Rain, Wrong Buses, Wizards

“This is the second time I’ve done that! Oh dear!” the woman blurted.

Thank goodness I didn’t get on the wrong bus, I thought. Yet.

Spoiler: I didn’t. But the day tried to make me.

Bus Roulette, Wellington Edition

It was drizzling and chilly at the stop at the bottom of the very long hill. Five buses ripped past: one 83 that should’ve gone to Courtenay Place but didn’t, two “Charter” mysteries, and two “Not in service” teases. I was grateful for my ankle moto boots (worth the extra kilo in the carry-on). I checked the schedule: the 81 was due at 9:59. I checked the bay, the wooden pier, the scattered pylons, the “why am I outside” weather.

Onboard: cleaner than LA, less depressing than LA, and the pass system was blissfully simple—tap and done. We rolled through Petone. I watched bookstores and cafés blur by and promised a friend (telepathically, obviously) that I’d actually sit in one this trip.

A mom with a stroller sat next to me. Baby = quiet until one minute before their stop, then full toe-eating, lizard-tongue chaos. There are exactly four babies I think are cute. They know who they are.

We emptied out near Wellington Station, most riders bailing there. I stuck it out for my “final destination,” a very dramatic way to say Courtenay Place. Rain. Bars everywhere, including one called Daddy-O’s. I was hungry and under-caffeinated, so I followed a brown sign like it was a quest marker: Museum of New Zealand.

Te Papa, Free Brain Upgrade

Stoplights here are small and sensible. Crosswalk icons are people, not hands. There’s random street Wi-Fi. (International plan? Maybe didn’t need it.)

The museum sits on the water; the approach is mood-board perfect. Inside, I bounced through Mountains and Sea, Blood, Earth, Fire, and social-history exhibits on Māori, Pacific, and European influences.

Quick notes so I don’t embarrass myself later:

• Te Papa = the museum.
• Aotearoa = New Zealand.
• Iwi = tribe (not kiwi, my jet-lagged brain’s first draft).
• Mana whenua = the people with authority over the land.

Also: giant waka (canoe), dreamy ambient lighting, blessedly interactive buttons (I’m weak for buttons), and a visiting French impressionists exhibit (Monet, Degas, Renoir). MOM!!! I’ll come back.

I kept it light: tea for now, a small necklace, and a gift for my grandma. At checkout, the clerk admired my metal travel card like it was a museum piece. Same, honestly.

Rain, Wi-Fi, and the Theater with Elves

Hunger pressed; Wi-Fi failed. It started raining harder. My plan became “walk toward the Embassy Theatre and make choices there.” The streets were wet, the billboards were mercifully minimal, and my hair was doing interpretive dance.

I ducked into a café next to the Embassy: industrial vibe—boat for a counter, metal chairs with red plastic backs, turquoise tabletops scribbled with native art. Michael Jackson on speakers. Giant carved panel with skulls above the bar. I ordered a veggie flatbread and hot chocolate; the barista petted my metal card like a kitten.

I attempted sketching. Failed gloriously. Packed up and headed to the theater with my reservation for The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug.

Upstairs? A bar. In the theater. Thank you, civilization. Also, ten wizards and fifty elves milling around like it’s a Tuesday. In LA, you’d get lines and body odor; in Wellington, you get velvet chairs, leather couches, table service, and an elf telling her fellowship they can go in now.

I got a cider (yes, that kind) and people-watched. Found one hobbit. Still no dwarves. Tragic.

A very nice human in a beanie and an excellent beard asked if I knew where I was going. I pretended I didn’t. He flustered politely. I blame my Santa Barbara hat (Aunt Kerry made me buy it; she was right).

Row N, Seat 37. Theater: spotless, comfy, civilized. Previews: short. Audience: quiet. Capacity: blissfully not full.

Bus back, Brain off

Post-Smaug, it was still raining. The bus stop was right across the street (signs 2, phone 0—nullus, for my Latin nerds). I considered The Welsh Dragon bar but felt a migraine stalking me and wasn’t ready to audition for the public toilets.

The ride back required exactly one lucky guess and one stranger pressing the stop button the millisecond before I did. I got off by the familiar beach and started the uphill trek to my basement in the forest.

I unlocked the door, caught my breath, made tea, and had a quiet night. Day one with buses, rain, elves, and museums: chaotic, weird, and kind of perfect.

What I Learned (So You Don’t Repeat Me)

• Follow the brown signs. They’re better than your roaming plan.
• Template: Tap, don’t think. Bus passes and theaters here respect brains.
• Travel shoes matter. Extra kilo, zero regrets.
• Museums are cheat codes. Free entry = easy culture win.
• Wellington theaters > everywhere else. Bars + elves + no sticky floors.

If you’re keeping score: New Zealand signs 2, my phone 0. And yes, I’m going back to Te Papa. Monet owes me a second date.