I woke up this morning on a 777. I still can't quite believe that this great U shaped convention hall can fly. Not only that, can fly in a straight line from Auckland to this murky, noisy, teeming place where every single one of the taxis seems to be the same make of car (Toyota Crown Comfort)and where not one of the millions of people going about their business with such determination knows me.
I don't know how we managed it on our budget but we are in a hotel with inlaid marble floors and where someone has gone to an awful lot of bother to spread fresh chrysanthemums around the place. We look out of our window and there, seven floors below, on the roof of the fourth floor, is an enormous swimming pool. I don't have any togs, and marvellous though they might be, 777s are not great places to sleep, so I won't be swimming. We've walked though a market.Two or three blocks of shops selling flowers, another couple selling birds and pets, and all the low priced tat that China can produce stacked up in four lanes down the middle of the road. There are some bargains to be had, especially if you ar in the market for umbrellas and t shirts. Tomorrow we'll explore a bit more and head for Rome in the evening.
I'm wearing a St. Christopher's medal. I know, I know, I shouldn't be pandering to that sort of superrstition, but it was given to me, and it somehow symbolises the prayers of all the people back home, so I'm carrying their faith with me around my neck. And over the last 24 years we seem to have been looked after. I left my camera on a cafe table in Dunedin and a lovely Indian family ran breathless after me to return it. Others have appeared at just the right time and given smiling assistance, including, incidentally, the lady in Auckland who weighed our hand luggage. A piece of medieval fiction he might be, but St. Christopher certainly seems to be on the job.
No picture I'm sorry. The hotel internet computer doesn't have the right slot for my camera card. Next time maybe.