For now I'm just trying to navigate the massive journey homewards.

A brief pause in Sydney

I felt almost guilty sneaking out of New Zealand before the crack of dawn. It was a dark, dreary way to say goodbye to a place that has stolen my heart. But it also seemed appropriate. It would have been harder to leave in the daylight, when Welly could sing her siren song.

I snuck out of the airport and made a mad dash into Sydney, an old friend from long ago. It was a glorious day that made the parting from New Zealand a little easier - and hinted at the Southern fall soon to greet me back home.

Sydney Harbor is still gorgeous and, after my last trip back exorcised a lot of ghosts, it was good to see the city through new, non-nostalgic eyes again.

The view from Circular Quay station.

Then it was time to get back on the train at Circular Quay. It's a station I used a lot when I lived in Sydney. I saw the hotel where I had drinks with the guys from ZZ Top when they were in town. And the flat ... Oh, wait. Didn't I just say I was done with nostalgia?

Anyway, onwards and upwards and back to the states. I've been gone for almost two years and I need to get re-Yankified. It's a prospect I relish. In addition to family, I've missed a lot about the states: wide open highways, barbecue, my friends, fishing with my friends, Coors Light, Jon Stewart, the paper version of the New York Times, college football, politics (absolutely kidding), affordable books - affordable everything, actually. None of these seem like problems that will be too difficult to fix.

For those of you who care, I will wrap up this blog over the next couple of days. Thanks to all of you for reading and commenting and contributing ideas and conage. I will, of course, begin another. 

All that remains is to say "Goodbye, New Zealand." I will miss the wonderful people, the majestic scenery and the sense of comfort and well-being you afforded. I never did get to see the Orcas in Wellington harbor. And that's a regret  strong enough that it might just bring me back.

Did someone say sausage rolls?

Sausage rolls, baby.

Today we had the joyous occasion of viewing our colleague’s new baby. I’m sure viewing is the incorrect word. Perhaps we had a showing; or an unveiling. But that’s beside the point, which was that the baby was very cute and mother and father are doing well. A blissful event, spoiled only slightly by the large number of males present, myself included.

Let us just say that the baby behaved a lot better – or at least more appropriately – than the males. She was awake and received her visitors well, with the obligatorily ridiculous displays of cuteness and smallness. The males, myself included, kept up their end of the social contract for a few minutes before looking around awkwardly for food.

It was all going very well – until the males, myself included, began talking. We are not good at saying the right things at such times. For we have the attention span of very small hamsters and when we stray into matters beyond our ken – such as baby unveilings – we tend to say rather stupid things.

Like “yeah, the first two years really just fly by, eh?” This to newly minted parents who hadn’t slept well for a not inconsiderable time and who were probably measuring the minutes in hours or even days.

Then food came and the men were relieved of saying even vaguely sensible things about the baby viewing. Now we could talk stupidly and considerably less offensively about other things, relieving the tensions a little bit.

Let me say once again that the baby was very beautiful and it was a wonderful occasion.

But then the sausage rolls arrived. This made me happy. These delectables are sausages wrapped in pastry and are the crack cocaine of New Zealand’s culinary repertoire. They are like pies, only better. They tend to make people purr for a bit and then, apparently, become very stupid – at least in company. We ate the sausage rolls, which were perhaps the best I’ve had in a very long time; like my Granny made.

"There's only two sausage rolls left."

It was at this point that I noticed another of my (male) colleagues begin to act a bit strangely. He began a sort of sausage roll countdown. “There’s only nine sausage rolls left,” he would say, stroke his chin, and then sit back as if a profundity had been uttered. I took the hint, of course, and handed around the plate.

Then there was silence for a while. The parents tended to their child. Sausage rolls were consumed.

“There’s only seven sausage rolls left,” the same colleague offered into the silence. We all counted and saw that he was right.

I handed the plate around again.

There was another silence.

Then the colleague told us that he had entered into a half-Ironman race. We waited for more, but there was another silence.

“I’m going to have to give up the sausage rolls for a while, eh?” he concluded his point.

“How many sausage rolls do you eat, then?” asked another (male) colleague.

There were, in fact, just two sausage rolls left.

This question was carefully considered.

“Oh, about four a week.”

“Well that’s not very many, is it?” Colleague two was baiting colleague one.

Colleague one considered this question carefully.

“Well sometimes I’ll have more,” he finally pronounced. “Like at Christmas I might have up to 20 a week. Yeah."

“Still, that’s only about 200 a year,” I joined the fray.

“True, but sometimes I’ll go a long time without a sausage roll.” He was making excuses now, clearly backed into a corner.

All this time the women were looking rather bemused. The baby, the alleged center of attention, was still conducting herself impeccably.

There was another silence.

“There’s only four sausage rolls left,” colleague one said.

And everyone laughed. It was a laugh led by the ladies. They were politely insisting on an end to these inanities. Soon the baby viewing was over. We said our goodbyes and left.

There were only two sausage rolls left. Oh yes, and the baby was gorgeous.

Signs, signs everywhere signs

THE sign is finally up.

The infamous sign is at last in place. It's hard to see what all the fuss was about. The initial proposal to put a sign up that said "Wellywood" led to mass protests at the airport, owner of the sign-bearing land, and a prolonged hue and cry. So it was decided to let the people come up with their own suggestions for a sign that would greet passengers as they land at the airport and then put it up for a popular vote. This is what won: Wellington Blown Away, a homage to the gustiness of Wellington. It all seems so droll now, particularly on a glorious, almost windless day.

But here it is.

Actually on a day of aimlessly driving around this bejewelled city, there were signs that caught my attention everywhere. A new, not quite so frivolous sign on a hill - one that passengers landing at the airport will also be able to see - went up just around the corner. I have no idea what is going on here.

Something ugly's going on.

There's been nothing in the papers about what is obviously a property dispute of some sort. I drove up there, but could discover nothing - other than the apparently pissed-off person has even installed lights to illuminate this treasure at night. Stay tuned. (Here's a story about this now.)

Whaddya mean? A gull's gotta eat.

Speaking of unpopular signs, this seagull is obviously non-plussed about what comes across as a discriminatory ban. What's he supposed to do? Dig through the garbage cans and pick up scraps off the beach? Oh wait.

I then moved into town, where Wellingtonians were lapping up the sun. Everyone was in a good mood.

How about some coffee instead?

A group of overly happy folks were working the waterfront randomly giving out free hugs. I had to take this picture with a long lens; I didn't want to get too close and be caught up in such random pleasantness and smile generation.

Perhaps they could visit the "U stole my land" guy in Strathmore. Somebody obviously needs a hug, especially a free one.