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My first tattoo

6/15/2018

 
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“Tattoos were introduced to the West by Captain Cook when he returned from the South Seas (including New Zealand) in 1769. Some of the sailors who accompanied him on this voyage were so taken by the tattoos adorning Polynesian women that they got their own. After Cook and his mates made their way back to England, tattoos became an emblem of sorts among intrepid mariners…. In a scientific study, researchers discovered tattooed individuals were significantly different on three intriguing traits. They are extroverted, seek experiences, and desire uniqueness.” Psychology Today https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/head-games/201709/3-things-getting-tattoo-says-about-you.

“I’ll never have a tattoo,” I asserted many times, even though I appreciated skillfully created body art—especially full body art. But I don’t like needles and had no desire for a tat.

Yet there I was in Auckland, New Zealand, nestled into a black leather sofa at Otautahi Tattoo. I waited while Randy, my tattoo artist, sketched his interpretation of my idea. I wanted a turtle permanently inked onto my thigh.

I felt awkward getting my first ink at age 65. I didn’t know what to expect, how much pain I’d feel, if I’d embarrass myself being a weenie about the needle. I wondered what the staff thought of an older, silver-haired woman sitting there, waiting for her turn. I also thought that I was kinda radical, this no-holds-barred chapter in my life, taking risks and doing things I’d never done before.

The Otautahi staff didn’t know what an epic adventure I was on, that I’d traveled from the other side of the world to New Zealand, and how the tattoo would be a permanent memory of that place and time. They didn’t know what a big deal it was to me. I wanted the best. I wanted a skilled artist, so I read reviews on the tattoo shops in Auckland. Otautahi was one of the top-rated places.

Otautahi Tattoos was spacious, clean and bright. It looked sanitary. (That was reassuring.) Behind the reception desk, four customers rested on tables while tattoo artists created designs on their arms and legs. One guy was being inked on the inside of his arm. He looked away from the procedure, showing no emotion. It had to hurt.

A 30-ish woman had obviously been “under the needle” for several hours already. Her husband and 4-year old daughter sat on stools, watching as the artist worked a complex rose pattern on her shoulder. The woman stood up to take a break, the skin under the tattoo deep red and a bit swollen. She returned after an hour, climbed back onto the table, offered her shoulder again to the tattoo artist. She didn’t flinch when the needle pierced her tender skin. I realized that not showing pain was an important part of the tattoo culture.

While other customers were being inked, Randy worked on my turtle sketch. I wandered around the waiting area. Skulls were everywhere in the shop.
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Otautahi Tattoo’s logo was a skull, which was not especially reassuring. Had I been inclined, I could have purchased one of their skull-emblazoned t-shirts. I passed.
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A glittery, gold-painted deer skull with massive antlers hung on the blood-red wall directly above the sofa where I’d been sitting. Across the room was a horse skull on top of a glass and chrome table. That was disconcerting and rather weird. 
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On the front counter, a human skull (presumably fake) held the shop’s business cards between its teeth. In contrast to the skull theme, elegant Oriental art graced other walls. The shop's vibe was definitely about artistic quality paired with a rebellious attitude.

Randy came into the waiting area to show me his design for my turtle tat. It was beautiful, but HUGE—the size of my entire hand! I’d asked him for something small, about 2” to 3” long, and his design was more than twice that size. We had a lengthy discussion, I insisted on a smaller size, and clearly disappointed, he went back to modify his artwork.

When it was ready, I looked at Randy’s revised, smaller design. It was still much larger than I requested. We had a bit of a design wrestling match because what he envisioned was a traditional Maori design filled with intricate line work. It simply couldn’t be reduced to the size I wanted because the lines would blur together with the natural spreading of ink over time. He wasn’t willing to simplify the internal linework because it had deep symbolic meaning. We were stuck.

After more discussion, we agreed on a turtle outline at half the size he wanted and significantly larger than what I envisioned. It would be a Maori design without the internal linework. Randy was not especially happy about the compromise but he obliged. He transferred his sketch to a stencil which he then applied to my thigh.

Let the inking begin.

I slid onto the table, wondering how much the needling was going to hurt. Showing pain was not an option. Randy put on latex gloves and carefully, thoroughly cleaned the area where the tattoo would be. He told me to hold still, not to move my leg. I tried to relax, to be stoic like the lady with the rose tattooed on her shoulder.

I thought about how excruciating it would be to have needling on the inside of an arm or a bony area like a shoulder, foot, or ankle. I deliberately chose a location for the tattoo that I hoped would be the least painful—my thigh.

Randy started to work. His sharp needle pierced my skin.

It hurt.

I was brave. I grimaced a few times but didn’t make a sound. I was becoming a member of the tattoo culture where ignoring pain was the rule. As the needle dug it’s way into each new part of my skin, I wondered if only the first few minutes would hurt, and then I wouldn’t feel it any longer. No, the sharp biting sensation continued. Lying there on the table, trapped by my desire to be inked, I could only think about the tattoo being finished so the pain would stop.

Twenty minutes later, Randy leaned back and said I was done. Relief washed over me. No more stabbing of the needle, just a dull ache on my thigh. And there it was—the Maori turtle, the memory of my trip to New Zealand—etched into my skin.  
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Randy covered my tattoo with a clear, adhesive-backed wrap and gave me care instructions. “Leave the wrap on for 24 hours, then take it off in the shower. Wash the wound carefully with soap, pat dry with a paper towel, and apply this new wrap. Leave it on for a week.”

That was it. I could go. As I paid my bill, I studied the receptionist’s ink-covered arms. I said to myself, “I’ll never have another tattoo.”
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Wine Island

5/27/2018

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Wine Island. Such an evocative name. Of course I had to visit a place named Wine Island!
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The island’s official name is Waiheke and it’s just a short ferry ride from Auckland, New Zealand. The climate is perfect for growing wine grapes. Not surprisingly, about 30 wineries are dotted around the idilic isle. There are also beautiful beaches, but let’s be honest, I went for the wine tasting and the food.

To make the most of the day, I got up early, skipped breakfast, and caught the 8:00 ferry.  
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From the ferry's deck I had a terrific view of Auckland’s skyline and The Port of Auckland.
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The port has massive ship-to-shore cargo cranes, operates 365 days a year, and handles $27 billion in trade annually. That's impressive!

​The ferry chugged out of the harbor. A pleasant forty-five minute ride took us across Half Moon Bay to the landing at Wine Island. I had several choices for transportation around the island: a fancy tour bus, a hop-on-hop-off bus, or a bicycle. The bicycle sounded like fun until I noticed the island's hilly terrain. Then there was the problem of me cycling on narrow roads after several glasses of wine. Wisely, I chose the hop-on-hop-off bus.
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First stop was the tiny village of Oneroa. I was hungry! Happily, several cute restaurants were right next to the bus stop. Two overlooked Oneroa Beach. I chose the one on top of the hill.  
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The view from my table in the restaurant was gorgeous!
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My breakfast bill paid for that view: $17 for eggs and bacon! But the food was delicious and I was fortified for my day's adventures.

The next bus arrived 10 minutes after I finished breakfast. I hopped on and rode it to Onetangi Beach where I lingered until 11:00 when the wineries opened for business.
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Someone built a simple sand castle on the beach and decorated it with clamshells, knowing the incoming tide would wash it out to sea.  
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Two birds—one black and one white—hung out together, hopping along the seashore looking for food. I thought it was unusual for different species of birds to be together, but these two seemed to be working as a pair. I tagged along behind them for a while, watching them pick through the sand. I walked along the shore until 11:00 when it was time to catch the bus back to my wine tasting experiences.

How to choose among 30 wineries? I decided on three whose descriptions sounded interesting and that were fairly close together on the bus route. I hopped off at the first winery, walked up the long gravel driveway, and was greeted by a sign that said it was closed that day. Disappointed but undeterred, I walked to the second winery.  
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Stonyridge Vineyard was open for business. Along with wine and wine tastings, the vineyard had an excellent restaurant.
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From the road I saw an inviting red brick two-story building covered with ivy. Wine casks defined the entrance. I saw people mingling on a deck, decided that’s where the wine tasting was held, and went up to join them. There was a nice selection of wines available for tasting. I was primarily interested in their Sauvignon Blanc, signature wine of New Zealand, which is my favorite white. I hadn’t found any in Spain and was excited to drink it again.

Although I wasn’t quite hungry yet, Stonyridge’s lunch menu looked appealing. I took my three wine tasting pours to an outdoor table and ordered lunch. The day was warm, but the restaurant deck was shaded by an ivy-covered arbor. While waiting for my order I enjoyed chatting with the waiter, who had deep knowledge of wine, the wine-making process at the winery, and the terroir of Wine Island.
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My lunch arrived, beautifully plated. The filet was tender, perfectly prepared, and hands-down the best I had ever eaten! The wine pours were a lovely complement. I tasted the Cabernet Franc, Pinot Noir, and of course the Sauvignon Blanc.

I lingered a while, enjoying the cool deck and view of the grape-growing valley. But another vineyard was close by and I was eager to try their wines too.
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Wild On Waiheke Winery was just a short walk down the main island road. This winery was casual, with picnic tables and wood chairs shaded by canopies, and kids running around. Charming and relaxing. I decided to compare the wines here with those I tasted at Stonyridge: Cab Franc, Pinot Noir, and Sauv Blanc.
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I had passed on dessert at the previous winery so my (possibly faulty) logic said I could order it here.  
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A bowl of berry-filled meringue with mango sorbet arrived at my table. Delicious! The wines were very good, especially the Sauv Blanc.
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Although it was early afternoon, the day was becoming hot and humid, and I’d had my limit of wine. Three tasting-size pours at two wineries equalled about two normal-size glasses of wine. Let’s face it. I’m a cheap date. I was very glad I hadn’t opted for touring on a bicycle—the bus ride back to the ferry landing was many miles. It would have been challenging for me to manage the hilly terrain in the heat, even without a wine buzz.
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Wine Island was delightful! Next time I’ll stay overnight to have more time for enjoying other wineries and the beaches. But it was time to head back to the mainland.

​​​I appreciated the breezy, cool ferry ride back to Auckland. I arrived in the harbor with enough time left in the day to visit Auckland Museum's Maori cultural exhibition. And that will be another post.
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Sydney to Auckland: A (funny) harrowing travel tale

4/5/2018

 
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One of my primary goals while traveling is to make it as stress-free as possible. I allow more than enough time to get to the airport and make it through security. At least that’s what I thought prior to traveling to New Zealand.

I had an 11:10 flight from Sydney to Auckland. Despite a traffic jam, Uber got me to the airport before 9:00. When I arrived at check-in to drop my suitcase, the line was very, very, very long. But hey, I safely had almost 2 hours to get to my gate. Let’s just say I have never seen such slow service (name of airline withheld to protect the innocent). The line crept forward almost imperceptibly.

I looked at my watch: 9:30. I chatted with the people behind me. I looked at my watch again: 10:00. I was getting a little nervous. I still had to get through security and then go to the gate. A bit later, an airline employee walked through the line asking who was on the flight to Auckland and, by the way, we had to get to the gate by 10:20 in order to catch the bus that would take us to the plane. I mentioned, “It’s already 10:30.” She said, “Do the best you can.” What?
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I finally made it to the check-in desk, dropped my suitcase, and bolted for security. I didn’t bother to take off my boots and forgot to take out my little bag of liquids, so I made it through in record time, ran to the gate, and caught the bus. I felt sorry for the people behind me. They didn’t get checked in fast enough and missed the plane.
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The flight from Sydney to Auckland takes 3½ hours. My plane finally left at 11:30 a.m. to arrive at 3:00 p.m., except there’s that pesky time zone change thing so my arrival was 5:00 p.m. New Zealand time. I didn’t anticipate spending 2 more hours in the airport going through border control.

​I picked up my luggage at baggage claim and a sniffer dog came around to make sure I wasn’t carrying any food or other forbidden items. Then I went through 3 security check points with very thorough screenings!

First stop was passport check. I have a new e-passport so I sailed right through, no standing in line. But then I realized I didn’t get a stamp in my passport book. I wanted that New Zealand stamp but I missed my chance!

Second stop was customs. During the flight we were given a customs form to fill out, with many questions about items we carried in our luggage and places we’d visited. Food and animal products are not allowed to be brought into the country. There were many signs in the airport hallways instructing people to throw away any food or forbidden items.

No problem, I wasn’t carrying any food. But I had to declare that I had hiking boots and had been hiking in the mountains. According to the declaration form, the boots could potentially be carrying contaminated foreign soil. I worried that my boots might be confiscated!

Before getting to the customs check point, I went into a restroom, soaked a paper towel, and wiped the dust off my boots. I hoped that would help. Maybe they’d let me keep my boots if I promised to clean them completely. I loved my boots and couldn’t imagine how I’d go hiking without them!

On the other side of the restroom, a nervous young woman was digging through her luggage and throwing out a lot of sandwiches. Maybe she was going hiking too, and that was her food supply. There’s an instant $400 fine for trying to sneak anything through customs, so she was complying with the law by getting rid of her forbidden items.

After exiting the restroom and waiting in a long line, I presented my customs declaration form at the customs desk. I was asked if I was carrying any food. “No.” The customs man noted that I had hiking boots and made a green check mark on the form next to my “Yes” declaration. I was sent to stand in a special line next to a wall. I couldn’t see what was happening on the other side of the wall and my anxiety about my boots increased.

When my turn was next, I walked around the corner of the wall and could see what was going to happen to me in a few minutes. A young woman was unloading her backpack on a long stainless steel table. She pulled out packages of food and bag after bag of fruit. The examining agent looked exasperated. He confiscated the food, I assumed she was given the fine, and then it was my turn so I didn’t see what happened to her after that.

A friendly woman motioned me to come over to her table. She asked if she could see my boots. Since I was wearing them, I put one foot on the table, she looked at the sole, and then I put the other foot up. She said they didn’t look too bad but motioned me into a room with tall, official-looking doors. I thought this would be where I’d have to say goodbye to my wonderful boots.

But no! She asked me to walk around on a squishy blue mat that was on the floor. It contained a foamy liquid that covered the soles of my boots, and I realized it was a decontaminant. I squished around on the mat until I was sure they had been thoroughly sanitized. That was all. Yay!!! I could keep my boots!

There was one more checkpoint: luggage x-ray. Relieved that my boots were coming with me, I confidently hoisted my bags onto the belt. They contained nothing illegal. The bags slid out the other side and I was finally free to go!

Uber dropped me off at my AirBnB at 7:20—just in the nick of time. Feeling rather cheeky, I’d invited myself to a 7:30 InterNations dinner party. I belong to the InterNations club in Valencia, and prior to arriving in New Zealand I introduced myself online to members of the Auckland club, so we weren’t complete strangers.

I quickly changed into dinner clothes, called another Uber, and arrived at the dinner “fashionably late.” The dinner was delicious, the conversation was lively, and I now have seven new Auckland friends. The perfect ending to a long, stressful travel day.

* I do not have affiliate relationships with Uber or AirBnB and do not receive any compensation from them. I use their services often and am extremely happy with the quality of service.
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Australia: First Day in Sydney

3/29/2018

 
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As soon as I stepped out the door of my flat in the morning, I realized I made a monumental wardrobe error. It was hot, humid, and sunny. Almost everyone was wearing shorts and flip flops. Thinking the weather would be cool (late March is autumn in Australia), I packed warm clothes for hiking—jeans and turtlenecks and only one short sleeved top. I never wear sundresses or shorts; if you’ve seen my skinny white legs you know why. Clearly the first task of the day was a quick shopping trip to find summer tops.

My flat was just off MacLeay Street, which is a trendy shopping area. I saw a dressy white t-shirt in a store window and popped in to look at it. The price tag was AU$119 (Australian dollars), which was $91.50 US dollars and way out of my budget. Just down the street I found a discount store and purchased a nice tank top for AU$10. My wallet and I were much happier with that choice, and I had a more comfortable top to wear on that hot day.

After changing into my new, comfy top, I explored the area near my flat, looking for things that were typically Australian. 
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I spotted an Australian White Ibis in Fitzroy Gardens. It took me a while to figure out he was standing on just one leg.
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Also in Fitzroy Gardens was a sign pointing to many destinations. Sydney is a hub for backpackers who are headed to some of those destinations. 
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Sydney's multitude of backpacker hostels have “street art” inspired signs.
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As I continued to ramble, I saw a sign for Kings Cross Bakery’s homemade pies. I thought of American fruit pies and suddenly had an intense craving for a slice of apple pie, or cherry, or maybe lemon meringue. But Australian shops offer meat pies and beef and vegetable pasties. 
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Although disappointed that I couldn't order a slice of apple pie, I was a good sport and tried a pasty. It was the real deal. My dad grew up eating pasties, so I learned to make them with potatoes and rutabagas. Oh, the pasty and a lemon bar cost AU$12.50. It was expensive to eat in Sydney!
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I saw pay telephones around Sydney. Lots of them. Even in Australia there are people who don’t have cell phones. I found that surprising because in the U.S. lots of young kids have cell phones.
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Random thought: The Australian accent is fun to listen to but sometimes difficult to understand. I asked for directions to an internet cafe and was told to go to Steinwall. What? Steinwall. What? Steinwall. Like a “stein” in a “wall.” Okay, I finally got it! Stonewall! The Australian accent is definitely unique to Australia!
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    Paula McDermid

    I love Australian Shepherd dogs and travel! Join me as I explore Europe, meet Aussies and their owners, and discover exciting places you'd love to visit.

    I moved to Europe from the U.S. in May 2017 and haven't looked back! My dream is to share with you the exquisite beauty of castles, cathedrals, and communities in the Old World. 

    I hope to inspire you to chase your own dreams. Come and explore with me!


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