“Daniel, time for tea!” a tiny voice yelled from somewhere behind the trees.
“Coming!” his older brother answered, pounding up the barely-there stairs with a rogue shoelace flapping like danger.
The plan for today: breakfast in Petone, then cable car to the Botanical Gardens. The reality: breakfast, detours, Parliament, a stranger asking about… never mind, and zero gardens. Travel chaos, roll credits.
Petone Breakfast, Left-Side Brain Melt
I started the morning like a functioning human: tea, typing, 7 a.m. serenity. By nine, chainsaws somewhere near my hosts’ place. (Grandson? Yard? Horror movie?) Whatever—bus time.
I successfully flagged the 83 (victory over yesterday’s drive-by). It looped through Lower Hutt before Petone—quiet streets, nothing flashy, perfectly fine. I hopped off at random because that’s the kind of decision-making we’re doing today.
I landed at Palace Café and ordered a veggie stack + soy chai. Cinnamon on top. The anxious cashier wrote like she was late to a heist. Fifteen New Zealand dollars later (hi, LA prices), I parked at the window and watched the world do its thing.
Breakfast showed up like it had something to prove: grilled tomato, hash browns, peppered spinach, mushrooms in creamy sauce. The chai was a hug. I wrote for an hour (no Wi-Fi, classic) and pocketed a Petone brochure for later.
Bookstores, Chocolate, and the Cash-Only Plot Twist
Petone meandering = elite. I found Bookfeast, a cookbook-forward bookstore that felt like it knew me. Picked up a NZ vegetarian cookbook because Amazon brain can fight me later.
The owner had that friendly, slightly awkward British charm. We bonded over hating bags while I excavated my wallet from the depths. (My metal travel card collected another fan club member.)
Next: a chocolate shop where the clerk watched me like I was going to steal a truffle with my mind. Joke’s on him—I paid… in cash. (Finally used the NZ dollars that were weirdly hard to get.)
Bus Counting, WP Tantrums, and the Cable Car That Wasn’t
I found a bus-stop hotspot and wrestled WordPress long enough to post the previous day. In that time, 15 buses came and went. When I actually needed one? Naturally, none.
Eventually, I grabbed a bus to Lambton Quay to catch the cable car. “Catch” is generous. I looked at a map, declared walking was “basically the same thing,” and wandered into a parking-lot labyrinth taking moody building photos like a lost architecture student’s shadow.
I kept climbing. Signs for the gardens? None. Signs for Parliament? Oh, absolutely.
Hello, Government. Goodbye, Plan.
Surprise: I stumbled into Parliament’s orbit like a human breadcrumb. Cute buildings, decent angles, zero help with my botanical ambitions. I crossed a ramp over the motorway searching for direction and found… a church. Not the gardens.
I followed another path down by the motorway—just in case the gardens magically existed on the other side. They did not. I did, however, meet a park sign I couldn’t resist photographing and a man who asked me—softly, nervously—if I’d heard of “coniculous in the park.”
Me: “No?”
Him (mortified): “It’s… sex in the park.”
We both died quietly inside. We waved. I kept walking, cackling to myself, imagining my aunt’s face.
The path wound past an old cemetery—gothic, moody, very Haunted Mansion. Pretty, in a “don’t trip over that headstone” way.
Reset: Bus Back to My Comfort Theater
I popped out on The Terrace, tall buildings, San Francisco vibes, still gardenless. Bought water, spotted a bus sheet, and lucked into the 22 (after the 17 ghosted me). The driver was aggressively cheerful—hello’d every passenger and chatted with a kid like they were best friends. 10/10 bus vibe.
Back at Courtenay Place, I greeted the Embassy Theatre (my new safe zone) and did a loop past a skate park (photos for Nate) and, somehow, the Harley-Davidson store I’d missed yesterday. How.
I debated dinner across the street versus leftover ravioli like it was a moral question. When the 83 finally rounded the corner, I took it as a sign: home.
Birds, Boys, and the Uphill Trudge
Two bends around the bay always try to trick me, but enough people got off at my stop that I didn’t panic-press the button. The road up to the house was slick. A bird landed on the bus shelter. I begged it (silently) to hold still for a photo. It did. I thanked it like a weirdo and kept climbing.
At the top, I heard the boys again through the trees—“Daniel, time for tea!” Bookends to the day. The frustration leaked out. I unlocked the door, made actual tea, and surrendered to a quiet night.
What I Learned (So You Don’t Panic at the Rock Melon)
- Left-side walking is a trap. Look both ways twice. Then do it again.
- Petone > plans. Breakfast first, purpose later.
- Cash doesn’t suck. For that one chocolate shop, it’s mandatory.
- Maps lie. Or I do. Either way: Parliament ≠ Botanical Gardens.
- Adopt a safe zone. Embassy Theatre became my respawn point.
- Say hi to bus drivers. Karma pays you back with cheerful rides.
Maybe I actually find the gardens. Or I adopt a cemetery and call it art.
Subscribe to the Chaos