Back to the US

Love is terribly overrated; all you really need is metal. Celebrated the sale of my car (yes, I got bent over severely, but every bum in the world was selling their 13 year old station wagons in Auckland at the same time) by attending a great show at the King's Arms featuring some hard and heavy bands, one of which was the premier Metallica tribute band in New Zealand (the fact that they are the only one is irrelevant). A hell of a fun time to be sure with much sweating, yelling, and jostling as one can take.

But it was time to say goodbye to the most beautiful place on Earth (that I have been, anyway) and on to another session of intercontinental public transport. The flight was with Qantas, which meant we were treated like civilized human beings and not diseased cattle unworthy even of a proper butchering. Finally saw Inglorious Basterds and was incredibly amused; too bad it had to be on a 2" screen. However, the US has the TSA, which is bureaucracy at its absolute worst...ironically it's the most prominent a Soviet-style relic in use today.

Eventually I arrived in Portland, where all dirtbagging journeys begin and come to an end. Before I place my neck back in the corporate noose, the Belmont Station calls with it's St. Patrick's Day Stoutfest and, more importantly, German thrash legends Kreator are rolling in to town...like calculus, metal is a true international language!

Final Road Trip, Northland, New Zealand

"Life's a banquet, and, you know, most poor suckers are starving to death". Thus spoke the artist from Ontario, trying to explain why the average sap is miserable and bored. However, when you are lounging on a beach in the north of New Zealand, wrapped in the velvety embrace of Patron Silver and endless sunshine, words are unnecessary. The two Canadian gents teamed up with a Dutch lass for a few days of jolly good times on the coast. I was fortunate enough to be invited along in the festivities. I can't tell you where we were at because at this point, after damn near a year of traveling, place names are meaningless.

Before I ran into them, I spent a few more days in Auckland, trying to determine the sort of drugs the traffic planners were ingesting when they put pen to paper. Despite the endless traffic snarls and confusing streets, which seem to change name and direction at random, I found myself at the King's Arm Tavern to see some outstanding local rock action. Starved of international touring acts, Kiwis have become very adept at entertaining themselves. Too bad the audience consistent almost entirely of the other bands.

However, decent music was not enough to keep me in town. The sea beckoned, so I heeded the call up North for one final road trip. Back to the Bay of Islands, back to Kauri country, back to Cape Reinga. At the latter point (this time at Spirit's Bay), the heavy ozone odor in the air, combined with the exquisite landscape, gave the place an overwhelming aspect of sacredness. No wonder the Maori consider it to be one of their "holiest" locales. I almost felt undeserving of such a privilege.

...so now I'm back in Auckland for the last time, facing the moment I've been dreading for months: selling the car. Unfortunately, every other bum in the Southern Hemisphere is trying to do the same, pushing prices down to outrageously low levels. I've got half a mind to buy a dozen campervans, mothball them for the winter, and sell them all for huge markups in October. Alas, Portland calls with it's cheap burritos, tasty beverages, and urban planning that makes sense. Perhaps I'll smuggle some plates to take to the banquet...