A few observations
For better or for worse, our nation is the most powerful in the world. So each day we feel the crises and events in which our United States is involved – in Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, Israel, Syria, Central and South America, even, to a lesser extent these days, the Balkans. It takes a trip to a faraway land to put such matters into perspective. News of our nation’s doings is often on page 10 of New Zealand’s newspapers. But because of our nation’s importance, kiwis know our politics and major politicians. At least our friends do.
Accustomed as we are in the States to relatively cheap energy, we take it for granted. Not so our New Zealand friends. Their homes and cars are smaller, clothes are hung on lines in every backyard, and many folks turn off their water heaters if they leave their homes for even a couple of days. A Honda Civic fill up costs $50.
In a land where sheep outnumber people, lamb is obviously a far more popular dish than beef.
Bacon and eggs isn’t the staple breakfast dish there. Yogurt, cereal and toast are the preferred fare where supermarket eggs are $6 a dozen.
The great majority of the native Maori population seems well integrated into the majority white population.
The average New Zealander seems to be more relaxed and happier than we Americans, and he or she will go out of his or her way to answer questions or help.
In-the-know foreigners and New Zealanders call themselves “kiwis” after the native flightless bird. Perhaps because the kiwi is now an endangered critter, the kiwi logo is not as ubiquitous as it once was on caps, T-shirts and mugs. It’s slowly being replaced by the beautiful silver fern, another native.
Those of us of a certain age grew up to western music as sung by the likes of Gene Autry, Roy Rogers and the Sons of the Pioneers. Obviously, so too did our kiwi cousins. They know the words as well as we do.
New Zealanders speak English, all right, but with what we’d term a “Brit” accent. And their vocabulary follows the motherland’s: a boot is a car’s trunk, and the hood is its bonnet. And they don’t drive bumper-to-bumper, but “nose-to-tail.”
Their motorized golf carts are called “carts,” all right. But their golf push carts are “trundlers.” They’re sensibly designed too, with a seat.
There is simply no comparison between Los Angeles’ dark, dirty and overcrowded international airline terminal and the clean, bright and comfortable airline terminals in Nadi, Fiji and Auckland and Christchurch in New Zealand. We’re embarrassed for America.