I wanted Scrooge. I got man love. So much for the jolly season.

I’d already left home to explore the great, wide world when cablevision finally made its way to my parents’ house, situated as it was a fair distance down a dead-end road. The arrival of that technology was just as significant to the household as the birth of the Internet would be some 20 years later.

Before cable, you could watch all of four channels on our cabinet TV, the reception provided by a set of rabbit ears. CBC, of course, because it served up Hockey Night in Canada, a Saturday night ritual as sacrosanct to our household as Sunday morning Mass. If memory serves, there were two other Canadian stations broadcasting from somewhere in British Columbia.

The other station, KVOS, originated from Bellingham, Wash. This signal was the weak sister of the bunch — to see anything other than a snowstorm of static, you had to hold the rabbit ears just so while standing over here, with your tongue protruding from one side of your mouth. Let’s just say it was a strain, both on your patience and your eyes.

But it was also the channel that, every December, broadcast my favourite Christmas movie, the 1951 version of A Christmas Carol, starring Alastair Sim.

I watched that movie religiously each year, no matter how old I was, no matter that the rest of the family, complaining of crossed eyes, drifted away from the fuzzy images flickering sporadically across the screen. The picture quality was crap, the sound wasn’t much better, but it was my personal tradition and I sat there until the very last “God bless us, everyone.”

Cue the passing of several decades, to the point where I’m now living in New Zealand and, even though our TV only receives four channels (hello, deja vu), they are delivered through the satellite perched like a spherical gargoyle on our roof and so the reception is crystal-clear.

In other words, I am now in the perfect position to see every twitch of Ebenezer Scrooge’s greedy eyebrows, hear every word uttered in Jacob Marley’s dying breath.

Except . . .  well, those rocket scientists who program the free-to-air channels in this country have decided not to serve up one of the great Noel delights.

I have no idea why Scrooge is nowhere to be found on my dial. Nor, for that matter, is Ralphie Parker and his Red Ryder BB gun and all the other delicious fun of A Christmas Story (1983), which sits at No. 2 on my Christmas movie list.

Maybe it’s the weather — it is, after all, summer in the Southern Hemisphere — or maybe those people in charge of the signal really do think Santa Clause 3: The Escape Clause is cinema of the highest degree, but the movies slotted in to replace the usual sitcoms and dramas during the holiday season are not exactly inspiring me to roast my chestnuts. Even on the barbie.

The Shawshank Redemption? Because nothing heralds the birth of Baby Jesus or announces the imminent arrival of Santa Claus more than watching men gang-rape each other in dank prison cells.

A Knight’s Tale? Well, I suppose ramming your lance down an opponent’s throat does bear a slight resemblance to ramming bread crumbs up a turkey’s arse.

Mrs. Doubtfire? Man loses children in nasty divorce. Man dresses up as woman to spend time with children. Man sets himself on fire. Pass the gay apparel.

Bridget Jones’s Diary? “Dear self. Just drank 30 glasses of eggnog and ate an entire plate of pickled herring. Why can’t I find a man?”

Phantom of the Opera? “A disfigured genius terrorises the Paris Opera House.” Hope this doesn’t make me spew the shortbread cookies.

The Nativity Story would seem to fit the season perfectly. Except for that one small hiccup where, while doing press for a movie about the virgin birth, its teenage star, NZ-born Keisha Castle-Hughes, announced she was pregnant. “An angel did it,” only works once, sweetheart.

So you can see why I’m not exactly in a Christmasy mood today. I’ve never really adjusted to wearing sunscreen and sunglasses on Dec. 25, but I’d feel better about it if I could watch Scrooge stumble back to his abode while being buffeted by a wind as frigid as his heart.

The bad news is New Year’s Eve isn’t shaping up to be any better of a TV night. Gladiator? So our final memory of 2009 can be of men in leather skirts being dismembered by giant cats?

But, actually, when you consider that 2010 is the Year of the Tiger, maybe that was a wise programming choice after all. Just try not to splatter any blood in my popcorn.

NOTE: Viking Woman’s children have since contacted me to relate how, when they were little, after the presents were open and the eggnog served, she would gather them in front of the TV and the VCR for a little family-film time. The title she chose each year? Better Off Dead, the 1985 John Cusack movie about teen suicide.

Because sometimes even sugarplum fairies have dark thoughts.

Market Day brings out the crowds. And the fake snot. Coincidence?

The annual Arts in the Park Haumoana Market Day is a circled event on the Hawke’s Bay calendar of local activities. A major fundraiser for Haumoana School, it’s held the first Sunday in November at Memorial Park and tends to attract crowds in the thousands.

We missed it our first year here because I was, ahem, lying on a beach in Bora Bora. (And, yes, travel writers are to be envied. And worshipped.)

Normally, I’m not a big fan of crowded venues, having begged off our family’s annual pilgrimage to Vancouver’s Pacific National Exhibition as soon as I was old enough to say no to my parents. But Sunday presented us with a generous serving of warm spring weather and so Viking Woman and I opted to continue our quest to experience the wonders of our new community.

In doing so, we decided to forgo our usual Sunday morning foray to the flea-cum-farmers’ market on Napier’s Marine Parade, and so I was hoping to pick up some fresh local produce in Haumoana. It was not to be. This Market Day may have featured more than 200 stalls, but it was all about goods and services and less about healthy food. Unless by food you mean corn dogs. And by corn dogs I mean deep-fried mutton sausages. Thanks, but no thanks.

There were hundreds of wares on offer, most of them of the variety Viking Woman refers to as “dust collectors.” Things like decorated boomerangs or inflatable caveman clubs or some kind of wonder mop; even a child-size grandstand so your brood can sit and cheer Dad on while you mow the lawn. I was momentarily tempted by the packaged samples of “slime” and “snot” but, in the end, realized I could probably produce the real thing at home for free.

You could bid on alcohol or artwork — and not much else — at an auction, or ride the ponies if you were, like, six. Have your face painted or receive a massage. I could have had my hair braided if I’d had enough, um, time.

Entertainment was promised, but all we saw during our two-hour stay was a group of indigenous people from South America playing their traditional bamboo flutes while dressed as North American Indians. Because nothing draws a crowd like a chief’s feathered war bonnet and the possibility, no matter how remote, of a good, old-fashioned scalpin’.

In the end, all I spent was $4 on two soft ice cream cones. Because, at least as far as I’m concerned, sunny days are all about ice cream, as opposed to ceramic skulls or fake shrunken heads. But maybe that’s just me.

If I don’t understand rugby is it because I’m sober?

Rugby, eh? Five years living in New Zealand and I still don’t see the point. You have to throw the ball back to move it ahead? That’s the story of my life these days so why would I want to spend time watching that?

But someone gave us a pair of tickets to a Hawke’s Bay Magpies game the other night and so Viking Woman and I headed off to Napier’s McLean Park.

There are thousands of covered seats in McLean Park. We did not sit in any of them. Our tickets to the Hawke’s Bay vs Canterbury match were designated “Ground Entry Only,” which meant we had to join several hundred fans standing or sitting on a grassy knoll at one end of the playing field.

Two reasons to just say no to these tickets in the future: the stadium’s lone scoreboard was located immediately behind us, meaning we had to twist right around anytime we wanted to see the score and/or time clock; and, no matter who had the ball, or which half it was, all the action happened at the other end of the field.

With little hope of actually following the game from our vantage point, we opted to simply enjoy a warm spring evening and observe the setting and our fellow attendees. In retrospect, that was probably more interesting than the action on the pitch.

While Viking Woman’s bag was checked for glass when we arrived, there is obviously no ban on alcohol.

I was amazed, after the millions spent on TV ads condemning the evils of the devil’s brew, how much booze was being consumed during the game. We’re not talking about the odd container peeking surreptitiously out of a hoodie pocket, but rather people openly carrying full boxes of beer cans. Now that is some serious drinking, folks.

And this at what was obviously considered a family outing, judging by the number of children in attendance. But the younger kids, at least where we were positioned in the cheap “seats,” seemed content to chase each other around, while teenagers did little more than prowl the common areas under the stands, looking to see and be seen.

Between the drinking and the carousing and the cruising, I’m not sure if anyone was actually paying attention to the game. Too bad, because I could have used someone to explain the finer points of rugby.

Left to my own devices, here are my thoughts:

Unlike football (or American gridiron, as it’s known here), where full and complete possession is the rule, you can score a try in rugby by simply sneezing your DNA onto a grounded ball in the end zone. That hardly seems fair or, when it comes right down to it, very difficult.

That whole scrum thing doesn’t work for me either. A group of bullet-headed behemoths bash into each other, crushing noses and ears in the process, while a skinny-ass guy from one team flips the ball into the midst of this churning mass, runs around the back, and retrieves the ball. Every single time.

Call me crazy (or naïve, or uninformed, or an ignorant, bloody foreigner) but I can’t help asking the obvious question here: Why? If you’re going to get the ball right back, why not just hang onto the bloody thing and save all that heaving and crashing and damaged cartilage.

(“I love the rucks,” interjects Viking Woman. “Because, while all the guys are bending over in their shorts, I can look at their bums.” OK, well now it all makes perfect sense.)

I’m also not sure of the integrity of a sport where the PA announcer is permitted to lead the cheers. Although, as Kiwis tend to be a reticent bunch, he was usually the only one making any noise. I also question the grammatical logic of the popular hometown chant “Go the Bay.” Short and punchy? OK, I’ll give you that one. Proper English? I’m going to say no.

While the organized cheering tended to be subdued, the local rugby fans proved rather fond of The Wave. Or what they still like to call The Mexican Wave. And, yes, somewhere Krazy George is silently weeping.

Having witnessed this spectacle at every single hockey game I’ve ever attended, I am now rather jaded by the sight. But trust Kiwis to add a new twist to an old cheer. Or at least those Kiwis packed onto the grassy knoll with us.

Whenever it came time for our section to throw our hands in the air, those hands were also filled with crushed beer cans and other rubbish, all simultaneously flung high as the wave crashed over us. It was like being caught in a downpour of aluminum and I could only pray the flying cans weren’t still full. A ticket stub is a good souvenir. Concussion, not so much.

In the end, we didn’t stay until the end. The attendance was something like 14,000 and we didn’t want to have to deal with 13,000 drunks simultaneously released to drive home. We ducked out with 12 minutes to play and thus managed to avoid any possible traffic mayhem.

The final score? Canterbury won, but not before a controversial call in injury time resulted in a Hawke’s Bay try being waved off. Guess the player didn’t sneeze hard enough.

***

You can buy my book, Brown Girls, at http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1937.

***

Support the blogging community at http://www.blogsurfer.us

Gunshots a stark reminder of life as we know it.

There are several reasons why Viking Woman and I enjoy living in New Zealand.

Included on that list is a game we like to call “Guess Where We’re From.”

Impressively, most people in Napier pick us out as Canadians as soon as we speak, although the reasonings for that correct guess are varied.

One lady told me she can tell a Canadian accent because it sounds French.

Another said our accents are similar to those from the southern U.S.

Considering we’re from British Columbia, many, many leagues from the east of Canada and the south of America, we can only wonder about the strange pathway words must take as they travel from the ear to the brain.

Another tick in New Zealand’s Pro column is that its police force does not carry firearms. After nearly two years in California, where nothing puts an exclamation point on a dispute quite like a bullet, it is comforting to come to a country where sane people live.

Not that there aren’t violent crimes committed here. As long as the world contains shitrats, there will be violence. And, yes, some of that involves guns. And that’s when the police’s Armed Offenders Squad springs into action, complete with body armour and automatic weapons.

But the ordinary beat cop — the neighbourhood constable — still trusts that commonsense and respect for the law and authority will rule the day.

And then something horrific happens and it all goes pear-shaped.

Napier led off the national TV news broadcasts for several days this past week. The Art Deco City was on the front page of every newspaper in the country.

Details are still sketchy, and I won’t even pretend to know all the facts, but it appears that a fellow, returning to his Hospital Hill residence after walking his dog, found three policemen executing a drug search warrant in his house. Something about cannabis, apparently.

The man suddenly goes apeshit, a gun is produced, shots are fired, one policeman is killed, and his two partners and a neighbour are forced to crawl to safety, bleeding from bullet wounds.

The shooter, as it turns out, is ex-military, an avid pig hunter and the owner of a large cache of weapons and ammunition. There is also rumours of steroid abuse. There are also rumours of explosives and booby traps.

The gunman’s house has a 360-degree view and that advantage gave him a clear shot at anyone attempting to approach. There are many unfortunate aspects to this incident, perhaps the saddest being that the police were not able to retrieve the body of their fallen comrade for nearly two days. I can’t begin to imagine the anguish of staring at a dead friend and being absolutely helpless to return this good man to his family.

Heavily-armed police were brought in from around the country. The Army produced a pair of LAVs (Light Armoured Vehicles). Neighbours of the gunman were either evacuated or forced to hide in a far corner of their dwellings through the entire duration of the standoff.

In the end, the nightmare lasted 51 hours. When the police finally did enter the house, after observing zero activity for several hours, they found the gunman dead in a barricaded bedroom. We all assume it was self-inflicted but, again, I’ll wait for the official announcement.

Things like this don’t happen in New Zealand. Things like this don’t happen in Napier. And things like this don’t happen this close to us.

That’s right: the gunman was holed up in a house not five minutes from where we live. There is nothing heroic about that statement — we reside at the bottom of Hospital Hill and were in no danger of being injured unless those rumoured explosives turned Hospital Hill into Hospital Hollow.

But the road we live on — little more than a country lane, really — provides one of the few accesses to the top of Hospital Hill. As a result, the police set up a roadblock at the end of it — complete with an officer bearing a large gun — and we had to talk our way in and out.

We heard every shot fired. We heard every gas canister launched.

One of our neighbours was so freaked by the experience that he took his wife and daughter off to his mother’s place in another, less involved, part of town.

Once we did leave our street, it was to find large sections of Napier cordoned off and closed down, to allow access for police, military and emergency vehicles, and to keep the media and assorted looky-lous at a safe distance should anything nasty go down.

I’m glad it’s all over (although, as the accompanying photo shows, the “residence” of our street are still living behind a barricade of sorts). I’m thankful no one else was hurt and the dead officer’s family can finally begin the grieving process.

But I’ve also had my eyes opened. When terrible things happen, when a stranger snaps and death descends, it doesn’t matter who you are or where you live.

I’m going to give Viking Woman an extra hug as soon as I post this entry. This close to Ground Zero, we now have a greater insight into the truth behind the cliche about life being precious. It’s as subtle, and as powerful, as a finger on a trigger.

I shall eat feijoas while sleeping on the couch and enjoy every bite.

I had a life-altering experience on the weekend. And by that I mean I saw my life flash before my eyes and wished I could go back and alter parts of it.

This occurred during the drive from Napier to Gisborne, an outing designed to show Jenn more of the New Zealand countryside before she leaves for home. Because Viking Woman has been known to regurgitate her stomach lining should she be seated anywhere in a moving vehicle other than behind the wheel, Jenn and I were unanimous in our agreement that she should drive.

Viking Woman has traveled this route several times over the past year. She knows when the hairpin corners are coming; she knows when it’s safe to pass. She knows when to brake before the car goes spiralling off the narrow road and into the abyss.

Jenn and I do not know these things. And so we could only hang on for dear life, grit our teeth, close our eyes and try not to scream like 12-year-old girls. Or, in Jenn’s case, like a twentysomething girl.

It is common knowledge that no one appreciates having their driving criticized. And yet I somehow felt it my duty to casually mention to Viking Woman that she might want to slow down just a bit lest we all die in a flaming crash. I may have also mentioned something about currently undergoing the unique experience of reviewing the highlights of  my life and, even though I appreciated remembering what my parents gave me for my eighth birthday, I did not want the image of gaudily-wrapped socks and underwear to be my final thought as we plunged onto the jagged rocks below.

Viking Woman was kind enough to slow down. And then she was kind enough to tell me she hoped I enjoyed sleeping on the couch for the duration of our marriage. Pillows optional and at her discretion.

Hey, at least she was kind.

This was our first weekend in Gisborne in nearly five years. That meant we were able to take Jenn to the market by the iSite, where the first visual of Gisborne enjoyed by visitors alighting from the bus is that of a totem pole donated by the British Columbia government. A little piece of Canada residing in the first city in the world to see the new day. A little reminder of how the B.C. government spends my tax money. At least it wasn’t wasted on feeding the homeless or something equally frivolous.

Jenn was astounded to hear that the market vendors often set up well before dawn because Gisbonites like to buy their fruit and vegetables in the early hours so they have the rest of the day to enjoy the finer aspects of life. Which is to say, rugby and, um, well, more rugby.

She was also surprised to see so many Maoris. “Don’t leave me here,” she whispered to me, having had little previous experience to that point with New Zealand’s indigenous people. But she did screw up her courage enough to ask one lady adorned with a chin moko (tattoo) to pose for a photo.

It was an hour or so later before we discovered Gisborne now has two markets of a Saturday morning. In fact, the original one is now referred to, somewhat disdainfully, as a “flea market,” while the one that starts at the more civilized hour of 9 a.m. is the “farmers’ market.”

The latter has more upscale (read expensive) offerings. It also has more white (pakeha) folk in attendance.

Sometime during our absence from Gisborne, it was decided to leave all that shopping in the dark activity to the locals and those who need cheaper produce prices just to survive. Personally, I like that one better. I bought a huge bag of feijoas there for 50 cents, and then failed to spot a single one of my all-time favorite fruit at the second market. No room, I guess, what with all the vending spaces being taken up by those selling wine and flowers and cheeses and designer breads and organic eggplants.

That afternoon, we also took Jenn to Wainui Beach, letting her walk the same vast expanse of sand where I once hiked while contemplating the various plot devices of my first novel, Brown Girls.

In the end, Jenn came away very impressed with Gisborne. She told us she had a gut feeling we would one day return there to live. I hope she’s right.

And then, after two nights in a motel, we came home to our own beds.

Or, for those inclined to freely — and without thinking — offer their unsolicited opinions, to their own couches.

It was worth it. The feijoas were wonderful.

Full-contact bar hopping? Not with my ass.

There is no need to visit a zoo to see the animals.

Viking Woman discovered that fact on the weekend when, in the company of her niece, Jenn, and a comely neighbor I’ll call Miss Libby, she dropped in on the platoon of bars that stand shoulder-to-shoulder on the West Quay in Ahuriri, one of Napier’s historic communities.

The idea was to have a girls’ night out, to have fun, a few drinks, a few laughs, maybe dance with a stranger, before summoning me to come pick them up, good non-drinking, well-trained husband that I am.

It was Jenn’s first experience with the Kiwi nightlife and she was not impressed. She was, in fact, horrified-slash-appalled by the hand-to-ass contact she witnessed. Comely Miss Libby was the subject of much of that manhandling and, though she confided later to Jenn that she appreciated neither the touchy nor the feely, she seemed to accept it as part of the price you pay for venturing into the wilds of a New Zealand bar.

Jenn, a good ole Canadian gal from the Prairies, assured me later she would not have tolerated a hands-on approach from any larrikan looking to cop a feel as she passed through the crowd. I had the distinct feeling she would have ripped off any offending hoon’s arm and slapped him across the head with the wet end. He’d spend the rest of his life learning to tie his shoes with his teeth.

While Viking Woman was subjected to her own share of groping, it was a verbal exchange that left her rolling her eyes over the uncouthness of those who inhabit Planet Man.

I’m going to call the fellow in question Mr. BJ (for reasons that will soon become painfully obvious). He is, according to the friends in his company that night, a former All Blacks player who now owns some kind of garage door company. Apparently his years of training as a professional rugby player taught him some interesting moves.

This is a (roughly) verbatim exchange of his conversation with Viking Woman, after he managed to break through a scrum of male admirers clustered around the hot babe my wife..

Mr. BJ: “Do you do blowjobs?”

Viking Woman: “Yes I do. In fact, I give very good ones, to the right guy. But you’ll never find out.”

Mr. BJ: “Do you swallow when you suck cock?”

Viking Woman: “Pardon me?”

Mr. BJ: “Who’s boning you?”

Viking Woman: “Well, certainly not you.”

Jenn, ever the good wingman, stepped in at this point and Mr. BJ, clearly deflated at being unable to put his ball through these particular uprights, staggered off to impress other patrons of the female persuasion with tales of his sporting prowess.

It was a close encounter of the rude kind and we all laughed about it later but I was still left shaking my head at how this fellow had opted to be so direct. Did he really think that approach was going to impress a lady, or was it the alcohol that made him cut to the chase?

I was also fascinated about how he played the “former All-Blacks” card. Maybe I should try that myself. After all, claiming to be the fifth Baldwin brother has proved to be a spectacular failure, as has purporting to be the father of the Jonas brothers. The problem with that latter ploy is that no one over 12 has heard of the Jonas brothers, and no one over eight cares about them.

There are too many reasons to list here why Mr. BJ did not make much of an impression on Viking Woman. But part of the problem could lie in the fact that he was a rugby player. Rugby is a religion in New Zealand. Women like it because the players wear snug jerseys and snugger shorts. Men like it because, well, let’s face it, it’s another reason to drink.

But we’re Canadians, with an affinity for North American sports. We find rugby all a bit — how can I put this politely? — gay silly. Unless five opposition players are using your body for a couch, you are allowed to get right back up and keep running. And you need only touch the ball with a fingernail in what passes for the end zone to be credited with a try. I mean, come on, how hard can that be?

Now, if Mr. BJ had been, say, a hockey player, there might have been a different ending to his quest. He was never going to score, of course, but he might have been asked for an autograph.

The only thing being stroked would be his ego but he might have enjoyed that. I’m guessing it’s the only large thing Mr. BJ possesses.

Horses hate me. The feeling’s mutual.

ABBA fans will rejoice in knowing their favorite group is big with horses. OK, maybe not with the actual horses, but certainly with their riders.

How else to explain the predominance of the Swedish super group’s music (albeit strictly in an instrumental format) in the performance soundtracks compiled by particpants in the Dressage — Level 4 Musical Freestyle competition at the Kelt Capital Horse of the Year ‘09 show in Hastings, New Zealand.

The show, trumpeted as the third largest of its kind in the world, pumps a lot of money into the Hawke’s Bay region over its six-day run. It also pumps a lot of odor into the air of Hawke’s Bay. And by odor I mean horses. And by horses I mean horse poop.

Don’t get wrong, I have nothing against horses. Well, other than the fact I detest the beasts.

I’ve felt that way ever since one kicked me when I was in high school. Ever since I tried to date a girl who owned a horse and who informed me the animal would always come first in her heart, no matter how cute I looked putting entire apples in my mouth or swatting away flies with my ears.

Horses are huge, they eat way too much and, let’s face it, other than providing the occasional ride, what the hell use are they? They are never going to fetch your slippers or roll over and play dead or rid the house of pesky rodents or purr on your lap when you’ve had a bad day. And don’t even get me started on that whole house-training thing.

But I’m here at the show anyway because I’m doing a favor for a friend. This friend was supposed to fill in for the regular event announcer while he takes a lunch break, but three broken ribs means she isn’t moving anywhere fast. So being unemployed free this afternoon, I have accepted an invitation to volunteer my time for the sake of all things equine.

I was supposed to be the backup’s backup on the mic but, as it turns out, my friend did quite well on her own, the bashed ribs not at all affecting her ability to read and talk at the same time. Which meant I spent five hours doing little more than pushing a CD deck’s “on” button whenever the riders gave the little poncy wave that indicated they were ready to start their routine. Oh, and I also had to wait a two-beat before I actually pressed the “on” button, so the riders had time to gather up the reins again.

I know — it does take a lot of practice to get your timing just right, to not stumble and start on one, or fumble the gap out to three. Wouldn’t want to begin Mamma Mia before the rider was ready, would we? Who knows what revenge would have been exacted for such a sin.

Why, they just might encourage their horse to put a hoof up my arse. Nah, been there, done that, still got the internal bleeding.

I know what — they’d force me to come back on Saturday and Sunday to do this all over again. But I’m thinking that would never work as a deterrent. Because I’ve already agreed to do it.

I’m either a glutton for punishment or there’s just something about the smell of wet hay in the morning I can’t seem to resist .

If you need me, I’ll be in the announcer’s booth, humming Dancing Queen around a mouthful of apple.

When I smell wine, I hear Latin. I do not, however, make grass angels.

Maybe it was because the package of paper umbrellas was gathering dust in the pantry. Or because the bottle of pineapple juice in the fridge was within mere months of its best-by date. Or perhaps the half-empty rum bottle really did need to be finished off so it could be recycled for the sake of our greenie souls.

Upon reflection, however, the most likely reason we found ourselves at Park Estate Winery for the second time this year was because Diane Park had informed us in January that when her current supply of coconut cream liqueur was sold and gone, it would not be replaced.

According to Viking Woman’s logic, that news somehow equated to pina coladas that would never be consumed. And, apparently, that would never do.

Returning to Park Estate Winery (2087 Pakowhai Road, Napier, New Zealand; park-estate.co.nz) also allowed us to show JB a bit more of the countryside. And by countryside, I mean the inside of the winery’s cellar door.

It also allowed Viking Woman to re-sample the 2008 Sauvignon Blanc. In January, she’d agreed with Diane’s assessment  that it needed to age a bit longer, if only to reduce the acidic finish. On this March weekend, Viking Woman was pleased to pronounce that the Sauv Blanc was coming along quite nicely, thank you very much.

Also tasted on this early fall afternoon, with Viking Woman’s comments:

2006 Riesling: “Very fruity.” “Very nice.”

2007 Gamay Noir: “Quite a spicy finish.”

2007 Chardonnay (25 percent oaked): “Very soft. Melon-y on the nose, with a vanilla finish.”

2006 Merlot Cabernet: “Very earthy, but soft.”

Boysenberry fruit wine: “It’s very nice. A very soft finish.”

As the lone non-drinker in the crowd, I could only nod and take notes and photos. I have no concept of taste when it comes to wine, but I do rather enjoy sticking my nose into a glass. I appear to have an astute sniffer, having already proved adept at telling the difference between Pepsi and Coke strictly by their aroma and, more impressively, doing the same with various Starbucks blends.

Smell-wise, I prefer reds. They conjure images of fruit drooping from trees in the hot, still summer air, backed by a hint of freshly-turned earth. Whites, on the other hand, all remind me of the sacramental wine I served up as a Catholic altar boy in the ’60s — sounding out the Latin mass phonetically and praying to Baby Jesus not to fall asleep in front of the entire congregation.

We thanked Diane Park for her insights and comments, purchased the coconut cream liqueur (only eight left now!) and drove home. Once there, I downloaded the images from my camera and pondered the alchemy involved in turning a simple grape into a liquid whose taste and smell can invoke so many different impressions.

And the ladies?

They mixed up pina coladas, drank themselves silly, and made grass angels on the back lawn.

*Sigh*

It’s all aboot the accent, eh?

It’s no fun being an American living in a foreign land.

Especially when you’re actually a Canadian.

There are a lot of things we enjoy about living in New Zealand:

— best ice cream in the world

— best wine in the world

— the price you see is the price you pay, taxes in, so no having to do GST/PST percentage math in your head

— a driver’s licence that’s good for 10 years, or about 15 different hairstyles

— the world’s last lode of O’Ryans potato chips

— no need for a military budget except to help with UN duties

— no nuclear anything

— no poisonous anything

— feijoas in the backyard.

But there is one thing we still struggle with: Kiwis hear our accent and automatically think we’re from the U.S.

OK, I will admit we got that a lot more during the three years we lived in Gisborne. People in Napier, being somewhat less isolated and therefore a bit more worldly, have actually pinned down our Canuckness on the majority of occasions.

We understand it’s simply a case of not being familiar with the North American accents and not a plot to insult us. Still, Viking Woman has developed her own cheeky response. Now, when someone asks which part of America we’re from, she asks them which part of Australia they’re from. Ouch! You can see the Kiwis flinch and then nod. Touche.

They understand Canadians don’t appreciate being mistaken for arrogant, ignorant pricks who will bomb women and children for a barrel of oil. As opposed to, say, toothless gorms using hockey sticks to protect their igloos from ravenous polar bears.

As further proof that the South Pacific is a million miles away, I once saw a wall map in the Cook Islands that had Canada and the U.S. displayed in the same shade of red with no discernible 49th parallel. The words “North America” were printed across the entire continent. A mistake or a warning or a prophecy? Time will tell.

If Kiwis do pick up on our Canadian citizenship, it’s usually after they hear us say “about.” Because, much to our dismay and annoyance, to the ears of everyone else on the entire planet it apparently sounds like “aboot.”

Which makes me cluck in disgust. “Listen to me,” I say, and then carefully pronounce “about” as we do: “abowt.”

“Abowt. Aboot.”

“Ow. Oo.” 

“Hear the difference?”

They waggle their heads: no.

Of course, these are the same Kiwis who can’t discern their own regional accents. Never mind that our Canadian ears hear “six” for “sex” or “shit” for “shed,” on the west coast of the North Island, the residents tend to add an “o” sound before an “i.” So “life” comes out as “loife.”

If Kiwis can’t distinguish that difference in their own backyard, then we can hardly expect them to understand us. The strange part is no one here ever comments on how we must also pronounce “shout” as “shoot.” (These are the same people, by the way, who add a “w” and several “o’s” to “no,” resulting in something akin to “nowooooo.”)

Which leads me to believe the world is having us on. That the whole “aboot” thing is just a way to wind up Canadians whenever we get a bit too uppity. Sort of the Great White North’s version of “the dingo ate my baby.”

But, just as there was a real Lindsay Chamberlain and there are dingoes in Australia, so there must be at least a faint grain of truth in the whole “aboot” issue. 

Somewhere in Canada, someone actually has an accent that has resulted in the rest of us being subjected to international ridicule.

Tell you what I’m going to do. If you’re out on one of those fishing boats off the foggy coast of Newfoundland and really don’t know how to pronounce “ow,” please pass along your mailing details and I will post you a ticket to New Zealand.

I will even meet you at the Napier airport.

After which I will kick your ever-loving, aboot-speaking arse all the way back across the Pacific.

Then, again, maybe I’m just overreacting. Maybe I should just stop pooting and get on with loife. More ice cream, anyone?

The 2008 G-String has a particularly unique bouquet

The hospital was my first clue.

“We’re lost,” I say.

Viking Woman stares at me from the driver’s seat.

“Ya think?”

It isn’t supposed to be this difficult. We’re taking Brenda, a friend visiting from Canada, on a tour of Hawke’s Bay wineries and have headed to the same general area — Bridge Pa — where, two months earlier, my sister and I conducted our On Yer Bike Winery Tour. So I should know where we ‘re going. And I thought I did, right up to the part where we drive past the hospital in Hastings, with not a single grape in sight.

The problem, I eventually surmise, is my reliance on the Hawke’s Bay Winery Guide rather than a standard map. The Winery Guide does a really nice job of putting white numbers in blue squares to mark the location of various wineries and vineyards. Where the guide falls down is in the minor details, little things like showing roads connecting when, in reality, they never do intersect.

“It’s the map’s fault,” I say.

Viking Woman: “You’re always blaming your tools.”

Me: “I have a lot of tools.”

Viking Woman: “You are a tool.”

And so it comes as a relief when we stumble across the Triangle Red Tasting Centre. Not because Sis recommends the wine here (the only thing interesting about its Drama Queen rose is the name) but because it allows me to swallow my Planet Man pride and ask where the hell we are.

The Tasting Centre does have a new product from when Sis and I were here in November: a 2008 Sauvignon Blanc with a French name (Flying Mouton) made in New Zealand for an Asian company (Ohsawa Wines). As the song notes, it is indeed a small world.

According to Viking Woman, this vintage needs to age a bit longer. “It’s still got too much of a bite,” she says.

As a non-drinker and soon-to-be designated driver, I sniff at the liquid in her glass and nod knowingly at the bouquet.

We meet Gordon Hall at Alpha Domus. Gordon is working at the cellar door because his regular employment — that of a touring storyteller — has suffered from the country’s overall stagnant economy. We don’t ask for a story, but Gordon tells us one anyway, after determining we are Canadian rather than American.

He does all the voices as he describes the very real nightmare of crossing the border into the U.S., where an ill-timed blink is all it takes to have you bent over a table, cheeks spread, while a burly guard snaps on the latex gloves and calls you Sugar Bitch.

In stark contrast, Gordon tells how crossing into Canada was like being greeted by a neighbour at the back fence — he was practically invited home for a meal.

It is a good story and we are feeling so proud of our home country and all it stands for that we promptly buy three bottles of wine. Call me a cynic, but I can’t help wondering if that border crossing story changes depending on the nationality of Gordon’s customers.

It’s at this point Viking Woman hands me the keys. “I’m feeling a bit fuzzy around the edges,” she says.

That much was evident two stops later at Ngatarawa. (Maoris are going to wince at this, but visitors here are told that the “g” is silent. Viking Woman and I have enough experience with the language to know that isn’t case. The “ng” is pronounced, just as it is in English with a words like “song.”)

Neither Viking Woman nor Brenda are pronouncing anything correctly — in any language — by this time, having swallowed every sample to date. Frank, the fellow behind the counter, seems to enjoy their giddy banter. He eagerly poses for photos and later, when Brenda waves off a sample, saying she is finished, he continues to pour while informing her, “I’m not finished with you yet.”

What Frank has doled out is a Gewurztraminer but, because customers tend not to order this wine lest they stumble over their tongues, Frank winks and tells us to refer to it as G-String.

When I ask Brenda to describe the G-String’s bouquet, she leans in close and whispers, “Fishy.”

OK, then. I’ll just be biting back my laughter over here. Oh, look, something to photograph.

I wander back to Frank and the ladies a few minutes later, just in time to hear some wine’s bouquet being compared to “dirty old man’s socks.” Later still, I glance over to find Frank has invited Viking Woman behind the counter where they are both staring at the computer screen that doubles as the display for the cash register.

It’s just about this time Frank’s co-worker marches over, uses her best stage-whisper voice and informs him there are other customers to be served. We buy a bottle of wine, if only to save Frank’s job. At least I hope he still has a job.

We finish our tour at Trinity Hill where John, one of the trinity of owners, is also charmed by the ladies. So much so he digs around and produces an opened bottle of 2004 Homage Syrah, a red which sells for $120 a pop.

John explains the three-pronged assault good wine has on your senses — the initial burst in your sinus cavity, followed quickly by a full-bodied sensation on your palate, and rounded off by a long finish.

When I ask Viking Woman if there really is a difference between a $120 bottle and a $20 bottle, she nods enthusiastically.

Too bad we don’t have $120. And we don’t need it today because, when John is momentarily distracted, we make a hasty exit and head home. This time, I let someone else read the map.

Oh, and just for the record, it’s pronounced Gah-vertz-tra-me-nur. Somehow, I still prefer G-String.