David downs coffee with Roberta at 6:15 a.m. and hits the road with her and John, depositing them at the Picton ferry, bound for a flight from Wellington to southern adventures, and spins the car back into the Blenheim apartment garage by 8:20. Hardly a car on the 28k trip coming or going. Meanwhile, Cynthia’s all over her iPad, firing warning shots at Apple.

WOWZER! After anxiously waiting for a signal from Apple, Cynthia gets a passcode and spends an hour-and-a-half talking to a few ladies in Oz about how to complete the restoration of her new iPhone (so it has all the apps and bells and whistles of her drenched old phone).

We spend the rest of the overcast, intermittently rainy morning and early afternoon doing … nothing. It’s nice to have a rest, even though we feel vaguely guilty for not charging out and drinking in the still unknown.

We realize that we’ve been traveling mostly with others who seek experiences of nature and who, therefore, are attuned to it … its beauty, its perils, its preservation .. that, perhaps, the girl behind the counter in the pharmacy or the guy selling camrys on the corner might not have such sensibilities, but we DO have the impression that New Zealanders as a people on the whole care more about their environment than do Americans as a whole. Less litter on the side of the road, whether it’s along a highway in the middle of erehwon or behind the Bridgestone tire factory in town. More money (what do we mean: per capita, as a percent of tax dollars? Not sure) than in the States gets thrown at protecting nature and our ability to experience it. The wooden boxes inserted in the earthen trails in remote areas to sluice the water from the trail into the forest: these boxes are mostly in perfect shape. They have been cleaned out when they get filled with sand or debris; they have been replaced when they have deteriorated. Little things that, when we think about it, I guess, must involve efforts of will and regulation, of physical effort and constant attention.

Ok. Off the speculative soapbox. Cynthia goes for a mani-pedi from a Vietnamese gal who came to New Zealand to marry the son of a vineyard owner near town. He with three children from a previous marriage, she with a young child of her own. She says she would have done anything to escape from Vietnam, that the country is corrupt and dangerous, that gangs in the poorer parts of cities and towns will batter in your door to steal your TV. David stays home and putters. Typical Grant family ethos: Cynthia’s gotta feel connected; David seeks solitude.

We go to the “Corner Noodle” and get Thai take-out that’s cooked by Chinese and bring it home while we watch a Miss Fisher mystery on the tele and reminisce about our trip so far.