tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9805306754936392882024-02-20T00:56:07.568+13:00Where's Joe Wellington?A true story by Lissa Carlino.
Chronicling my search for a long-lost friend and the gems discovered along the way. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15725574969697616180noreply@blogger.comBlogger50125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980530675493639288.post-13807368338653963482017-02-06T09:59:00.001+13:002017-02-06T09:59:12.323+13:00Go to lissacarlino.comHappy One Year Anniversary of Finding Joe Wellington!<br />
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Thanks to everyone who followed along.<br />
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I haven't talked to Joe since June but you know... life happens.<br />
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If you're interested, please check out my site <a href="http://lissacarlino.com/">lissacarlino.com</a> where you can read under The Knackered Truth about our time in New Zealand. I'm currently posting a series about how we moved down here.<br />
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Thanks!<br />
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LissaAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15725574969697616180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980530675493639288.post-16860632284696362472016-07-13T09:09:00.002+12:002016-07-13T09:09:50.088+12:00Launching A WebsiteWell, it's happened. <div>
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I've done the website thing. It's weird. It feels awkward. But it's necessary.</div>
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I get to create. </div>
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I get to write anything my heart desires. </div>
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I'm looking forward to sharing stories from living abroad under The Knackered Truth category. And I'm excited about the Random Uncategorized section, where I'd love for other writers/artists to share their work, too. </div>
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So, follow me there! </div>
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Still trying to work out a few glitches. But for now, </div>
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welcome to <a href="http://lisscarlino.com/" target="_blank">lisscarlino.com</a></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15725574969697616180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980530675493639288.post-4895328678386612942016-06-14T16:03:00.000+12:002016-06-14T20:15:02.800+12:00The End or The Beginning<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6qM9ldL-xzh2pAHmDaSaLhWnc57X3FlWJqvl2cPA58WV3C4pzLdJ8D0BRpM2UZVZRyFXwkcjaiEt9T1O7v94z3B_zAZjXkiD7yFwlKcYYMFsxTRvVeywkoZx93E0XZnwOFnjA974QNEEV/s1600/IMG_2111.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6qM9ldL-xzh2pAHmDaSaLhWnc57X3FlWJqvl2cPA58WV3C4pzLdJ8D0BRpM2UZVZRyFXwkcjaiEt9T1O7v94z3B_zAZjXkiD7yFwlKcYYMFsxTRvVeywkoZx93E0XZnwOFnjA974QNEEV/s320/IMG_2111.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Bay of Plenty</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">I’ve been putting
off writing this post for a few reasons. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">First, I’ve been
super busy with life; projects, illnesses, kid, you know the drill. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">Second, I’m in process of getting a web site so I can keep all writing, guest blog posts, happenings organized
in one place and I was hoping to have it going now but I don't.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">And third, I don’t
want to say goodbye to Joe Wellington. The blog, not the person. The person is still found, just saw him last weekend. We’ve both been carrying on in our
everyday lives, so haven’t seen as much of him lately but I’m still quite pleased we've reconnected.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">But I’m really,
really sad to end this blog. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">When I began WJW over two years ago, it
was about my search for an old friend. It was a cool story, fun, and I loved crafting blog posts about our adventure here in New Zealand to share with loved ones back home, while getting creative and
trying to tie in the quest for Joe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">Before moving to New Zealand, I had a great life in Vermont. I lived there for ten years, continued my education
there, met my husband there, we played in a local band together, I began my
career, we bought a house, learned how to landscape, had a baby… we were
really doing the adulting thing right. I <i>loved</i> my job. I worked hard to get
promoted and met some co-workers who are lifelong pals (some I’d even consider
family). Still, something else called to me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFBpwwgya3VwvwmnEWAgcDGIcwj_jpofhiu8r6o7cZONMdkrYmlgFeu2vqHd6p-E5WAsrN9EQKpTWKdcJ8EMwCdk7cC6EtCanxvIV7b3IK8qBFKNQ-nsQUVpsFGkDTl3doeDmEdEVxdv99/s1600/IMG_2371.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFBpwwgya3VwvwmnEWAgcDGIcwj_jpofhiu8r6o7cZONMdkrYmlgFeu2vqHd6p-E5WAsrN9EQKpTWKdcJ8EMwCdk7cC6EtCanxvIV7b3IK8qBFKNQ-nsQUVpsFGkDTl3doeDmEdEVxdv99/s320/IMG_2371.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">NZ sunset from our balcony</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">It was quite a jolt to the system to leave such lovely things behind. It was hard being
a new mom. And it was hard moving overseas. But it was also hard leaving my
career, one I was passionate about and couldn’t help but be drawn to.
Starting this blog gave me something to do that was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mine.</i> In between nappy changes and tantrums, taking a moment to
write was always sacred time where I could be selfish, yet I envisioned a way to connect with others. It was my time to make sense of the day, the
week, the year. A way to breathe and cry if I needed, a way to process new
sights, anxieties, and adventures I was experiencing as a new mom and expat. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">Writing has always been a constant companion from the time I was eight. To the outside world, I was a performer- perfect and on cue.</span> But I cherished time in the quiet of my room where I could just be alone with paper and pen in hand. Writing has been calling me for a while now and this time, I'm paying attention.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
When I lived in Vermont, I didn't do much writing for myself. Instead, I put my energy into essays and final exams. Moving to New
Zealand and starting Where’s Joe Wellington helped reconnect with my
passion for writing, and I’ll forever be grateful. Aotearoa is now my muse.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOZgeRyDoCu-B7SK6cdlwEL44BfykWFQeMTtFlR_1uCw7zLc5wrfEu0MtehLehpsauY-rr8dArp9F8Ly7PzvOk4wh_NqR3gtsCgttpOaNCJx4ckfhiOXofq3YsEwTDT2LQlGJJmMJTOTlz/s1600/DSC_0338a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOZgeRyDoCu-B7SK6cdlwEL44BfykWFQeMTtFlR_1uCw7zLc5wrfEu0MtehLehpsauY-rr8dArp9F8Ly7PzvOk4wh_NqR3gtsCgttpOaNCJx4ckfhiOXofq3YsEwTDT2LQlGJJmMJTOTlz/s320/DSC_0338a.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo of me in NZ taken by Steve Waller</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">So, now what? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">I'd like to say thank you. Thank you for reading. Thank you for liking my Facebook page, thank you for following on Twitter. Thank you for sending me tips on how to find my pal, and for your interest in our New Zealand adventure. Thank you for believing in me, and offering mothering and writerly support when I've been homesick or question my confidence. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">I’m
going to change the name of the Facebook page, and eventually the blog. I hope you'll stick around. Please continue to follow as our journey in Middle Earth continues. Like I mentioned earlier, I'm working on a web site. I’ll have a new blog with lots of photos, sharing our experience in New Zealand. I hope you continue to
read and enjoy, because trust me, I'm just getting started with these adventures!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSI_mfGQHv2y-OMnu2I-phR85dtQNyhiooYnJTDiHFOr2X9xyjPnZ0y3YWoO4tEy5PsSunnYYW1A2ID6Jjxzoo8H6cFhhgrJd5sLZ8ooJwiWNUpow5k8kojGw_6WiXvIeiOyimSsNN5J_n/s1600/IMG_2133.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSI_mfGQHv2y-OMnu2I-phR85dtQNyhiooYnJTDiHFOr2X9xyjPnZ0y3YWoO4tEy5PsSunnYYW1A2ID6Jjxzoo8H6cFhhgrJd5sLZ8ooJwiWNUpow5k8kojGw_6WiXvIeiOyimSsNN5J_n/s320/IMG_2133.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo of me in the Coromandel by Aaron Carlino</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
As Keri Hulme
writes at the end of THE BONE PEOPLE, the book Joe Wellington gifted so long
ago in San Francisco,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> "</span>Te mutunga — ranei te take"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"> (the end - or the beginning) </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15725574969697616180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980530675493639288.post-80632335149881055892016-03-25T10:53:00.000+13:002016-03-25T10:53:48.793+13:00I'm Joe From Wellington!<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1a1a1a;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">By Joe Wareham</span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It was around Christmas 2015 when my sister, who lives in the
States, sent me the link to Lissa’s blog. My first reaction was
embarrassment. I'm a fairly private person, have always avoided social
media like Facebook. Even with my friends I'd often deflect when they ask how
I'm doing and what I've been doing— send the question right back to them to
change the subject.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Hearing someone I hadn't seen for 18 years had been maintaining
a blog for two years talking about me, sharing pictures of me- was quite a shock.
I wasn't angry with Lissa; even though I hadn't seen her for a long time I knew
she was a good person with no ill intent. Of course I thought about writing her
right then but after reading some of her blog: the car chases through the city
and the taps on <a href="http://www.whereisjoewellington.blogspot.co.nz/2015/01/possible-sighting-4-wellington.html" target="_blank">stranger’s</a> shoulders, the more sentimental side of me hoped
we'd just bump into each other one day soon. I live on Oriental Parade opposite
the city’s most popular beach. Everyone ends up outside my house at some point
in a Wellington summer.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirzM243kDaV7T-SK-UUhJwgnX5anHp_9fyW_o2WG9rxM9ePxKyGmIz9PPbgGW-IpGhT0FSOLERVci2XVamq8IhzlEm_1kpQQPWnpMIsOTXOMC0YbryLUNmY9S_CnUa2m2ERCeBga-y0jQM/s1600/looking-down-on-oriental-bay-on-the-way-up-from-the-parade-to-mt-victoria.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirzM243kDaV7T-SK-UUhJwgnX5anHp_9fyW_o2WG9rxM9ePxKyGmIz9PPbgGW-IpGhT0FSOLERVci2XVamq8IhzlEm_1kpQQPWnpMIsOTXOMC0YbryLUNmY9S_CnUa2m2ERCeBga-y0jQM/s320/looking-down-on-oriental-bay-on-the-way-up-from-the-parade-to-mt-victoria.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Oriental Bay, where Joe lives<br />photo courtesy newzealand.com</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Six weeks later on a <a href="http://www.whereisjoewellington.blogspot.co.nz/2016/02/how-i-found-joe-part-one.html" target="_blank">February Wednesday night</a>, a good friend of
mine texted me (and all my other friends) telling us about the article on Stuff,
the online version of the newspaper. Again, I wasn't upset, just a little
embarrassed and unsure what to do. The next morning, seeing my picture on the
front page of the paper with the headline: <a href="http://www.stuff.co.nz/dominion-post/news/wellington/76522334/woman-spends-two-years-searching-for-her-old-friend-joe-from-wellington" target="_blank">"Do you know Joe?"</a> well, I
just couldn't stop laughing. And I was still pretty embarrassed. When my
parents saw the paper, they noted the "don't ask" look on my face and
just laughed and stayed quiet, knowing I didn't want to talk about it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It was obvious any sentimental notions I had of bumping into
Lissa on the beach would have to be laid to rest and that I was actually going
to have to do something. So I finally wrote her, told her I wanted to
meet. And honestly, after we agreed to that, even knowing the reporter from the
paper and a photographer would be there, I wasn't nervous at all.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I chose to meet on top of Mount Victoria. To me, Lissa’s blog is
about this wonderful city, her journey to the bottom of the world and her
adventure here. Nowhere else gives you a better view of this city then the
summit of Mt Vic. I've spent around 30 of my 39 years living on its Western
slopes. From the summit you look south and see the hospital where I was born,
look north and see the elementary school where I spent most of the 1980s. Look
west and you see almost every house I've lived in. And look east and see the
airport that brings people here and takes them away.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">On Friday morning, <a href="http://www.stuff.co.nz/dominion-post/news/wellington/76621600/american-woman-finds-longlost-friend-joe-in-wellington-after-18-years" target="_blank">5<sup>th</sup> of February</a>, I drove to the
top of Mt Vic to meet Lissa and her husband, Aaron. I was only a little nervous
until I arrived, started walking up the steps to the summit and saw the Dominion
Post photographer at the top snapping away at me already. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh god, what have I got myself in to?</i> But it was too late to turn
back and I didn't want to let Lissa down so I put my head down and soldiered
on.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhosaR5WQ5Q2BiIYxOhV7mXv9RIlm5VqSF6I28FDfdZiH2D1fSpyoTu5H-XSdHykxpNKwcSdmsdqbBzLaoh9_3LXtD0yFU2g_lZ5xiadwj9y6l7IByleSq_7nBxKKsRaoI4vLqwixrrI7z_/s1600/12654115_10153851404998555_3645241193984654484_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhosaR5WQ5Q2BiIYxOhV7mXv9RIlm5VqSF6I28FDfdZiH2D1fSpyoTu5H-XSdHykxpNKwcSdmsdqbBzLaoh9_3LXtD0yFU2g_lZ5xiadwj9y6l7IByleSq_7nBxKKsRaoI4vLqwixrrI7z_/s320/12654115_10153851404998555_3645241193984654484_n.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">February 2016 atop Mt Vic<br />photo Aaron Carlino</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As soon as I saw Lissa my nerves melted away. I gave her a hug
and knew I'd done the right thing. I only feel bad that it took me so long to
hear about the blog, and then another couple of months to do anything about it.
What Lissa and Aaron have done-</span></span><span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: inherit;"> moving to this little city at the bottom of the
world- must be very daunting and at times rather lonely. I wish I'd bumped into
Lissa back at the start, been available to help her and Aaron settle in while
they make a life here.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Reconnecting with Lissa and getting to meet Aaron and their son
has been wonderful. Seeing her again after all these years brought back a
lot of memories of that time in San Francisco and Minnesota all those years
ago. To be honest, it's been a long time since I made any new friends or
reconnected with any old ones. I have my small group, people I've been close
with for 20 years but don't really make much effort to meet new people.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvyVcD42WPitTrsrkQauTqYbXZ4tQdJtJ0GU60xK_aA2yl_fcoZpT95S3EwpVGU0sh5vkmOVqHGNYUAtFy-d10U8EzdBngyVuyzMvxtL1YhXVxUi5NSjihZCQW8HPxPUShc6tMb1BirIzm/s1600/IMG_2350.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvyVcD42WPitTrsrkQauTqYbXZ4tQdJtJ0GU60xK_aA2yl_fcoZpT95S3EwpVGU0sh5vkmOVqHGNYUAtFy-d10U8EzdBngyVuyzMvxtL1YhXVxUi5NSjihZCQW8HPxPUShc6tMb1BirIzm/s320/IMG_2350.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Aaron & Lissa Carlino with Joe Wareham<br />Oriental Bay, NZ February 2016</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This whole experience has taught me two things: I realize now I've
been far too private a person. Ending up on Stuff and seeing my picture on the
front page of the paper made me realize I hold back too much, aren't open enough
with people. Reconnecting with Lissa and making a new friend in Aaron, it's
just been lovely. I only hope they'll stay here and we can all become even
closer. I know other old friends from my high school and college years would
like to reconnect with me like that but it's something I've always avoided. I
realize now how wrong that was of me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: inherit;">Who knows I might even make a Facebook account.... one day.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15725574969697616180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980530675493639288.post-42077209002507043912016-03-01T13:24:00.000+13:002016-06-26T15:18:57.589+12:00Finding FriendshipOn Saturday we had a glimpse of what life was sometimes like back home. Surrounded by people with whom we can joke, share stories, eat excellent food, and overall find comfort. We attended a barbecue hosted by Joe Wellington that was great! Friendship is hard to find and we've been fortunate down here.<br />
<br />
These may be some of the nicest people I've ever met. Of course, I wouldn't expect Kiwi's to be any other way. Most of the group were friends Joe's had since high school. He's incredibly lucky to have such lovely people in his life.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJm3L_Ly_LSuCZ3fk25vmMILVWg8EtcyVy7ODyvNkY-iVIHIcnuHW5zVMRqK1QXatni16Y3H9B6ycbAw8QOCrfThXuDBwIGMo_N0N1uikEnym5-e9FHbF5fyhbd4CvumfCBH2Z68HDi_hK/s1600/FullSizeRender-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJm3L_Ly_LSuCZ3fk25vmMILVWg8EtcyVy7ODyvNkY-iVIHIcnuHW5zVMRqK1QXatni16Y3H9B6ycbAw8QOCrfThXuDBwIGMo_N0N1uikEnym5-e9FHbF5fyhbd4CvumfCBH2Z68HDi_hK/s320/FullSizeRender-3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joe with his best mates</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja2_FnlpA5JvRs9Gnt8iGriSeGYRmpcTcZh06VZkh8idmN5cj0y31n0r0EMYJsXOWXBDlB2b-8ykm1vP__WkFO0mwALZ2OBBUOncLIQj40S8EwBYx-twplD-BeTXrVe47PRkS7U_BzOEgZ/s1600/FullSizeRender-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja2_FnlpA5JvRs9Gnt8iGriSeGYRmpcTcZh06VZkh8idmN5cj0y31n0r0EMYJsXOWXBDlB2b-8ykm1vP__WkFO0mwALZ2OBBUOncLIQj40S8EwBYx-twplD-BeTXrVe47PRkS7U_BzOEgZ/s320/FullSizeRender-4.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A 2016 remake of our 1998 San Fran pic</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Hanging out with this group reminded me of my husband's friends back home that he's had just as long, if not longer. We all try to stay in touch on Facebook, but my husband and his mates have their own online group site they are always chatting on. It also made me reflect on the bond I have with my best friends back home, Dan and Nancy. We keep in touch. It's easy and works both ways- I call, they call. Naturally, after having such a lovely time and feeling nostalgic, I was met with a severe bout of homesickness the next day. I cried. A lot.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdR78mBsKMzTdeQWsvP9ITgMrZFAGmxFlvLHcZ_d5fWaEuHWcOFltLGVuGJsy71Me4E6fUVkWb-moSInbGVQaR5L8GiQphTJZbTWKqCderlQvTvCmmn6lacCFCFLduNEcuULmHbUjENeg6/s1600/IMG_2375.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdR78mBsKMzTdeQWsvP9ITgMrZFAGmxFlvLHcZ_d5fWaEuHWcOFltLGVuGJsy71Me4E6fUVkWb-moSInbGVQaR5L8GiQphTJZbTWKqCderlQvTvCmmn6lacCFCFLduNEcuULmHbUjENeg6/s320/IMG_2375.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lifelong friends back home, 2008</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I think it's easy for people across the globe to think we're living down here having some big adventure- snapping pics of gorgeous landscape and embracing a new culture. In chatting with my aunt this week, she reminded me of this perspective. It's true; we <i>are</i> having a big adventure. And it's been wonderful. Like I've said many times, we've met marvellous people who I can't imagine not having in our lives. It's also the only life our son knows.<br />
<br />
But what we don't talk about much is the endless amount of homesickness that sits in our hearts on a daily basis. My husband compares it to a bungee cord that keeps yanking us back to reality that we're doing this alone and we miss our loved ones immensely. Everything takes work and feels that much harder. And it takes real effort for both parties to maintain the relationship from afar.<br />
<br />
My best friend Dan and I have maintained our bond for twenty years because we communicate. Combined, we've lived in eight different locations (maybe more) in our lives only living in the same state for about a year of our friendship. Crazy! Yet, we stay in touch. He's not on Facebook and we don't text. It's via email or phone calls that we correspond. We've always tried to line up our trips back home so they match in order to get together, and he didn't hesitate to be Man of Honour at my wedding in 2008. When it was time to move house, he and my dad road tripped halfway across the country in order to help. That's what true friendship is about.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieiuuolsViak6E7CHqJa_ptcf3zhmIDKrarpVSkKOjJHCr35GW3TWlx_KUDfsV5Yp0xo9Wri_yNr-bORYKK-k4S_dkELpbOTb76tK-MwRcH5O4iTlHDrloPcyjXs05bs9Bstkk9Y8zb2zP/s1600/IMG_2373.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieiuuolsViak6E7CHqJa_ptcf3zhmIDKrarpVSkKOjJHCr35GW3TWlx_KUDfsV5Yp0xo9Wri_yNr-bORYKK-k4S_dkELpbOTb76tK-MwRcH5O4iTlHDrloPcyjXs05bs9Bstkk9Y8zb2zP/s320/IMG_2373.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Man of Honour, Dan at my wedding 2008<br />
photo by JP Candelier</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Of course Dan and I have run into uncomfortable comments through the years about men and women not being able to be friends (trust me, I heard <i>a lot</i> of that with this Joe Wellington thing, too) but come on. That's complete rubbish and invalidates that I have a say in who I have sex with, if you think about it. Growing up with two older brothers, I guess I always had an easier time getting along with guys. <i>And, </i>not that it's anyone's business BUT my husband is more than my best friend. He's my soul mate; my life-partner. So, let's not worry about that sexist, opposite-sexes-can't-be-friends stereotype any more (also: it's 2016).<br />
<br />
My girl, Nancy and I always have the other's back. The past twenty years, we've challenged each other and then we challenge you! Ha ha, and don't ever mess with us if we're belting out a Celine Dion and Barbra Streisand duet... we can't be silenced (did I just admit that publicly?).<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJUuJpcl7jKpPNnWfs62WwlMnw3QX79DQuG7Lh0_hIpKQ8tM5HYfwFIPnqtyJfcdHoRjeKQTeJgfOJqYNfN3OZSfVv7vL6yA8ldgEYr6cY1N6kL3BImQUHKXklOubJWB-UmBK8hyBtPgmg/s1600/IMG_2374.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJUuJpcl7jKpPNnWfs62WwlMnw3QX79DQuG7Lh0_hIpKQ8tM5HYfwFIPnqtyJfcdHoRjeKQTeJgfOJqYNfN3OZSfVv7vL6yA8ldgEYr6cY1N6kL3BImQUHKXklOubJWB-UmBK8hyBtPgmg/s320/IMG_2374.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With my best girl, Nancy, night before my wedding<br />
2008</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
But back to my point of this post.<br />
<br />
Lifelong friendships are a gift. They're rare. Sometimes you outgrow the friendship, but even then, it's still a part of you. Maybe those friendships lost end up coming back to you. Reconnecting with Joe again has been awesome. He's as I remember him to be and I'm so grateful to pick up where we left off. I don't want to speak for him, so I'll let you wait to read his post. It's been a crazy month!<br />
<br />
There are people in this life who get you. There are people who will lift you up, always be in your corner, allow you to be flawed without judgment, and people who will cheer you on. It's a gift to find such people. Bring them in, embrace that connection and don't forget how important it is. It's difficult at times. Most relationships <i>are</i> work. But if you can communicate (talk <i>and</i> listen- a lot of people forget the listening part<i>)</i>, you'll open yourself up to a loving life. Friendship is love.<br />
<br />
And I believe in love. In all forms.<br />
<br />
Thank you to Joe, his family, and friends for allowing my family to share in your celebration. It was nice to feel 'at home'.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
P.S. These are my views on friendship only. The above men in the photos do not endorse the love message. Although they're lovely people and probably are okay with it, they're just dudes. Nothing more.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15725574969697616180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980530675493639288.post-26557658206680546442016-02-07T11:19:00.001+13:002016-02-07T11:26:52.066+13:00How I Found Joe, Part One<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimh-3qx3vM4RDzSz7onAtj5p7pagqulzMgtPNVH2bxjJEdOpygfVIeQQFBpDp6L-16gagN8bTedo9LI1_Zi3PUCmt7S2DWgdcRVIW7OTWzUwLLmle7bIr61oLTb_hyphenhyphenDL8OxUnyWGBgD5SG/s1600/IMG_0001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimh-3qx3vM4RDzSz7onAtj5p7pagqulzMgtPNVH2bxjJEdOpygfVIeQQFBpDp6L-16gagN8bTedo9LI1_Zi3PUCmt7S2DWgdcRVIW7OTWzUwLLmle7bIr61oLTb_hyphenhyphenDL8OxUnyWGBgD5SG/s320/IMG_0001.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My exact words upon seeing the paper, "this is crazy this is crazy this is crazy"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">Ok, wow. So it's on the front page of the paper. Joe and I from 1998 are <i>on</i> the front page of The Dominion Post. Every time I see it I laugh, because when that photo was taken I never imagined it'd be <i>on</i> the front page of a newspaper in New Zealand!</span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">People suggested earlier in the process to contact media but I didn't think I'd have to. That was a really intimidating idea. Surely I'd find him before having to go to this extreme measure. But on Saturday 30 of January, I woke up eager to take another step closer. I didn't think I'd actually find him; maybe he was living in another country? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Picking up the newspapers my father left scattered around my house from his visit, I thought contacting The Wellingtonian and asking them to print a blurb with his picture would be enough. When I tried to find who to contact, I only found a general newsroom email. So I wrote, asking if they could help me find my long-lost friend.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Sunday morning the phone rang. A reporter just as excited as I and very willing to help, we agreed to meet. Things sped up quickly from then on.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">It didn't take long for tips to come in after the article went live Wednesday night, only hours after meeting with Jessy. Someone contacted her with a definitive “This is Joe Wareham”. The name sounded <i>so </i>familiar. How could I
have forgotten?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">My husband
and I googled. Facebooked. Nothing. Still nothing, even with a new surname. I
found other Wareham’s online but pretty much felt like this was going to be another
dead end. <b>Joe Wareham was going to be just as hard to find as Joe Wellington. </b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Aaron, my husband, wanted to call the numbers listed under Wareham right then. He was so excited and certain this was going to be him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">I wanted to
wait. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">I needed to wait. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">Slow things down a bit. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">Comments
under the online article were toxic; people trying to turn the story into something it wasn't. I'm aware that’s the risk you take
when putting yourself or your story in the public eye. Reminder for the future:<b> Don't read the comments.</b> <b>The good ones will find you</b>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">I wanted to wait to see if Joe would reach out to me. This has been about my
journey, but now I’ve put him in the spotlight and if he doesn't want to be found, I want to let him make that decision. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span>So I tried
to sleep. But my phone kept buzzing with new information. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">Someone messaged my Facebook page to tell me my long-lost friend from 18 years ago is Joe Wareham.
Two people telling me that's who he is. Soon, three. Then four. Five total over the course of 24 hours.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">A friend of
Joe’s wrote on my blog, asking me to email him. I did, straight away. Two in the morning by the time I finally fell asleep. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">Thursday morning was hectic. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">More
notifications, emails, pictures sent. Two television producers sent my personal Facebook page messages asking to meet- they loved the story and would like to help with the search. It was lovely but I was completely overwhelmed. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And then, an email from Joe’s friend: Joe knew I was looking for him, would contact me when things settled. My heart was racing.<b> </b>The story could've stopped there and I would've been satisfied. <b>I knew he was here. He knew I was here. That was enough. </b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">Needing to
get out a bit, my son and I escaped to a friend’s house and thank goodness I did.
Spammers started commenting on my blog, which really freaked me out. I knew I was
taking a risk but I didn’t think I was doing something wrong. Truly. The panic set in. I called the reporter, needing guidance on how to handle it all. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">"This is between you and him. Focus on that. Don't worry about what anyone else thinks. It's about your friendship, your story," Jessy said. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnFUpVzAoaefzZwSVJLbxAvOp6p1Vt2vutyK3x9R80HaoxbBe4mhYUBIxXxJyUe8pjVIA02CfPMwq1klxFOFrZo_LRR-dw5GRAsKgD15DEwQmnCvs9boZJ1_mBwxpEFDx17rhPcqRrChWW/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnFUpVzAoaefzZwSVJLbxAvOp6p1Vt2vutyK3x9R80HaoxbBe4mhYUBIxXxJyUe8pjVIA02CfPMwq1klxFOFrZo_LRR-dw5GRAsKgD15DEwQmnCvs9boZJ1_mBwxpEFDx17rhPcqRrChWW/s320/photo.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;"><b>The good will find you.</b></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I
received an email from Joe.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">Joe Wareham
is the Joe Wellington I’ve searched for. Two years of wondering, now over.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">We
exchanged a few pleasant emails and I was surprised to learn he had known about the blog since December! He offered to meet up.
He suggested the lookout at Mount Victoria, with views of Wellington Harbour.
He said it’d be fitting for my blog, which he
understood was much about my adventure here in New Zealand, and not just about him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-tab-count: 1;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">I asked him if it'd be okay to let Jessy know we were meeting and that she'd probably want to be there. If not, it wouldn't deter me from meeting. This was something I'd waited two years for. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">My
adrenaline kept me awake most of the night. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Was he
upset with me?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit;">Had he read
my blog?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Why didn’t
he reach out when he learned of it in December?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">More
importantly, is he getting on ok with all this unwanted attention?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman";"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: 'times new roman'; text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><br /></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15725574969697616180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980530675493639288.post-58505945793752503892016-02-07T11:19:00.000+13:002016-02-07T11:19:16.602+13:00How I Found Joe, Part Two<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxtssOqMcMZVUk4wzWZa_-OklbpRJWxJN-jPSzM_PkwuusCKkpG0oASYtRklwGJIVyR_P-pAFDQGCX7IZ4ezPyTHy2aoxpvCF9x1DPVGdisxKblmT9NOcvzP8XUR2qdqlfKCf-BJZAT-zy/s1600/12642696_10153851208253555_1585644728774187083_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxtssOqMcMZVUk4wzWZa_-OklbpRJWxJN-jPSzM_PkwuusCKkpG0oASYtRklwGJIVyR_P-pAFDQGCX7IZ4ezPyTHy2aoxpvCF9x1DPVGdisxKblmT9NOcvzP8XUR2qdqlfKCf-BJZAT-zy/s320/12642696_10153851208253555_1585644728774187083_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trying my best to answer questions<br />photo by Aaron Carlino</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The reporter waved as we pulled into the car park at Mt
Victoria, my husband in the passenger seat.</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">They hooked
up a microphone to get some clips for the online story. That was
pretty cool and all but honestly, my thoughts were swirling. I couldn't even form a sentence. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Before
arriving, Joe sent an email telling me what he’d be wearing so I knew what
to look for. Imagine that! Joe 'Wellington' helping me with the search! <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">He also noted that if there were cruise ships in the harbour, the lookout would be a
bit busy. He wasn’t wrong. Two tour busses pulled in just behind me. This made
me very nervous that he’d be a no-show.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjkD24wpgOIGoapzQSMLoUbYC3KWFCz3Wi3zUZdiDVYAvLMsW713Jwzp2Twnza9ihh0eI9NW_bcEi28A1q4OHVL56EOBKwCqWhftbQ8W1GLONM0gc8Bkdx-zsfMRx8ujepce-dqrN0wX_x/s1600/IMG_5111.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjkD24wpgOIGoapzQSMLoUbYC3KWFCz3Wi3zUZdiDVYAvLMsW713Jwzp2Twnza9ihh0eI9NW_bcEi28A1q4OHVL56EOBKwCqWhftbQ8W1GLONM0gc8Bkdx-zsfMRx8ujepce-dqrN0wX_x/s320/IMG_5111.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seeing Joe for the first time in 18 years atop Mt Vic<br />photo by Aaron Carlino<br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjInrwqug4DuFG93YuLQ3o46WSHHDIFThbHN2LL4nHb-fGQiHNgtw9FEAsdTsfCV8jcfCyDI4SO_l5dpKQh66ES-cgVe0pAnWhgWfihQGzEDdEZ_0g0BY5BIg1P7UknWmFkx2SwkvMyZ9NE/s1600/IMG_5113.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjInrwqug4DuFG93YuLQ3o46WSHHDIFThbHN2LL4nHb-fGQiHNgtw9FEAsdTsfCV8jcfCyDI4SO_l5dpKQh66ES-cgVe0pAnWhgWfihQGzEDdEZ_0g0BY5BIg1P7UknWmFkx2SwkvMyZ9NE/s320/IMG_5113.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by Aaron Carlino</td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But he
showed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As soon as
he hit the platform atop the stairs, I knew it was him. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I waved, in
case he didn’t recognize me from the photos in the paper. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ8ZwXNFwa-S3mv9AdjxxqEm73n5CVwP-J4-Wp-tDkuJe9g0HxZNU36Z_ink57afgC_wzincJGzCZvHK-WfNOB0A185P37TdXtG05u2vfloQmwHKNTvfwajhNU79AtLHSi3MUB9GNGryQE/s1600/12654115_10153851404998555_3645241193984654484_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ8ZwXNFwa-S3mv9AdjxxqEm73n5CVwP-J4-Wp-tDkuJe9g0HxZNU36Z_ink57afgC_wzincJGzCZvHK-WfNOB0A185P37TdXtG05u2vfloQmwHKNTvfwajhNU79AtLHSi3MUB9GNGryQE/s320/12654115_10153851404998555_3645241193984654484_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I've found Joe Wareham<br />photo by Aaron Carlino</td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Both of us
grinning, we hugged. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">After
checking in on how the other was coping with this, we didn’t miss a beat
catching up. As comfortable and genuine (although definitely awkward with the
media there) as it was when we met all those years ago. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgis-bDiKP7sCpwfZHpoUhrUemXL4iMkoI6EeQXPeiC3K9w2nlngrbY2_BjYinMZJqXO47oiXA3viXCPXpfPtqdWPYqD8koYcIh3Hdb1bAHbn4IIwv2NAedBCsIlK5s5YWGtMztYwPo4AOn/s1600/IMG_5167.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgis-bDiKP7sCpwfZHpoUhrUemXL4iMkoI6EeQXPeiC3K9w2nlngrbY2_BjYinMZJqXO47oiXA3viXCPXpfPtqdWPYqD8koYcIh3Hdb1bAHbn4IIwv2NAedBCsIlK5s5YWGtMztYwPo4AOn/s320/IMG_5167.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beautiful Wellington in the background<br />photo by Aaron Carlino</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Have you
been quite homesick?” He asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Such a simple
question, but one only someone who could relate would ask. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I nodded,
grateful for the sincerity, familiar sorrow from when I was 19 returning briefly.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Oh, I
probably could’ve helped with that a bit when you arrived,” he said. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We laughed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">That’s just
like the Joe I remember. Kind, thoughtful words even 18 years later.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
I apologised for making such a big stink of it. He said he should've reached out when he heard of the blog, but was too shy. I don't blame him. Looking at it from his perspective, it's pretty weird that someone would blog about searching for you. But that's how my creative mind works. And anyone who's read the blog knows it's how I've coped with moving here; a creative outlet that's given me a way to keep my loved ones overseas in the loop. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjta1oAzEUwc3C6TUzdlqgOjBViNV81vX9ai9hdFa-9YESktnhbblDi1_-8wFpfv4noI3qUwk6dhtNOmlL5DWJVoas-MoivpLpN6w3uKFQxRbCA-4pcib42DXD36O-eRqml3_TJ2Rr7i9lZ/s1600/IMG_5220.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjta1oAzEUwc3C6TUzdlqgOjBViNV81vX9ai9hdFa-9YESktnhbblDi1_-8wFpfv4noI3qUwk6dhtNOmlL5DWJVoas-MoivpLpN6w3uKFQxRbCA-4pcib42DXD36O-eRqml3_TJ2Rr7i9lZ/s320/IMG_5220.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"But it worked! I found you!"<br />photo by Aaron Carlino</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqq064y5bRpPhA8RCLquW6_QzEWGLgjIOrN3iNltDvipZNM_NNxaAh-lsyGMoQosMq3yONKG1EAelqt1frqaVfG-hDpaCK5yKi0c2sqxCTotO6XNmiueotzs2CwbyQVmMQNEDV1V8nqTyT/s1600/IMG_5254.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqq064y5bRpPhA8RCLquW6_QzEWGLgjIOrN3iNltDvipZNM_NNxaAh-lsyGMoQosMq3yONKG1EAelqt1frqaVfG-hDpaCK5yKi0c2sqxCTotO6XNmiueotzs2CwbyQVmMQNEDV1V8nqTyT/s320/IMG_5254.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jessy interviewing Joe. I think he reveals here he didn't see<br />the psychic in San Francisco, only waited while I did!<br />photo by Aaron Carlino</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkfXSg8gMqmPDTZvIZKno5H1gTz3VUuHyQjMDBnajnWUoQQ1t0StFbiBeAWq-2QL_PzFPyjxklUvT4rMlk8TBacBTLiPCbHinPX-trxmI25T1tvCJaeUrzRBVa62KLGPMFBWPGvILd5F7B/s1600/IMG_5267.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkfXSg8gMqmPDTZvIZKno5H1gTz3VUuHyQjMDBnajnWUoQQ1t0StFbiBeAWq-2QL_PzFPyjxklUvT4rMlk8TBacBTLiPCbHinPX-trxmI25T1tvCJaeUrzRBVa62KLGPMFBWPGvILd5F7B/s320/IMG_5267.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joe, you've got a lovely home<br />photo by Aaron Carlino</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When the
reporter and photographer left, the three of us continued to chat as another
tour bus rolled in. I took this opportunity to do a celebratory jig around
the lookout in honour of finally finding Joe. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We
exchanged mobiles and took selfies. He’s said he’d like to catch up some more
soon (we’ve got 18 years worth!), which I’m eager for. He’s even said he may write up a post from his perspective for the blog. I'd love it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It's been an amazing week. So much anxiety, uncertainty, excitement, moments of shame, insecurity, but ultimately, <b>the good will find you. </b>There's no expectations on my end. It's been thrilling, I'm very grateful for his openness. It's a fun story to think we met so long ago in the USA and now here we are in New Zealand. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I couldn’t
have done it with you, Wellingtonians. Thank you.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">This time I’ve
got several pictures, a number, an address, and I’ll be sure not to lose touch
with Joe Wareham from Wellington.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiyFsPwFfJcqWWLEdX6RVPkpbxG04q2ozBTN2RlIL1XQeLSI1J90w64DCnWMur47Vl3NJmScOkyosmDMVr-SpaJ6BoPT3mNhAKS09LV-nlO3AGWWUEisL13a-0EualeCkDXBLTuG7x0pHQ/s1600/IMG_5272.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiyFsPwFfJcqWWLEdX6RVPkpbxG04q2ozBTN2RlIL1XQeLSI1J90w64DCnWMur47Vl3NJmScOkyosmDMVr-SpaJ6BoPT3mNhAKS09LV-nlO3AGWWUEisL13a-0EualeCkDXBLTuG7x0pHQ/s320/IMG_5272.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joe and Lissa February 2016 Mt Victoria<br />photo by Aaron Carlino</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15725574969697616180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980530675493639288.post-91941134069956515052016-02-05T18:07:00.001+13:002016-02-05T18:07:19.767+13:00His name is Joe WarehamAnd I found him at the lookout on Mt Victoria in Wellington, New Zealand.<br />
<br />
More soon. For now, please enjoy watching/reading <a href="http://www.stuff.co.nz/dominion-post/news/wellington/76621600/american-woman-finds-longlost-friend-joe-in-wellington-after-18-years" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
<br />
Thank you!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15725574969697616180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980530675493639288.post-70091174573709965942016-02-05T07:08:00.001+13:002016-06-26T15:22:59.721+12:00I've Found Joe Wellington<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
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<span lang="EN-US">I’m
unsure how to even begin this post. The last few days have brought many
emotions; some I wasn’t expecting at all. I’m knackered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I
couldn’t sleep well the past few nights. Partly due to the heat but mostly due
to the buzz from leads pouring in. My husband and I stayed up late on our
computers, looking up every tip. Even the stupid Moody Blues my husband mocked with (<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cjImFYf2Vzc" target="_blank">I Know You’re Out There Somewhere</a>) distracted me only briefly for a
laugh. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I
have to laugh. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">This
journey is fun. The youthful, carefree energy from 1998 with me even as
I wade through comments, trolls, and pictures people send. Because I like to write
fiction, I think it gets easy for me to think of him as a character. But
he’s not. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">He’s
very real. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">For
two years, I’ve blogged about this person. Someone I connected with long
ago- we were two kids, really- in a large city, unsure of our place. We clung
to the comfort of the other (me more than him, I’m sure). Many years ago I
traveled to San Francisco, <a href="http://www.whereisjoewellington.blogspot.co.nz/2013/12/gone-but-not-forgotten.html" target="_blank">grieving a significant death</a> of someone I cared
about very much, and I began to heal. Joe was a part of that, and at the time,
wanted to be. I’m grateful. His meaningful inscription in a book about
connection and healing, motivated me to look for him now that I’m living in New
Zealand. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Thanks
to the Dominion Post for seeing the fun in this story, and to the lovely people
of Wellington, I now have a proper name for the person I’ve referred to as Joe
Wellington for so long. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Joe
and I have been in contact. I nearly had a panic attack when the email hit my
inbox. Because he’s <i>real</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">So
what’s next?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">We’ll
meet. Today. I have no expectations. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Right
now, I have dishes to do and a sunrise to honour. But, I’m happy to finally be
able to say: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><b>I’ve
found Joe Wellington. </b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(More to come)</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15725574969697616180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980530675493639288.post-56372549502124920062016-02-04T08:21:00.002+13:002016-02-04T08:21:41.474+13:00Thank you!Thank you, Wellingtonians for your help with this search. You've been most helpful.<br />
<br />
Extra special thank you to Jessy Edwards for taking an interest in this story!<br />
<br />
It's been a bit overwhelming. I've got heaps of information to go through so I'm going to press pause a bit, while I go through all the new info.<br />
<br />
I appreciate this very much. You're all lovely. Will get back to you as soon as I can.<br />
<br />
Cheers!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15725574969697616180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980530675493639288.post-8963595929108516402016-01-31T14:34:00.000+13:002016-02-03T19:39:27.539+13:00Getting Closer!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdzBRg3DqfzBp75Kt-3UsrsNm_mL66wbNijuOmramvU4niUq5SrQCiP-ABTLuiF7-iuw2o3sEsekEig6Up6xMXtjb3aKBtPDDRwFJsDwWC-h4C1Mv9L9VeHzh8DdnhoBI6mvoAtoySYAxg/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-12-05+at+12.40.06+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="38" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdzBRg3DqfzBp75Kt-3UsrsNm_mL66wbNijuOmramvU4niUq5SrQCiP-ABTLuiF7-iuw2o3sEsekEig6Up6xMXtjb3aKBtPDDRwFJsDwWC-h4C1Mv9L9VeHzh8DdnhoBI6mvoAtoySYAxg/s320/Screen+Shot+2013-12-05+at+12.40.06+PM.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Time to get others involved in this search! Er, more like thousands? Ten thousand? Hundreds of thousands of searchers? I may be pushing it, but...<br />
<br />
Yesterday, I sent an email to New Zealand's Stuff Newsroom, hoping someone with more exposure would be willing to help me find Joe. It was a giant leap of faith that I'm glad I took!<br />
<br />
Today I got a call from a reporter who seems just as excited about this story as I am! Wahoo! We'll be meeting on Tuesday for a chat and some photos. I can pretty much guarantee I won't be sleeping the next two nights.<br />
<br />
We're going to find him, I know it!<br />
<br />
Stay tuned...<br />
<br />
UPDATE: Huge thank you to Jessy Edwards at Fairfax Media! <a href="http://www.stuff.co.nz/dominion-post/news/wellington/76522334/woman-spends-two-years-searching-for-her-old-friend-joe-from-wellington" target="_blank">The article is live</a>! More to come about the interview, but for now, here's to finding Joe!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15725574969697616180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980530675493639288.post-57416745884916122592016-01-22T11:05:00.001+13:002016-01-22T11:05:25.171+13:00Calling All 'Wellingtons'<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhxPC3ZdaTlQyP-Ky1hvVAQy4Z9jaY9BvXiZFPB2JbvDJHYKtjHsVB3Lna1DXtOkK24OYPng_vCcgaZXfCltok1NxxPZzeX-fk4p_IGfj5s37cZD-YDGZ6Z6cqTqMN9aNc9xRuwpsNKyLX/s1600/unnamed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhxPC3ZdaTlQyP-Ky1hvVAQy4Z9jaY9BvXiZFPB2JbvDJHYKtjHsVB3Lna1DXtOkK24OYPng_vCcgaZXfCltok1NxxPZzeX-fk4p_IGfj5s37cZD-YDGZ6Z6cqTqMN9aNc9xRuwpsNKyLX/s320/unnamed.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joe's inscription in the book he gave me in San Francisco 1998</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The 2015/2016 phonebook came out a few months ago in Wellington. A friend sent me a photo of the names under Wellington. Two I'd <a href="http://whereisjoewellington.blogspot.co.nz/2014/03/discovering-courage.html" target="_blank">called before</a> and was met with <a href="http://whereisjoewellington.blogspot.co.nz/2014/05/no-answer.html" target="_blank">no answer</a>.<br />
<br />
During the holidays, I put all writing about my search on hold. Until today.<br />
<br />
Welcome to the first Joe Wellington post of 2016!<br />
<br />
Thumbing through the W's, ticking off with my index finger the 'J Wellington' options, I tap the numbers into my phone. Not nearly as anxious this time than my last attempt at calling.<br />
<br />
A man answers with a strong Kiwi accent.<br />
<br />
"Is this Wellington?" I sputter.<br />
<br />
"Sorry?"<br />
<br />
"Is this surname Wellington?" I try again, thinking maybe I dialled wrong.<br />
<br />
"Are you looking for Jeanette?"<br />
<br />
"Oh, sorry. No, I'm actually looking for a Joe."<br />
<br />
"Joe?"<br />
<br />
"Yes, Jay-Oh-Ee." Spelling it out may help?<br />
<br />
The man gets quiet, surely confused. "There's no Joe Wellington here."<br />
<br />
"Ok, sorry to bother. Thank you!"<br />
<br />
I feel like an absolute idiot. This is silly. Why continue on with this? I've met heaps of other people in my travels who I've connected with and then lost touch. Why bother with this particular one? If I've not found him yet, I won't. Perhaps he doesn't want to be found, as some people have mentioned.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixSwPnklGWcNM5kvrd8LMwdDMpii6P-p2Vms3CXAgvuUK0YQVHSw14xUOF4m878ADQC4jPPI7lreyzpLMagBCTSpI64Jl0-HagMclE7qixnwJt1Vb112ER1EFZggMtXm09YfOHkbVEq9Jx/s1600/joewellington.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixSwPnklGWcNM5kvrd8LMwdDMpii6P-p2Vms3CXAgvuUK0YQVHSw14xUOF4m878ADQC4jPPI7lreyzpLMagBCTSpI64Jl0-HagMclE7qixnwJt1Vb112ER1EFZggMtXm09YfOHkbVEq9Jx/s1600/joewellington.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joe "Wellington" in San Francisco 1998</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Yet, I'm determined. Because it's a really great story. He was such a good person when I knew him briefly in 1998. I considered him a friend. And now I'm in New Zealand, where I never even dreamed of being. It's a pretty damn good story.<br />
<br />
On Twitter, I interacted with a lady with surname 'Wellington' living here in Wellington. I sent her a tweet asking if she knows a 'Joe Wellington'. Guess where that got me? Nowhere. Another dead end.<br />
<br />
For nearly three years now I've written about my search. Safe to assume his last name just isn't Wellington, so how will I find him?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdzBRg3DqfzBp75Kt-3UsrsNm_mL66wbNijuOmramvU4niUq5SrQCiP-ABTLuiF7-iuw2o3sEsekEig6Up6xMXtjb3aKBtPDDRwFJsDwWC-h4C1Mv9L9VeHzh8DdnhoBI6mvoAtoySYAxg/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-12-05+at+12.40.06+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="38" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdzBRg3DqfzBp75Kt-3UsrsNm_mL66wbNijuOmramvU4niUq5SrQCiP-ABTLuiF7-iuw2o3sEsekEig6Up6xMXtjb3aKBtPDDRwFJsDwWC-h4C1Mv9L9VeHzh8DdnhoBI6mvoAtoySYAxg/s320/Screen+Shot+2013-12-05+at+12.40.06+PM.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I ring another 'J Wellington' listed in Eastbourne.<br />
<br />
"Jerry Wellington," he answers. His accent thick, for a split second I thought he said, "Joe".<br />
<br />
"Hello, I'm looking for a Joe Wellington." Saying the name aloud is very strange. I've been writing about this person for so long now that he seems fictional.<br />
<br />
"Joe Wellington... I don't know of any Joe Wellington's. Sorry." Quite a pleasant man.<br />
<br />
"Ok, thank you. Sorry to bother."<br />
<br />
I guess I'll just have to continue searching.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15725574969697616180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980530675493639288.post-74972617727823259982015-11-28T16:07:00.000+13:002015-11-29T16:45:43.494+13:00Wandering Otari-Wilton's<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE1DBov-mdh-CxCVDpSqOIosY519RN_EbdgK7M2zYp9CA6aV4mZw-33tyJHH9CL_qBpp1jOCxfmMBJ6eXkz9y4uz2rU8c-7vlzaA88N6ZH23_3zIhbRnlCk7d0Mze6iyXTtGfC6J8J4O7Y/s1600/IMG_0197.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE1DBov-mdh-CxCVDpSqOIosY519RN_EbdgK7M2zYp9CA6aV4mZw-33tyJHH9CL_qBpp1jOCxfmMBJ6eXkz9y4uz2rU8c-7vlzaA88N6ZH23_3zIhbRnlCk7d0Mze6iyXTtGfC6J8J4O7Y/s320/IMG_0197.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Otari-Wilton's Bush</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Gratitude list for 2015:<br />
<br />
Grateful for my son's health. His curiosity. His charm. Wit. Snuggles. Sleeping. Preschool.<br />
<br />
My husband's insight. Humour. Intellect. Openness. Bravery. Love.<br />
<br />
My mom and dad's willingness to travel twice to New Zealand to visit us. Their health. Healing. Their genuine interest in their grandson, son-in-law and their flexibility. Their love.<br />
<br />
My brother's easy communication. Connection. Genuine care for his nephew. His perseverance in completing his doctorate. Being a fantastic father to his children. His compassion.<br />
<br />
My mother-in-law's love. Her helpful advice. Support, encouragement and easygoing mentality about having to have a relationship with her grandson over the Internet.<br />
<br />
Grateful for my friends near and far who allow me to be imperfect. Forgiving and encouraging and kind. Who gently challenge me. Who accept people for who they are- never willing anyone to be someone they're not. Their passion for life, love, others. Loyalty.<br />
<br />
I have a true appreciation for our new home and the safety it has provided. Our new landlords, the 'angels' they are- helping us to make a home, offering us a sense of security during an uncertain time. God was listening to my prayers for guidance. I continue to listen to Her messages, too.<br />
<br />
Grateful to live in New Zealand. For the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tui_(bird)" target="_blank">tui</a>, the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Austroderia" target="_blank">toetoe</a>, the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dacrydium_cupressinum" target="_blank">rimu</a>, the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flax" target="_blank">flax</a>, the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Metrosideros_excelsa" target="_blank">pohutukawa</a>, the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cyathea_dealbata" target="_blank">pongas</a>. The sea. The colours in the sky. The people.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrSep2PVJtlkcyJICUNpwJBnt7_DF6ZwokbMVZDi67u5WaU6lpaVmmsl0GgTfO1qgrABGH-eugUA60NLK8GsOmu2bAzEKySi7zKlHiu-e932GDavJDtF2Kdf7VBHtEcY-0zH_TZ5nqHORX/s1600/DSC_0079a.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrSep2PVJtlkcyJICUNpwJBnt7_DF6ZwokbMVZDi67u5WaU6lpaVmmsl0GgTfO1qgrABGH-eugUA60NLK8GsOmu2bAzEKySi7zKlHiu-e932GDavJDtF2Kdf7VBHtEcY-0zH_TZ5nqHORX/s320/DSC_0079a.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A ponga tree (silver fern)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The writing. The editing. The writing community. The readers. The passion. The resilience.<br />
<br />
I hope to never forget the things I've learned.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxiyPsK4iepLwv4b6neh0R_77y-0wagytxRTZ_3XY3eP0t-c8ncz9RTGWmhPgkgQVo4GjTjO7iygTcAA4S4DY9YUuMNgX4g-egIJxGsPRNjiiAHUThDQJTGcvi-RtsTiKS5Mes_-umBYrd/s1600/photo+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxiyPsK4iepLwv4b6neh0R_77y-0wagytxRTZ_3XY3eP0t-c8ncz9RTGWmhPgkgQVo4GjTjO7iygTcAA4S4DY9YUuMNgX4g-egIJxGsPRNjiiAHUThDQJTGcvi-RtsTiKS5Mes_-umBYrd/s320/photo+2.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Tasman Sea</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Full of grace, this is what I think of as I wander <a href="http://wellington.govt.nz/~/media/maps/files/otari-forest-tracks.pdf" target="_blank">Otari-Wilton's</a>. And I hope you have also found what you're looking for this year and then some.<br />
<br />
I wonder what Joe Wellington is thankful for?<br />
<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15725574969697616180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980530675493639288.post-79479751852251837992015-10-24T12:35:00.001+13:002015-10-24T13:51:50.852+13:00Traipsing Taupo<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1sE_ie5qF7_ATspACdcTu4SKAguO5EIZFNj4SpoWjcSZhwWrGhfyGzmpg3k81CcYgmrObhlFao5y5O0-ip2LcHVx0oFI3DJB-kQYL-Zj4M407cUZ93FEQzSqEKKdr2qNPdM6Rl7idKJUA/s1600/IMG_0915.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1sE_ie5qF7_ATspACdcTu4SKAguO5EIZFNj4SpoWjcSZhwWrGhfyGzmpg3k81CcYgmrObhlFao5y5O0-ip2LcHVx0oFI3DJB-kQYL-Zj4M407cUZ93FEQzSqEKKdr2qNPdM6Rl7idKJUA/s320/IMG_0915.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Craters of the Moon, Taupo</td></tr>
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<br />
All right, Joe Wellington. Are you in Taupo?<br />
<br />
Taupo (means 'The great cloak of Tia', the one who discovered the lake) is a town in the middle of the North Island of New Zealand. It's bordered by the largest lake in the country <i>and</i> a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Taupo_Volcano" target="_blank">volcano</a>. With a population of 24,000 people, surely Joe could be there?<br />
<br />
My search began at <a href="http://www.cratersofthemoon.co.nz/" target="_blank">Craters of the Moon</a>, a geothermal walk known to be rather touristy but an easy little trek for any preschoolers in tow. The bubbling, steaming pools of mud and geysers along the walkway provided an eerie sort of soundtrack to the otherwise gorgeous view.<br />
<br />
We wandered along, oohing and awing that just below our feet, earth is doing its thing, with magma ready to burst and burn us all (ok, maybe it doesn't work that way but fun to be spooky near Halloween, right?). A few people, most with young kids, stopped for photos among the craters but none who resembled Joe Wellington. Still, it was nice to brush up on our geology.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit209STopf5VxhpkfLWlKTy7QdzM3wHAT3vi_-A3FFw6RiVvUOmue9jyhlW9iwqCaGqn35CBm_L3RxJJAiwC8tbG7p9vwFaUeGjJGcjPXVVKqerrnX8P_gRaHaZAT2qftf627a8QOBLRX2/s1600/IMG_0892.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit209STopf5VxhpkfLWlKTy7QdzM3wHAT3vi_-A3FFw6RiVvUOmue9jyhlW9iwqCaGqn35CBm_L3RxJJAiwC8tbG7p9vwFaUeGjJGcjPXVVKqerrnX8P_gRaHaZAT2qftf627a8QOBLRX2/s320/IMG_0892.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Craters of the Moon, Taupo</td></tr>
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Next up, we drove to <a href="http://www.hukafalls.com/" target="_blank">Huka Falls</a> (Huka means 'foam'). According to the web site, they are the largest waterfalls on the Waikato River, and empties into Lake Taupo. Another tourist destination, I was quite confident I'd have a good chance at finding my Kiwi mate here. The entrance was overwhelmed with crowds and I gave a good up and down glance to as many as I could. One man in particular caught my eye with his light red hair and beard, but as I was about to ask him if his name was Joe, I got completely distracted by this intense rushing sound and a vibrant turquoise hue with foam splashing atop! Huka Falls! I ran to the viewing platform to attempt a photo; I had to try to capture the power of the falls. Impossible. A jet boat full of people on a tour approached the falls only to get forced away by the angry current.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJw7HnWnnay_vsrjyqFLLMd7YqXAiKkAJoB1imuQt2uBFgs5SblRvaFujBZbAcBUam7tbCPFAPTQU9x8GJgiM397ReC7U3W3A3agoZAf7-CVe6AKmbOKbIwJwQaVWbzg9AXc10BLn2AGie/s1600/IMG_0867.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJw7HnWnnay_vsrjyqFLLMd7YqXAiKkAJoB1imuQt2uBFgs5SblRvaFujBZbAcBUam7tbCPFAPTQU9x8GJgiM397ReC7U3W3A3agoZAf7-CVe6AKmbOKbIwJwQaVWbzg9AXc10BLn2AGie/s320/IMG_0867.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Huka Falls, Taupo</td></tr>
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<br />
When I turned away from the falls, my possible Joe sighting had vanished. I figured. Oh well. It probably wasn't him, anyway. I mean, if he lives in New Zealand, why would he want to visit tourist attractions, right?<br />
<br />
Onward to <a href="http://www.waiotapu.co.nz/" target="_blank">Wai-O-Tapu</a>, a 'thermal wonderland' near Rotorua. It was a bit of a drive, 40 min from Taupo, but long enough to let my kid have a sleep and ponder yet again how I've not found Joe in the two years of living in this small country. Some people suggest he doesn't want to be found. And I suppose there may be some truth to that. It'd probably weird me out, too if some acquaintance from years ago had a blog about trying to find me. Maybe this is as far as I'm supposed to get in my search.<br />
<br />
So, I decide, instead of looking for Joe Wellington at our next stop, I'm going to stay in the moment and just enjoy the sights.<br />
<br />
I pull into our next tourist attraction and instantly pinch my nose. I even try to hold my breath so the sulphur won't seep into my lungs. Or pores. Ew. The stench of rotten eggs is overwhelming and my son thinks his dad is passing gas. Eventually, I just get used to it because this place is awesome!<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZWJ8ZdpxdMC6dziMYBbpqx9_tMTEqbxtElGKXqQ4hrKh51IyZykZ_hAo8XYAhVbctrGzIXQx4ZYtzYS6_u2SHRZQBZ7gM8aXnvGaxJqQZhONlntOGhPR_Eob1muRA_BlLceW0VmQpkskO/s1600/IMG_0936.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZWJ8ZdpxdMC6dziMYBbpqx9_tMTEqbxtElGKXqQ4hrKh51IyZykZ_hAo8XYAhVbctrGzIXQx4ZYtzYS6_u2SHRZQBZ7gM8aXnvGaxJqQZhONlntOGhPR_Eob1muRA_BlLceW0VmQpkskO/s320/IMG_0936.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wai-O-Tapu Thermal Wonderland, Rotorua</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_5K0Uw4jZVHZ7s_gQkYqobF3HNkAOKZ60kYIKZ5K7Hshudlm1Q4NdwRJGPRPwbmSOXwePzAgMmA0IHCvfMBLpAKGKHxIEufsXOIaKbj2CNbBU6daKs8J4n8jMO5JLidVmZkms338yZIub/s1600/IMG_0937.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_5K0Uw4jZVHZ7s_gQkYqobF3HNkAOKZ60kYIKZ5K7Hshudlm1Q4NdwRJGPRPwbmSOXwePzAgMmA0IHCvfMBLpAKGKHxIEufsXOIaKbj2CNbBU6daKs8J4n8jMO5JLidVmZkms338yZIub/s320/IMG_0937.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">pretty but so stinky!</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis1eMC0hxb2zXYN4Vg-rDvt0C-VqBGJ-xXIKAYkS59QNpgn4S1r-Mih-kWw7Ta7K0jeniQ0U6TSbJgaxGCcfIjebDenpbK0UQAJhJNiJjm5er2rf8APrkYnGi7QIFvsMHSYzAbjcsVAaOY/s1600/IMG_0929.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis1eMC0hxb2zXYN4Vg-rDvt0C-VqBGJ-xXIKAYkS59QNpgn4S1r-Mih-kWw7Ta7K0jeniQ0U6TSbJgaxGCcfIjebDenpbK0UQAJhJNiJjm5er2rf8APrkYnGi7QIFvsMHSYzAbjcsVAaOY/s320/IMG_0929.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">hot!</td></tr>
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<br />
It's said that back before there were kitchens and stoves, Maori women would place their food on the rocks near the volcanoes/geysers to cook! Mother Earth always giving back...<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghS0zBFsNcO60oNd845-iJwkYthwE7poFSXO8R28InKI0Ocz2sPt6zidCH8O3LZrbxCOvURzA0LWEGfnaTJ9BLYsedcF-xNTZMy7GVcAJ6rxn3Wvbql1DyecBIIaS6NhPLhlqpj43bZUWJ/s1600/IMG_0925.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghS0zBFsNcO60oNd845-iJwkYthwE7poFSXO8R28InKI0Ocz2sPt6zidCH8O3LZrbxCOvURzA0LWEGfnaTJ9BLYsedcF-xNTZMy7GVcAJ6rxn3Wvbql1DyecBIIaS6NhPLhlqpj43bZUWJ/s320/IMG_0925.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gollum? Are you in there?</td></tr>
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So, no, Joe Wellington didn't pop out from any volcanoes, nor did Gollum from Lord of the Rings. But I came away with an even deeper appreciation for what this small country has to offer. It's pretty wild to drive from the ocean, through the desert, to a lake, to waterfalls, and to volcanoes (!) within hours. Anyone would be lucky to grow up here. Every day, I look out my window at home and see the Cook Strait. Never in a million years would I believe that I'd be living here. Yet, I am. So, I best appreciate the moment rather than looking for some dude.<br />
<br />
Goodbye for now. I'll have to come back to Taupo again soon. You know, to see if I can find Joe Wellington...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMXtLj69mM_3gWbsLdtZqsQ1qxl1fXlOlFDFYZU7BG9QZ22E9eyf-ijwb1jtjCTXPnuF1GHYtIhZpZi8PbLgAYkZgzIStoYt9_OVYy3BLq5iSVbJr0QCfnhqXjF1AyXnQ0haXmiUL8QpG1/s1600/IMG_0876.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMXtLj69mM_3gWbsLdtZqsQ1qxl1fXlOlFDFYZU7BG9QZ22E9eyf-ijwb1jtjCTXPnuF1GHYtIhZpZi8PbLgAYkZgzIStoYt9_OVYy3BLq5iSVbJr0QCfnhqXjF1AyXnQ0haXmiUL8QpG1/s320/IMG_0876.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lake Taupo</td></tr>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15725574969697616180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980530675493639288.post-33348682979570807242015-09-30T13:58:00.000+13:002015-09-30T15:18:14.275+13:00Searching the South Island:Te Waikoropūpū Springs<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTCQDlWssCfamlEkn6hqd5je_Jb30MuwA_SIDrII7HROJuyyu99IQypBc1Vuyvh2l48qUmJsH-aBlAGZ4PT38UM1Wt2jg117PUdYstoH41S6KLCSr_3eaNfOLIDlOICfnJnxsbQlRxINYp/s1600/IMG_0771.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTCQDlWssCfamlEkn6hqd5je_Jb30MuwA_SIDrII7HROJuyyu99IQypBc1Vuyvh2l48qUmJsH-aBlAGZ4PT38UM1Wt2jg117PUdYstoH41S6KLCSr_3eaNfOLIDlOICfnJnxsbQlRxINYp/s320/IMG_0771.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking down into the main spring</td></tr>
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<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-align: center;">While searching for Joe Wellington in the north part of the South Island, I stumbled upon <a href="http://www.doc.govt.nz/parks-and-recreation/places-to-go/nelson-tasman/places/takaka-area/te-waikoropupu-springs/" target="_blank">Te Waikoropūpū Springs</a>. I wasn't sure what I'd find here, having only seen the sign for it along the road with a large dirt car park and barely any vehicles, I was certain it'd be 'just another tourist destination'. </span><br />
<br />
My son and I walked hand in hand toward the entrance and to my delight, I saw the word 'hine' (girl, daughter) in several of the brief explanations about the area. Perhaps Joe Wellington has a deep appreciation for Māori mythology? Worth a check, anyway.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.doc.govt.nz/Documents/parks-and-recreation/places-to-visit/nelson-marlborough/te-waikoropupu-interpretation-panels.pdf" target="_blank">Maroon posts</a> of the marae were carved with the legends of strong wahine (women) and descriptions on each one. There's too many for me to name, but while reading about Hine Ahu One (the first mother of the land), I knew this stop wouldn't be trivial. Having to chase after a preschooler, I wasn't able to linger and read more. What I did understand before taking to the path was this: the grounds and water are sacred. Don't dump anything in the spring. Don't take water from the spring. Don't smoke or eat or drink. Respect the guardians and the Papatūānuku (earth mother).<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7pm3s7k5H6akdlcC7MG176a8VTSed5CEdlOCni2FOlecb4hceo6af7r9B6F0KcE6Mib6W3_wsmLOpaQL5Rrvd7lISSiiGchsbr_Ppx7w46bQdFdTa5Qwn5X5yJna2H-21iUvoTpDORWTU/s1600/IMG_0415.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7pm3s7k5H6akdlcC7MG176a8VTSed5CEdlOCni2FOlecb4hceo6af7r9B6F0KcE6Mib6W3_wsmLOpaQL5Rrvd7lISSiiGchsbr_Ppx7w46bQdFdTa5Qwn5X5yJna2H-21iUvoTpDORWTU/s320/IMG_0415.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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Once on the dirt path sheltered by Manuka trees, it was stop and go several times due to a pebble hitching a ride in my boy's shoe. He was in good spirits, his playfulness refreshing. But I couldn't shake the feeling like we were being watched. Not in an eerie sort of way (although, that'd make a good story), but there was a definite presence. Joe Wellington of the Wind? Right. Joking aside, you could just tell you were in a special place.<br />
<br />
We approached the main spring that looked like a normal, quiet pond with flax plants and pebbles lining the shore. But when I peered straight down into it, the colours were none I've ever seen of water before. It was like a Monet (see above photo).<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzGT1s_FC1BRUEeiL6Ru6SJBZdjp_RCTlD2kn38qYBtFSIvVGyPxo-J79zYM7Z2CXBnz-IefXUkq5evBNpJGLhbwiGosKitiRAojw37h43al0W0Ce2zcfSNwxDJ44A-Fbvq1IQTwl9nLah/s1600/DSC_0193a.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzGT1s_FC1BRUEeiL6Ru6SJBZdjp_RCTlD2kn38qYBtFSIvVGyPxo-J79zYM7Z2CXBnz-IefXUkq5evBNpJGLhbwiGosKitiRAojw37h43al0W0Ce2zcfSNwxDJ44A-Fbvq1IQTwl9nLah/s320/DSC_0193a.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the waters represent the lifeblood of the Earth Mother & tears of the Sky Father</td></tr>
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<br />
My boy gazed into the water, too, mesmerised by the eels and trout living beneath 'the submerged garden of Eden' while his grandparents explained as best they could the importance of not disturbing the sacred water. This was a place full of history, spirit, and conservation.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #231f20;">According to Māori mythology (forgive me if I'm misunderstanding), these springs are protected by female guardian Huriawa. </span><span style="color: #231f20;">I've not had time to research as much as I'd like, and to be sure I don't get it wrong, I'll offer Wikipedia's explanation on Huriawa: </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #231f20; font-family: FrutigerM; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #231f20; font-family: FrutigerM; font-size: 12pt;">"<i>She is a diver of land and sea, travelling deep beneath the earth to clear blocked waterways. She is brave and wise and believed to still rest in the waters of Waikoropūpū, when she is not away attending to business.</i>" </span><br />
<br />
It's said to be an honour to gain guardianship over such sacred places as this. The role has been passed down over several generations from the ancestors to "ensure that the matauranga (knowledge and legends) and aroha (love) of our sacred place is not lost."<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2tBCP1lTnAYjn26ByMk4qGEHQALERY9h0-voG-CB7YaIcLlzbdHNTtew9_pSIhf6s9_zzQRgSqdmWK-atUbRsTOt8ivNs0heOmSHhThuhFawlTZ7Nz_l2v3BlPhK2Q9Kx1nIkbUe5cz5D/s1600/DSC_0142a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2tBCP1lTnAYjn26ByMk4qGEHQALERY9h0-voG-CB7YaIcLlzbdHNTtew9_pSIhf6s9_zzQRgSqdmWK-atUbRsTOt8ivNs0heOmSHhThuhFawlTZ7Nz_l2v3BlPhK2Q9Kx1nIkbUe5cz5D/s320/DSC_0142a.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">'the tears of the spirit ancestors'<br />
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Aha! So it's the female guardians whose presence I felt along the path; now making it a spiritual experience for me. Geez, I can't give up knowing more now... These mythological taniwha's are the 'dawn maidens', the 'mothers', the 'keepers', the 'sisters', the 'protectors'. They are described as brave, wise, strong, but also full of knowledge and love.<br />
<br />
I'm finding in my mid-thirties, I'm appreciating what an honour it is to be a woman; grateful to the women before me who've fought to have their voices heard and to the women who've stayed silent but with a loud spirit. I'm in awe of the women who've carried shame, and the women who've not had time for it. I weep for the women who've suffered and applaud the women who've persevered even when silenced. I adore the women who <i>dare</i> to have an opinion and the women who laugh when insulted for speaking up. I join in solidarity for the sacred stillness we long for within.<br />
<br />
Let no one take our power or the life-force we protect. I only hope I can pass on to younger generations (such as my son) a devotion to all things fragile, breathing, connecting us all.<br />
<br />
It says at the entrance to the sacred grounds, "<span style="font-family: inherit;">Because the physical and the
spiritual are inseparable, the health of the whole system reflects the well-being of
our community”.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: FrutigerM;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Well, I can't deny that.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
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Sorry, Joe. Maybe we'll connect at the next stop. And this concludes my search on the South Island (until next time). Right now, I'm too busy protecting my womanhood.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15725574969697616180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980530675493639288.post-32105761062334785892015-09-20T15:50:00.000+12:002015-09-20T15:50:28.444+12:00A Dream Year<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOoSfAfR13vviGArm2EpGh2kDt02ZO74a0Ny7_sJG4-n8tMADQYJPi3-msvhcBvnyyhecb334vBZctvP-cRjliHAsdNpIbtfhHT5s3CoIsrHdoR4xRkinzYQuPaIW4YPnt9wA_-pKZ-vle/s1600/b9f87525-0d14-410b-8380-0db1eaf327fb.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="140" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOoSfAfR13vviGArm2EpGh2kDt02ZO74a0Ny7_sJG4-n8tMADQYJPi3-msvhcBvnyyhecb334vBZctvP-cRjliHAsdNpIbtfhHT5s3CoIsrHdoR4xRkinzYQuPaIW4YPnt9wA_-pKZ-vle/s320/b9f87525-0d14-410b-8380-0db1eaf327fb.gif" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Edward professes his love for Elinor, as do I for the <br />written word</td></tr>
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<br />
Confession:<br />
<br />
I actually have no idea what I'm doing. <br />
<br />
The only comforting response I can offer: <i>Do any of us really know what we're doing?</i><br />
<br />
I began this blog because it's a really good story. It's entertaining and true. Maybe I'll find the guy. But maybe I won't. Now that I've had the blog for two years and am not any closer to finding Joe Wellington, I'm accepting that I probably won't find him. That's ok.<br />
<br />
Because this blog has become something more for me.<br />
<br />
It has awakened a calling that didn't surface until I began this New Zealand journey. Writing was a secret passion. I loved doing it; wrote stories for friends in middle school, won a short story contest as a tween, and often it was the only way I could cope through my angsty teen years. But I never took it seriously. I never thought it was a realistic dream. Only a childhood fantasy.<br />
<br />
But then I wrote a manuscript. A very awful, horribly written work of women's fiction. But it was finished. I did it.<br />
<br />
So now what?<br />
<br />
I wait. I read. I learn. I research US literary agents. I buy books about the industry. I research 'how to write a query'. I learn. I meet writer friends. Swap work. I query. I receive rejections. I enter contests. And get rejections. I read. I talk to a select few about the process. Swallow the fear. And borrow that 'thick skin' I developed performing on stage as a kid. I crumble into self-doubt and zone out on movies instead. Then I get more rejections. I learn more. I revise. I write a second manuscript while I wait. I breathe. I get a request. Another rejection. Repeat as needed. <i>But I don't give up. I won't. I can't. </i>Because I believe in the no-longer-horrible story so much that I feel like I'd be betraying my characters if I quit now. <i>That's true love. </i><br />
<br />
There's this unwavering hope that writers must hold onto tightly. A hope that someday, someone will see the value in the words written and become your champion. A writer must carry that light of possibility at all times. Because with every rejection, the light can dim. But you don't want just anyone to represent your career. You want that very special someone (an Edward and Elinor love story, maybe?) who truly connects with what's produced and believes in you.<br />
<br />
Sometimes there might be a tough critique and I think how far off I am from being a published author and that light becomes so clouded it dumps sheets of rain, leaving me to my chai tea and sweatpants (who am I kidding? I <i>love</i> sweatpants) for a while.<br />
<br />
After some rejuvenation, revise. Work harder, use any spare second to get lost in my crazy writer mind. Try not to go insane from how fast those stories want to pour out. Neglect dishes. Praise dog for acting as the vacuum and eating the crumbs off the floor. Shower husband with kisses for taking the preschooler so I can write. Oh, and what's a shower? Sleepless nights are inevitable because I'm dreaming of how to restructure a sentence or what adverbs to omit. I'm not a perfect writer but I <i>hope</i> to be<i> </i>better.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sending my prayers to the gods of fate a year ago</td></tr>
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<br />
That's what I've been doing the past year. Working my butt off.<br />
<br />
While raising my son. And searching for Joe Wellington, who I MUST thank for this when I do find him. All this <i>and</i> trying not to exclude my friends from the process (I love you Bryony, Lacey, and Dan!) or ignore that life is happening outside my windows. Lovely, precious, occasionally cloudy life.<br />
<br />
But I really have no idea what I'm doing...<br />
<br />
...except living my dream.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15725574969697616180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980530675493639288.post-84464397367819548682015-08-16T19:10:00.000+12:002018-03-31T21:42:20.459+13:00Guest Post: One More Step by Jim Ormonde <div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #131313;"><i>This past year, I've met some amazing writers from around the globe. It's been a blessing to learn who they are, where they're from, and why they write. Their stories inspire me. <b>Jim Ormonde</b> is one of those inspiring people. An active member in our online writing community, Jim is honest, quick to offer (excellent) help, cheers us on, and is maybe even considered 'a knight in shining armour by some. When I asked Jim to write a guest post for Where's Joe Wellington, he didn't hesitate. It's an honour to present Jim's take on this rather odd, but very fun, and quite real search for my long-lost Kiwi mate:</i></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“If
I just keep putting one foot in front of the other, it stands to reason that
I'm going to get there.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #131313;">So wrote Rachel Joyce in her
beautiful novel, <i>The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry</i>. </span><span lang="EN-GB">After hearing nothing from his former
colleague for twenty years, Harold receives a letter from Queenie Hennessie––</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #131313;">she’s in a hospice and wanted to
say goodbye. </span><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #131313;">Harold intends a quick walk to the
corner mailbox to post his reply but a chance encounter convinces him of the
need to deliver his message to Queenie in person because as long as he keeps
walking, Harold believes his friend will not die.</span><span lang="EN-US"> </span><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;">At any point in his six-hundred-mile
journey, Harold could call, write, Skype or email and bring his quest to a
speedy conclusion but the point of this story is the importance of making the
journey and the discovery it brings along the way.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Did he find Queenie, did he not? I’m
not sure it matters in the end (besides, you should read the book for yourself).
But I was reminded of Harold’s unlikely pilgrimage when Lissa told me of her
search for Joe Wellington. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN-GB">Her story is equally as engaging. In
1998 she went on her own adventure to San Francisco and met, along the way, a
guy called Joe. This wasn’t a love story, it was nothing more than a good
story, and in many ways an unfinished one as Lissa and Joe lost touch. She
thinks his last name was Wellington and that he was from New Zealand </span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;">because she remembers teasing him.
</span><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">So
you're Joe Wellington from Wellington?’<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;">As it so often does, life
interrupted their friendship, faded memories became loose ends, and important
details blurred with time.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But almost twenty years later, like
Harold Fry, a new journey has begun, this time fuelled by Lissa’s love affair
with writing and her desire to use her search for Joe Wellington as the
inspiration for a blog. In this pilgrimage, there are no geographic boundaries,
the hard miles are being walked with words, and support is being sought from
writers keen to join the hunt.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span><span lang="EN-GB">‘Joe! Joe Wellington! Where are you Joe Wellington?!’ </span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I happen to be one of the new
characters Lissa has met on her pilgrimage. It was a chance encounter, the ordinary
with the potential to be part of something extraordinary––the search for Joe.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>‘Where are you Joe? Can you hear me
Joe?!’ I wonder if he went home to New Zealand after his time in San Francisco
all those years ago, or whether, like many Kiwis, he found himself in the UK.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>‘Joe! Joe Wellington! Where are you
Joe Wellington?!’</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Silence. Joe doesn’t hear me. Maybe
I need to shout louder, and further.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>‘Are you listening, Joe? Do you even
know we’re looking for you?’<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Nothing. Maybe Joe doesn’t want to
be found.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Who knows. Who knows if we’ll ever
know.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN-GB">But as Rachel Joyce also wrote… ‘</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #131313;">The people he met, the places he
passed, were all steps in his journey, and he kept a place inside his heart for
each of them.’<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Yes, I am sure Harold did. Like Lissa.
Like all of us touched by this remarkable story. Wherever this pilgrimage happens
to take us next.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I hope it leads us to Joe. But, in
the end, I’m not sure it matters. It’s the journey that counts. And I’m happy
to play my part.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> ‘Can you hear us Joe?’ we write. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #131313;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Because if we keep writing one word after the other, it stands to reason that
we’re going to get there.</span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica";"><b>Jim Ormonde</b><span style="font-size: 12px;"> fell in love with writing as a youngster and decided to make a career from words while still at school when a week’s work experience at his local newspaper made him realise that writing about real life was almost as good as the made up stuff. He progressed from news reporter with provincial titles to broadcast journalist with the BBC when a chance interview with a former motorcycle champion kidnapped him from journalism and led him to an accidental career in financial services. He become CEO of a large technology company sold 72 hours before the credit crises, after which he returned to writing for pleasure, this time from a black desk in his study overlooking the family garden in rural Lincolnshire. He is engaged, with two young daughters, and would be blissfully happy were it not for the compelling need to write at least one more chapter. You can find out more about Jim on twitter @jimormonde or visit his web site: </span></span><a href="http://www.jamesormonde.com/" target="_blank">www.jamesormonde.com<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span></a></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15725574969697616180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980530675493639288.post-75297859025813285752015-07-19T11:25:00.001+12:002018-03-31T21:42:01.153+13:00Guest Post: Searching South Australia by Léonie C. Kelsall <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<i>I am excited for Where's Joe Wellington's first guest post! Allow me to introduce you to my friend, my critique partner 'across the ditch', <b>Léonie C. Kelsall.</b> I'm honoured she agreed to not only do a search for Joe, but to write about the experience and share it with us. I had a good laugh while reading this, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. Thank you, Lee, for contributing and for all the other stuff. Friends, here's Lee's search for Joe Wellington...</i></div>
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<span style="font-family: times, 'times new roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Hailing me from the other side of the ditch - known to non Kiwis/Aussies as the Tasman Sea - my lovely American-transplant friend sends a message, “Would you like to do a guest blog for me?”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">“Sure,” I reply blithely, not
knowing what I'm committing to.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">We exchange a few more positive
words via Twitter - we’re several thousand kilometres apart, and met via a
mutual desire to air our trials and tribulations on the road to becoming
published authors. Hey, how negative is that phrase? Shouldn’t it be ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Triumphs, trials and tribulations’?</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I move for change.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Anyway, I digress. Lissa asks if I can
assist in the search for Joe Wellington. Of course I can. Mind you, I’ve
already tried to make more of the tale . . . young love lost; angry husband
pretending to assist in search, so he can ‘off’ the rival; lover proves to be
father of illegitimate child. None of which, Lissa assures me, is anything like
the truth; but, like I said, aspiring authors – any story has potential.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;">Mindful of my promise, and having
procrastinated for close to 24 hours, I knuckle down, standing in front of the
laptop at the kitchen bench. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I hear you; “Health conscious, Lee?
New form of workout?” </span></span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">No, not at all. It’s camouflage. If
I’m standing at the bench, I </span><i style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">could </i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">be
doing house-wifely type duties. The laptop can be closed down in a millisecond</span><i style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">. “Writing? Who, me? No, I’m doing the
dishes.” </i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">Mind you, stuffing the Christmas turkey whilst employing this form
of multi-tasking was interesting. By New Years, plagued by images of botulism,
I did disinfect my keyboard.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">So, laptop booted up, I must check
social media (it’s a warm up for my keyboard, I swear!) And I get to thinking –
do I just put Joe Wellington’s picture up on social media, let it go viral?
Surely he could be found this way? Or perhaps the thrill of the chase lends
intrigue to the story? Maybe Lissa prefers the journey to the destination?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;">I’ve obviously eaten gluten in the
last few days, because I’m finding it increasingly difficult to keep on track.
Instead, my mind is wandering, the idea of searching the Net for past lovers
calling to me (oh come <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">on,</i> don’t
pretend you haven’t!). </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The reasonably well-known artist I
had a fling with at 18 should be easy enough to find, even with my limited
skills. FaceBook, here I come . . .</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Oh, wow, my ex-flame's name is actually quite common.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;">Realisation dawns slowly – Jim was
more than twice my age, which would now make him... Gulp. Maybe I need to look
in the obituaries, not social media. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">My partner wanders in and, despite
my bragging about swift cover-ups, catches me browsing Google.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Him: “What are you looking at?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Me: “Um. Just old lovers.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Him: “Oh. I see. Had many?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Me: (Opting for smart-arse in an
attempt to sound offhand) “Well, obviously, that would depend on definitions.
Of ‘lovers’ and ‘many.’”<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> <o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Quick change of screen, and I try to
look absorbed in work-type stuff, projecting a “please don’t interrupt my
concentration” aura.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;">Okay, so back to Joe Wellington. If
Lissa wanted to find him via the interwebby stuff, I’m sure she could – I mean,
the girl knows how to set up a blog!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I haven’t
even managed to work out those funny facey things everyone else inserts into messages.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Obviously, I’m going to have to put
in the hard yards: I’m going to hit the streets. Well, I live in a country town
in the Adelaide Hills, so it’s more like hit the edges of the paddocks.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;">I woggle (that’s my cross between a
jog and a waddle, with rather more of the latter) 6km and encounter one person.
Female, petite and twentyish. Definitely not Joe Wellington. Probably best if I
don’t stop her to ask his whereabouts, given I’m huffing and moaning in a most
inappropriate manner (you got the Adelaide <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">HILLS</i>
bit, right?). </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I may have to go where there are more people. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Inspiration: the top of Mt Barker.
I’ll have a stunning view from there.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh8euroslrfICgPnJ4_h_beBR2jBIuNwCunTnmWmlZfI9uY-ULYjbKdtlnw7uVSEaJsGUv9YAKOIJBqKQ7GFKaUQrBU3Khs6RLW1sOMe7T0SODqauKirwDwI7Ewdf7e1nX9HyI_nZN2TGS/s1600/Oz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh8euroslrfICgPnJ4_h_beBR2jBIuNwCunTnmWmlZfI9uY-ULYjbKdtlnw7uVSEaJsGUv9YAKOIJBqKQ7GFKaUQrBU3Khs6RLW1sOMe7T0SODqauKirwDwI7Ewdf7e1nX9HyI_nZN2TGS/s1600/Oz.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mt Barker, South Australia </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And it’s a beautiful day for a hike.
Yes, it is bang smack in the middle of winter, but this is South Australia,
driest state on the driest continent. Actually, I don’t even know if that’s
true. We had it drummed into us at school, years before the internet could be
used to dispute and verify such ‘facts’. However, as it is one of very few
things I recall from my schooling, I’m not about to challenge that knowledge. Please
leave me in my little bubble - I’ve taught it to my kids so, by the power of
numbers, we shall make it ‘fact’.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-F7niK2PdB160PrNxbycSpDP2VQplZv-412yjhD0u0oC-_GZ4hSUbuDjGIaU0tIfPKYDomXNRL3rRKRsBKqj8uNJbEqyW_GuV1mW7NUjPtdtVbJ3cb6pBbKYT-KAtaIig_V4-Ohw7IQTP/s1600/Oz2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-F7niK2PdB160PrNxbycSpDP2VQplZv-412yjhD0u0oC-_GZ4hSUbuDjGIaU0tIfPKYDomXNRL3rRKRsBKqj8uNJbEqyW_GuV1mW7NUjPtdtVbJ3cb6pBbKYT-KAtaIig_V4-Ohw7IQTP/s320/Oz2.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The mountain is beautiful.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;">Any kiwi jumping the ditch is sure
to come here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the weather is breathtaking
– one of those clear, crisp days that sear your lungs, making your heart ache
with unfulfilled promise. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Or maybe </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">that </i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">pain is just the lack of exercise?</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;">It rained overnight, breaking a
long, dry spell, and the sides of the rough dirt track have turned to clay. Rivulets
of cold water cascade alongside, miniature waterfalls washing dusty
pebbles until they assume the shine of gemstones. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I stop frequently, stooping to
collect the treasures. Well, actually, I have to stop, because this mountain is
ALL uphill, dammit.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The only other person on top of my
mountain is a man with three young children. Immediately he has a story; single
father, weekly access visit, determined to do better than the traditional visit
to Maccas. Possibly regretting his decision now, in light of the snot-faced
recalcitrance of his daughter. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I decide to do the circumnavigation
of the peak. Largely because, having huffed my way into a male presence, I now
feel the need to prove my vigour. Mind you, he drove up here in a 4-wheel drive, so I’m
winning anyway...<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The track is narrow, winding between
the naked trunks of boxbark eucalypts, and bordered by bright pink native
orchids. In the purity of silence broken only by bell-birds and magpies (okay,
and my stentorian breathing, but I’m sure that doesn’t add anything to the
visual!), I hear the other visitor’s car departing. Excellent. Time to find
Joe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;">Moving to a fairly dangerous rocky
outcrop (pay attention, Lissa, the risks I take for you) I bellow for Joe. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Okay, I’m actually shy, so it was
more of a timid murmur. Oh, what the Hell, there’s no one else around. Cupping
my hands around my mouth, I let it rip, “JOE WELLINGTON, WHERE ARE YOU?!” </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The
words echo around the valley. I’m pretty impressed at my output. However the
only thing that answers is a kookaburra, and even he seems uncertain whether
it’s safe to laugh at this maniacal, red-faced woman. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Anyway, I’ve discharged my duty. I
can go back down the mountain now. Heavy emphasis on ‘down’. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I complete my circumnavigation of
the peak, back to the car park entrance, where the down track is located. And
stop in horror.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I may have found Joe Wellington.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;">There’s a pretty good chance I have. T</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">he vehicle I heard was not
the single-father’s 4 wheel drive departing, but a minibus arriving.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">A minibus full of people.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">A minibus full of people looking at
me. Apparently, the kookaburra is not the only one who thinks I may be
crazy.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Time to employ my best Mr Bean
impersonation. Jerking a thumb over my shoulder, I lift my eyebrows and shrug, “Did you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hear </i>that? Wonder if someone
is lost?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;">I’m sure the tourists totally bought
it. However, I’m unable to bring myself to look closely enough to assess if one
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is </i>Joe Wellington. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">It’s possible, had he been there, he
may not have chosen that moment to disclose himself.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Trudging down the mountain, I
realise three things.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;">Down is far easier <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;">My buscles (that’s butt
muscles) are gonna <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hurt </i>tomorrow.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;">I’m suddenly,
ridiculously, invested in finding Joe Wellington. I’ve spent hours walking and
thinking about him, and now I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">care.</i> I
want to locate him, to discover that he’s healthy and happy, to know that his
dreams are realised and that he harbors fond memories of his time with Lissa.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Next week, I’m off to a travel expo.
I’m pretty sure he’ll be there...</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Léonie C. Kelsall</b> is a qualified mental health </span>practitioner<span style="font-size: small;"> with a passion for writing upmarket romantic suspense. She is currently seeking publication for two completed novels. You can follow Lee on twitter @leehotline, or read more about her on <a href="http://writerpitch.com/writer/l%C3%A9onie-c-kelsall" target="_blank">Writer Pitch</a>.</span></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15725574969697616180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980530675493639288.post-1539838766462861592015-07-06T14:33:00.001+12:002015-10-04T12:16:19.313+13:00Searching the South Island: Wharariki Beach <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSNGWl1NuH7qphsXBQd1acRBofXDa320T7F00oj5jC7cY3fwzKmL4O62aK2y7dOdEp5pj2L0S5fCUtObrE0eZHIMDK8FqDSv-MD30nki93SIonuCny0-Kn4AWYH0sRUe4CJdD35Zyal2xD/s1600/IMG_0463.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSNGWl1NuH7qphsXBQd1acRBofXDa320T7F00oj5jC7cY3fwzKmL4O62aK2y7dOdEp5pj2L0S5fCUtObrE0eZHIMDK8FqDSv-MD30nki93SIonuCny0-Kn4AWYH0sRUe4CJdD35Zyal2xD/s320/IMG_0463.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Who knows where the path will lead?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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"<a href="https://youtu.be/aMj0t7sds7I" target="_blank">HEY YOU GUYYYYYS!</a>"<br />
<br />
I searched for Joe Wellington at one of New Zealand's best beaches!<br />
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Back in December, I packed up my family and forced them to keep their eyes peeled while we went on holiday to the South Island. One stop was at <a href="http://www.newzealand.com/in/article/wharariki-beach-walk-to-cape-farewell/" target="_blank">Wharariki Beach </a>near the Farewell Spit, the northernmost part of the South Island. It was a trek that reminded me of The Goonies and The Princess Bride movies, which offered a healthy dose of nostalgia.<br />
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After a slew of rainy days, we had to get out. So the five of us piled into the car and drove around the area, desperate to see some sights even if it would be through the fog. We missed the tour for the bus that goes out to the Farewell Spit (no cars allowed), but we found an awesome little farm that had a sign for a walking track to a beach. At the time, none of us were aware it was one of the best in New Zealand.<br />
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A beautiful male peacock greeted us in the parking lot, begging visitors for food. A gate led to a green hill section with a narrow gravel path to follow, one foot in front of the other. When we reached the top of the hill we were among roaming sheep and cows. I could've sworn I heard Wesley from The Princess Bride call out, "As you wiiiisssh!" but it was only my son repeating, "I'm a fisssh!".<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4VbVJrPk5QOj4x3IeU7LwNkVS7gPyITZyRkGGu_TfiHadJuBc9XMcWuISaTaXqWjaRTnDJgw4J3_Gk-Uh7vHps-f4wzKfy0YkEVt95cL7rUhKEqn8DOJ57vZ87AlaOWU5E3LZZkYkjBZi/s1600/DSC_0215a.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4VbVJrPk5QOj4x3IeU7LwNkVS7gPyITZyRkGGu_TfiHadJuBc9XMcWuISaTaXqWjaRTnDJgw4J3_Gk-Uh7vHps-f4wzKfy0YkEVt95cL7rUhKEqn8DOJ57vZ87AlaOWU5E3LZZkYkjBZi/s320/DSC_0215a.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My boys following the path.<br />
Photo by Steve Waller</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBhLToGWOHZXCtCKaC5Rx00N-LByJCFLopvK7YuCZuU0GfFjSVtodi8HdEpDwiofvVWA1y9HPUKy3B_E4YJRo2FVC8UuEkwJNItc1Qi_WbC6v79hIdSeZSiKeCie8Uw_EsEAYR2hIRmDYt/s1600/IMG_0472.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBhLToGWOHZXCtCKaC5Rx00N-LByJCFLopvK7YuCZuU0GfFjSVtodi8HdEpDwiofvVWA1y9HPUKy3B_E4YJRo2FVC8UuEkwJNItc1Qi_WbC6v79hIdSeZSiKeCie8Uw_EsEAYR2hIRmDYt/s320/IMG_0472.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My dad meets a native</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfBntcSRNqaQvuruRyGHkGsWxzOf2MYpFnfs8eIzE95sDmCQ0ecmFAfpPaZTrLXtuJZ9dqfTuXygWsx5V4OsmBwYfY8LNbWRVknMyk5QDlVp-oW_dpQzsKaY2AgtjqVaonZNrbJJocd9Fo/s1600/DSC_0216a.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfBntcSRNqaQvuruRyGHkGsWxzOf2MYpFnfs8eIzE95sDmCQ0ecmFAfpPaZTrLXtuJZ9dqfTuXygWsx5V4OsmBwYfY8LNbWRVknMyk5QDlVp-oW_dpQzsKaY2AgtjqVaonZNrbJJocd9Fo/s320/DSC_0216a.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by Steve Waller</td></tr>
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At this point, judging by the grassy landscape covered in steaming cow pies, I was in disbelief that a beach would greet us in the end. The sheep baa'ed and the cows moo'ed but otherwise, they left us alone. I asked one cow if he happened to know anyone named Joe but he didn't seem amused so I stayed out of his way.<br />
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Before we knew it the track turned to soft, fine sand and we were surrounded by woods. The landscape went from pastureland, to a paddock in steep hills, and now bush! <i>Only in New Zealand</i>. I could smell the salt of the sea and hear the crash of the waves so I figured we must be close. The others in my party went on ahead but I hung back to snap photos.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipKzDgbUV3A6cmsLzxeURDJwcYeFYZibDAQobspIl9RIonnljXKBzCv7kCc6uKYoVsdhOgkZRV6kYEGOllRY6aWCS0hONIm1DUpMKXEkLrlG028ntyILf3umJYIC-AoQVbLUqgy5jsH0UT/s1600/IMG_0477.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipKzDgbUV3A6cmsLzxeURDJwcYeFYZibDAQobspIl9RIonnljXKBzCv7kCc6uKYoVsdhOgkZRV6kYEGOllRY6aWCS0hONIm1DUpMKXEkLrlG028ntyILf3umJYIC-AoQVbLUqgy5jsH0UT/s320/IMG_0477.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji40e7W3s0TwxLW_dDVTL5BsUmAHZrVpvxTHKXZL8ehf5t9bZQYXMXKys2hNKKe331RFifsdhc67wAeO_O7CXll1PXDGS0gUqWReemP9HvtwJGkCoKHV-sR793_W9Cdm9tz6R48lcbIJUN/s1600/IMG_0482.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji40e7W3s0TwxLW_dDVTL5BsUmAHZrVpvxTHKXZL8ehf5t9bZQYXMXKys2hNKKe331RFifsdhc67wAeO_O7CXll1PXDGS0gUqWReemP9HvtwJGkCoKHV-sR793_W9Cdm9tz6R48lcbIJUN/s320/IMG_0482.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Um, wow. </td></tr>
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The sight was a scene from Goonies: the movie with Chunk and the scary old lady and the weird Baby Ruth-guy named Sloth. Complete with Cyndi Lauper's "Girls Just Want to Have Fun" song in my head, I chuckled at the thought that perhaps I am now living a life movies are made from.<br />
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The past few years have been the most enriching. And that's only because I ran full speed ahead into a life that I knew I always wanted, plus some surprises. That's not to say it hasn't been difficult, because it has. But there has been a lot of difficult things in my life that I've had to endure, and I'm grateful for those experiences that have taught me how to keep going. I guess I could say I needed the cow pies to get to the white sand beach that offers more than I ever could have dreamed.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjky3kp0ZH4kkDwrml8rgw8vKEduzpQM7AXhbBlIRrfx6r0mF1dE8vDtkdQebJZfmxfV2W6egsu4qSNjDMXlqGkFtIsz1Monpkxx2A8EomNrgb8jimE6DVpSeH5aHCVFNdkrfjvTORgYXYl/s1600/IMG_0486.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjky3kp0ZH4kkDwrml8rgw8vKEduzpQM7AXhbBlIRrfx6r0mF1dE8vDtkdQebJZfmxfV2W6egsu4qSNjDMXlqGkFtIsz1Monpkxx2A8EomNrgb8jimE6DVpSeH5aHCVFNdkrfjvTORgYXYl/s320/IMG_0486.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAjZ2wIkTqyWGSBSJyII_buL36_FL2nHhXNSmeN44-5lJfDy_TQ0Poo81xSksBmDBz7NWLjLSPmXSeMcfPimeoriDy_YtCaDi8vNvOj5SCLBWoD4_wWr6BBIfSxgzfC6DTGTohwyVMX4RL/s1600/IMG_0488.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAjZ2wIkTqyWGSBSJyII_buL36_FL2nHhXNSmeN44-5lJfDy_TQ0Poo81xSksBmDBz7NWLjLSPmXSeMcfPimeoriDy_YtCaDi8vNvOj5SCLBWoD4_wWr6BBIfSxgzfC6DTGTohwyVMX4RL/s320/IMG_0488.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Catching up with my whanau (family), I ran to the beach toward the sand dunes. My son, who leapt for joy and offered the sea his dance of youth, was so happy. I was so happy. This world was ours to discover, cow pies and all.<br />
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Like the movies from my childhood, I try to embrace the challenges of adventure and risk-taking. It's about fighting the giant, which might seem impossible because of its size. But if I try with all my might I may just be able to conquer. In order to outsmart the narcissistic scientist whose poison can get the better of me, with enough training and experience, maybe I can become immune. If I take my time to calculate my way around the booby traps, I might recognise the patterns in order to find the treasure at the end. And no amount of shock treatment can keep me from the one (or what) I love if that love is true.<br />
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Returning to our car, I was again in awe that one narrow path led us through such different landscape to this magnificent beach. As someone who has taken a few different paths in her life, it's nice to know I've finally found the right one.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaWVKgE8bMmmSdj8g4zGJK3WPmjCgr4OeU0DJlk91CuA_ePxhxeapVXWD6WtIHQmSkBYceRpN-r0iFV3GfoNzXPAZ83WiwG0810Wy98ntdKZEMxC4PG-4NEwosrrq-njd2TG4JeZZmDjft/s1600/IMG_0492.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaWVKgE8bMmmSdj8g4zGJK3WPmjCgr4OeU0DJlk91CuA_ePxhxeapVXWD6WtIHQmSkBYceRpN-r0iFV3GfoNzXPAZ83WiwG0810Wy98ntdKZEMxC4PG-4NEwosrrq-njd2TG4JeZZmDjft/s320/IMG_0492.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs_ZeQTl1fTkkb3OikgCYIZh7gTTqO3ollEpvmZsy_R-16LpgyeNSWEK_MUmMpNp-dy2sXSEqbo0SWREYW1l31jlmHjKoqlWmT4Y39ISRVom75EMPoN8vT4rt_wd97L1nBQvtNwyMUYPWo/s1600/DSC_0224a.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="131" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs_ZeQTl1fTkkb3OikgCYIZh7gTTqO3ollEpvmZsy_R-16LpgyeNSWEK_MUmMpNp-dy2sXSEqbo0SWREYW1l31jlmHjKoqlWmT4Y39ISRVom75EMPoN8vT4rt_wd97L1nBQvtNwyMUYPWo/s320/DSC_0224a.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The seal is not Joe Wellington. Sorry.<br />
Photo by Steve Waller</td></tr>
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Alas, I'm still searching for Joe Wellington. But I found <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/05/31/wharariki-beach_n_5396957.html" target="_blank">Wharariki Beach</a>, which HuffPost calls, "Heaven on Earth"!<br />
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To be continued...<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15725574969697616180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980530675493639288.post-83848956795673486582015-06-19T14:40:00.000+12:002015-06-19T15:06:12.326+12:00Searching the South Island: Rawhiti Cave <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN8tRSifVF2k3aFRVW6qWRXkTvz-AI5nsxXyMKFqB8tkQHKOsJzUQ7_8i5lBguC8bwY8YcaZ34PowGoyZWpc-MU7PQt1KBbWcFuP80wLf_Xrq1dIRkxOqWIqcALNdxdjpHkJVfJN-Vec9r/s1600/DSC_0153a.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN8tRSifVF2k3aFRVW6qWRXkTvz-AI5nsxXyMKFqB8tkQHKOsJzUQ7_8i5lBguC8bwY8YcaZ34PowGoyZWpc-MU7PQt1KBbWcFuP80wLf_Xrq1dIRkxOqWIqcALNdxdjpHkJVfJN-Vec9r/s320/DSC_0153a.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from our bach</td></tr>
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Previously, I wrote about my search for Joe Wellington on the <a href="http://www.whereisjoewellington.blogspot.co.nz/2015/04/searching-south-island-interislander.html" target="_blank">Interislander ferry</a> on my way to the South Island (he wasn't aboard). But maybe, just maybe, our paths would cross on a trek up to <a href="http://www.doc.govt.nz/parks-and-recreation/places-to-go/nelson-tasman/places/takaka-area/things-to-do/tracks/rawhiti-cave-track/" target="_blank">Rawhiti Cave</a>? While I'm searching for my long-lost Kiwi friend (easy to forget this is a TRUE STORY), I'm discovering some wonderful places and the <a href="http://www.lonelyplanet.com/new-zealand/marlborough-and-nelson/takaka/sights/natural-landmarks/rawhiti-cave" target="_blank">Rawhiti Cave</a> is probably my favourite thus far.<br />
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If you don't remember, my parents were visiting over the Christmas holiday. The five of us traveled to Golden Bay. Our bach had epic views of the Tasman Sea, only a few feet from our doorstep. We enjoyed daily and nightly walks over the rocks when tide was out with white/golden sand that stretched for miles. Seashells washed ashore kept us on our tip toes as we combed the beach for the perfect one.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3ltzuJUoTpgqGDXMOG7JMrVfuz4tVNw5z6GO5Psfs_mcoXgh9uqUX7Xrc_n2aUqhoQtBns8fLJKa3HmFC_voZs2g5vtKpjHtu-rdWCOl4AXhg_Ms2y5JDWw77DdqlO64dUasiPAVTecXg/s1600/photo+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3ltzuJUoTpgqGDXMOG7JMrVfuz4tVNw5z6GO5Psfs_mcoXgh9uqUX7Xrc_n2aUqhoQtBns8fLJKa3HmFC_voZs2g5vtKpjHtu-rdWCOl4AXhg_Ms2y5JDWw77DdqlO64dUasiPAVTecXg/s320/photo+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Endless sea shells</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicYU4Brp3ZumnPNPqU60ihlLh0RvCWLw6u9v3AYO1618vxb7IxuWQ0ZEj5S3_I2FF6cINEbiyN_jVRoz1UIK9hvYeOcuh1JwGNNgfpfGSYDLyEtuQVnJt0i4l_V-vqRW6MW-9JSlbStGwb/s1600/photo+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicYU4Brp3ZumnPNPqU60ihlLh0RvCWLw6u9v3AYO1618vxb7IxuWQ0ZEj5S3_I2FF6cINEbiyN_jVRoz1UIK9hvYeOcuh1JwGNNgfpfGSYDLyEtuQVnJt0i4l_V-vqRW6MW-9JSlbStGwb/s320/photo+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Low tide treasures</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxIy96JF6E5kNsEoZWIEzS8ZzbAcGvBoR558aNnvcl1Ud9jEaEvQZM3C2nklz2DY6kTJLKUoHdtzwGJxyfDBploasKQFRkLc_RPkVeRYvEZUoGOJ_nt7Xig1vKdLbpVVIbYJH0c6v87S4z/s1600/photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxIy96JF6E5kNsEoZWIEzS8ZzbAcGvBoR558aNnvcl1Ud9jEaEvQZM3C2nklz2DY6kTJLKUoHdtzwGJxyfDBploasKQFRkLc_RPkVeRYvEZUoGOJ_nt7Xig1vKdLbpVVIbYJH0c6v87S4z/s320/photo.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pretty close to perfect!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div>
The sand flies were obnoxious and their bites were not only itchy but painful. So when we'd finally had enough of the lazy beach-bum life (ok, we never got tired of that), we figured we should do some exploring. We plopped the kid into the back pack carrier and headed toward Rawhiti Cave. Locals said it would be an "easy" trek that school children visit as a field trip. If school kids can do it then so can we, aye? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
After driving a bit in circles to find the car park (a pasture), we were ready to set off. The bottom of the hike was fairly flat as we crossed the Dry River's boulders and snapped photos of the Nikau trees that cue the "Golden Girl's" TV show theme song in my head whenever I pass them.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A slight incline here and there, we managed to stick together quite well, with my husband and toddler leading the pack. We heard a lost sheep calling for its mates somewhere in the bush. I wanted to rescue it but decided to stick with my own herd. As the terrain began to get a bit more steep, a young couple was walking down. We stepped aside on the narrow path as best we could, and asked how high up it was to get to the cave.<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
"Aw, it's not too bad," the guy said. With no resemblance to Joe Wellington at all, I allowed him to pass. Encouraged by their not-so-sweaty state, we carried on.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJhp6XkRnP0AZAVyy5u9eQ7TnRKUp0TOZ8LOb0ofvI0-kcFeXsadj5bz9rvHUJSu6VKo956GRJIYcwseAdanWx73xQz_hLxSJC9cBJlUgZbs4LlIOsB2b8gzHcKKMFxzx0G41f3VXVyRhr/s1600/IMG_0551.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJhp6XkRnP0AZAVyy5u9eQ7TnRKUp0TOZ8LOb0ofvI0-kcFeXsadj5bz9rvHUJSu6VKo956GRJIYcwseAdanWx73xQz_hLxSJC9cBJlUgZbs4LlIOsB2b8gzHcKKMFxzx0G41f3VXVyRhr/s320/IMG_0551.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Dry River at beginning of trek</td></tr>
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</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
About a quarter of the way up, we navigated the trail that zigzagged as we climbed. We had to stop a few times to catch our breath- I don't know how my husband did it with our boy on his back! We snapped a few more photos as best we could, albeit a bit light headed from the altitude change. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My parents decided to return down the trail after steep jackknifing made all our stomachs wobble. It had rained earlier in the week so part of the trail was slick with mud. Fulfilled enough by the mountaintop views, they agreed to meet us back at the pasture after we found the cave. I wasn't happy to let them go alone down the muddy slide, but they insisted we finish out the hike.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAG2yUK0UuUq8XRMhHKwjSvcTXXojLyHm6pEAOz9d4YEYEbiVikv-ZGMr3BypYnsvSIPC7uQXfGU0z8hJ9_pevBQNYu1G-tBCrjN4gkAhwN28k6S3Y0ZVWVRa9Vv0nM9yfqUEsA4tZC2RX/s1600/IMG_0545.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAG2yUK0UuUq8XRMhHKwjSvcTXXojLyHm6pEAOz9d4YEYEbiVikv-ZGMr3BypYnsvSIPC7uQXfGU0z8hJ9_pevBQNYu1G-tBCrjN4gkAhwN28k6S3Y0ZVWVRa9Vv0nM9yfqUEsA4tZC2RX/s320/IMG_0545.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The part of the trail where we parted ways with the 'rents</td></tr>
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</div>
<div>
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<div>
My husband, son, and I pressed on, securing our footing with each steep bend. We stopped for a few hydrating breaks until all of a sudden, BAM. There appeared to be a dark hole in front of us, blocking the trail. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Jagged, rounded spikes greeted us at the opening of the massive cave. We stopped in our tracks, unsure of where we were to step next. There was only one option: enter the cave. The signs posted warned us not to linger at the opening of the cave for fear of falling rocks. My husband was desperate to get our 35 pound boy off his back, but this was no place for a toddler to toddle. Our son, still learning the difference between loud and soft, very loudly yelled, "Is that the cave?". We laughed as his little voice echoed around us. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
One at a time, my husband and I took turns walking the path toward a wooden platform that looked to be floating in mid air, surrounded by stalactite and the sound of dripping water. My legs wobbling as I held on to the edge of the deck, I stepped into the cold darkness and remembered to breathe.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqW16rxYQ1JqkkR29aGVA20qjTYpFjaks_9xg2WTSlaSWqkZpW2tmewNDCXDIeMfqUEX6X-k355hA6d3sGCuVmd60JqqrFSflvUP09IA85vE7YVQgZRHscpHMrYtpi0yoX3Hs15X3fNO99/s1600/IMG_0530.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqW16rxYQ1JqkkR29aGVA20qjTYpFjaks_9xg2WTSlaSWqkZpW2tmewNDCXDIeMfqUEX6X-k355hA6d3sGCuVmd60JqqrFSflvUP09IA85vE7YVQgZRHscpHMrYtpi0yoX3Hs15X3fNO99/s320/IMG_0530.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin_-0Lkd4FJrzT8UnigJRn3jfBzXGqDBLZMvPwq1xE0uslB7AXsd0E2ei4HmYGPh2bkcsH_sKJcXahgaCqzYnVPPTPYmO6GsFuMqSg9gnDzrqmV64kZ3c2SHA-Wck37WQtsgibZRr4FdS5/s1600/IMG_0521.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin_-0Lkd4FJrzT8UnigJRn3jfBzXGqDBLZMvPwq1xE0uslB7AXsd0E2ei4HmYGPh2bkcsH_sKJcXahgaCqzYnVPPTPYmO6GsFuMqSg9gnDzrqmV64kZ3c2SHA-Wck37WQtsgibZRr4FdS5/s320/IMG_0521.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Uh, guys? Where are you going?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1RJMWN4mZII_BWHdNYdjhTFj8NSPryptLwvqoprfCB_qJZ4uObMq7LHp3xI5JHubv3PvFJh_z2mxYG2kcXXf4raT5XFmrlBrrsp-DdRFy2miA-HEcLlNbj7RaxYpFFBqlibV_L9cy8gRD/s1600/IMG_0535.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1RJMWN4mZII_BWHdNYdjhTFj8NSPryptLwvqoprfCB_qJZ4uObMq7LHp3xI5JHubv3PvFJh_z2mxYG2kcXXf4raT5XFmrlBrrsp-DdRFy2miA-HEcLlNbj7RaxYpFFBqlibV_L9cy8gRD/s320/IMG_0535.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trying to fight the wobblies </td></tr>
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<div>
Surely if Joe Wellington wouldn't pop out of there, Gollum would?<br />
<br />
I couldn't stay on the platform for long, only long enough for a photo. Paralysed by the empty darkness surrounding me, I had to work hard to focus my thoughts and be really present in the moment. When would I ever be in the mouth of a cave again? Probably never. Especially never in one of the largest in New Zealand.<br />
<br />
When I stepped away, stalactite longer than the size of me, hung above. Dizzy, I sat to catch my breath and take in one of nature's finest creations. <i>I am so small.</i> <i>You are so much greater than I. Your magnificence is now a part of my very tiny story and I am whole again. Thank you.</i></div>
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<div>
In Maori, the word Rawhiti means "sunrise". This makes perfect sense. We knew the goal of the hike was to see the cave but we really had no idea where on the trail it would be, until right then- the massive opening showed itself like a "black hole sun" offering us the promise of a new day.<br />
<br />
I exhaled into the darkness of the cave that has probably heard many a visitor's breath. I sat at the edge of its expansive opening, ready for it to swallow my fears whole.<br />
<br />
Unable to keep our boy strapped into his carrier for much more, we steadied ourselves and left. Heading down the mountain was almost more of a challenge with the slick mud hindering the steps of our fatigued legs. We were thrilled to find my parents at the car basking in the sun with their feet up, waiting for us to tell them about it.<br />
<br />
Yet all I could think of to say was, "Aw, it's not too bad."<br />
<br />
Truth is, it took more than my breath away.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEige_LHv-wdXzu2Yio4Q73_6dV26wEXph-A05XMdtx-Zfaa_suge_utv2Px-A3ZQ7npBdqu6vjIgv6JtIviqsCNxPk9Z2gdlishVbDbSVLJAMDAxORuHJHst3H_D_6De9Q8Pt9RRnsI3u3_/s1600/IMG_0558.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEige_LHv-wdXzu2Yio4Q73_6dV26wEXph-A05XMdtx-Zfaa_suge_utv2Px-A3ZQ7npBdqu6vjIgv6JtIviqsCNxPk9Z2gdlishVbDbSVLJAMDAxORuHJHst3H_D_6De9Q8Pt9RRnsI3u3_/s320/IMG_0558.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Thank you for being a friend..."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And so, I'm still searching for Joe Wellington.<br />
<br />
To Be Continued...<br />
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<div>
<br />
<br />
p.s. For anyone who wants an even better visual of this magnificent cave, someone in the cyber-world actually took a <a href="https://youtu.be/koZVf0e5M3Y" target="_blank">video</a>!<br />
p.p.s. Thanks, Chris Cornell for the <a href="https://youtu.be/3mbBbFH9fAg" target="_blank">"black hole sun" </a> image/reference.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15725574969697616180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980530675493639288.post-91737073234087986722015-05-28T14:02:00.001+12:002015-05-28T14:24:06.958+12:00Possible (sort-of) Sighting No. 5 <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisL00knf2ibJ7O2bXdjatR_auyo0sOVeL1f4qXeypZpgcuzeaPuQb6nozdJAW6Hv8MYaJEPt7HdGQeb0aja10AwjKBMildG1SVNBbAEx6NGe6Ijm6d6tIu7TGe2gl2SsnXM1erAYOwbYMp/s1600/joew.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisL00knf2ibJ7O2bXdjatR_auyo0sOVeL1f4qXeypZpgcuzeaPuQb6nozdJAW6Hv8MYaJEPt7HdGQeb0aja10AwjKBMildG1SVNBbAEx6NGe6Ijm6d6tIu7TGe2gl2SsnXM1erAYOwbYMp/s320/joew.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The only photo of Joe Wellington (in red) San Francisco 1998</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">Well, this doesn't necessarily count as a sighting because I spotted him in my <i>dream.</i> </span><br />
<br style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;" />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">I was in my hometown in the Midwest. At first, I appeared as a little girl, visiting a favourite music store with my mom. I was wandering around the instruments on the floor, much like what I actually did as a little girl waiting for piano lessons.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">Like most dreams, it fast-forwarded to my current adult age. My husband appeared in that same music store and we were playing with different instruments. My hubs started playing jazz on the keyboard (not uncommon in real life) & another man in the store joined in on the guitar. Not sure what this specific part meant but I remember I loved hearing Hubs play.</span><br />
<br style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;" />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">At some point I wandered over to the next store- one of my favourite "has every record you could imagine" stores and recognised the owner. He said hi to me and remembered my name, something I was often impressed with in real life as a teenager. When I stopped to talk to him, he said something to me about Joe Wellington. </span></span><br />
<br style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;" />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">He knew Joe! He thought Joe and I took a class together at the store (no classes were ever offered at this store in real life). In my dream I remembered that we attended a workshop together (the only thing close to a 'class' we took together was a visit to a psychic in San Francisco, so here's where the dream becomes really, uh, well, dream-like). I asked the owner if he had an attendance record from the workshop and while he looked for it, I became really excited. Giddy. This was my chance to find him! The closest I've been yet to finding Joe Wellington! The roster could also confirm whether or not his surname is Wellington!</span></span><br />
<br style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;" />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">While waiting for the attendance sheet, like all dreams do, I was suddenly transported to the audience seating of a performing arts theatre. Folding chairs were set up on the stage in a half circle and a handful of people sat in them. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">Who was sitting in one? Joe! He looked just like he does in the photos I have of him, only with an extremely long hipster beard. </span></span><br />
<br style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;" />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">"That's him!" I yelled to no one in particular. "He's right there, why can't we find him?"</span><br />
<br style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;" />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">A news camera and reporter was brought in on the spot to cover the story about my search for the mysterious Joe. My husband appeared by my side and encouraged me to go on camera. He said that would be my best chance to find Joe. Meanwhile, the Joe I saw sitting on the stage was fading off into the distance, almost out of view now.</span><br />
<br style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;" />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">The idea to go on camera made me nervous and I was certain if I saw the roster for the workshop that I would find him that way. I scanned through the names on the attendance sheet and found someone with the name Joe, but not Wellington. I wasn't able to read what the last name was. Darn, so close.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">But I woke up still feeling hopeful. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">Stay tuned for more about my continued search on the South Island of New Zealand... </span><br />
<br style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;" />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15725574969697616180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980530675493639288.post-10870794090056534122015-05-21T13:41:00.002+12:002015-05-21T13:48:56.749+12:00A Divine Guest PostHello, Where's Joe Wellington Friends!<br />
<br />
Before we continue our search together for the mysterious (but real!) Joe, I'd like to share with you a guest post I wrote for a wonderful writer friend, Amy. Amy has this AWESOME blog called Divine in the Daily. She is an excellent writer and an outstanding, compassionate person. I've been impressed with Amy's talent for a couple years now. Not just because of her ability to capture all of life's experiences in written form, but because she DOES IT SO WELL.<br />
<br />
She puts her life out there- to share with all of us- to remind us all that we are going through this together, so let's share together. Amy's wide range of topics and series always make me think, and usually cry. Her ability to make sense of the chaos is refreshing and something I only wish I could do.<br />
<br />
I've learned a great deal from Amy's writing and the people she features. I feel blessed to be included in her "Special Mamas" series.<br />
<br />
Click here to read my story about mothering abroad: <a href="http://www.divineinthedaily.com/2015/05/20/adventures-in-uncertainty/" target="_blank">Adventures in Uncertainty</a> and to meet Amy, click <a href="http://www.divineinthedaily.com/meet-amy/" target="_blank">Divine in the Daily </a>.<br />
<br />
Thank you followers and stay tuned as the search for Joe continues...<br />
<br />
Cheers!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15725574969697616180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980530675493639288.post-56277187272705437252015-04-12T17:03:00.002+12:002015-04-12T23:30:28.313+12:00Searching The South Island: The Interislander<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-cfDemOBvKQJsJanxRwuxZjGmMZ37-x5S1cMW_acStQ40j9spWFTgZk3ZY8NtsFh987x2ckX5UKtRMMdQsmCX2dTf6ISRQEFY039y5FC6yG2SXCXOxDbK5O6tVW_9blSlliqsdr4CYdXH/s1600/DSC_0264a.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-cfDemOBvKQJsJanxRwuxZjGmMZ37-x5S1cMW_acStQ40j9spWFTgZk3ZY8NtsFh987x2ckX5UKtRMMdQsmCX2dTf6ISRQEFY039y5FC6yG2SXCXOxDbK5O6tVW_9blSlliqsdr4CYdXH/s1600/DSC_0264a.JPG" height="139" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Interislander ferry travels through the northern Marlborough Sound<br />
Photo by Steve Waller</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;">If you remember
from my last post in January, my lovely parents gave me one of the best Christmas
gifts ever (okay, aside from the jean jacket in third grade) by travelling to
NZ for a visit. Of course the goal was to see us for the holiday, but we were fortunate
to have time off to travel with them to the top of the South Island.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">Shortly after they
arrived, the six of us (four adults, one toddler, and our dog) were on our way
to a ten-day trip to Golden Bay. The South Island is a hop, skip, and a jump,
err ferry ride across the Cook Strait. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">Travelling by ship
is a common mode of transport. It runs multiple times a day, along with four
other ferries. It’s a much more relaxed way to travel and while it takes three
hours, the scenery is epic. My family boarded the <a href="https://www.interislander.co.nz/Our-Ships-And-Services/Kaitaki.aspx" target="_blank">Kaitaki </a>(Maori for
“challenger”) with 1600 other passengers, for the voyage from Wellington to
Picton. I’d only been on two ferries in my life, both small in comparison to
the size of this ship. I am not a cruise ship-type of person, so this was about all I could handle.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;">After waiting in
line to check in (much easier than at an airport),
there was a small hassle trying to find out where our dog was supposed to
board, but soon we were filing up the stairs to the 8</span><sup style="line-height: 150%;">th</sup><span style="line-height: 150%;"> floor. As we
scrambled to find comfortable seats together, it occurred to me that perhaps </span><i style="line-height: 150%;">this </i><span style="line-height: 150%;">is where I would find Joe
Wellington. Of course!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">Eventually we
found an open space where we could all sit together and spread out with large
windows displaying the massive sea before us. Sea? Schmee. I had work to do.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;">I scanned for Joe
Wellington while I toured the two cafes (a trim flat white, please!), briefly
popped into a movie-viewing lounge (is that Robert Downey Jr.?), scoured a
spacious lounge with couches (I love purple!), and glanced ever-so nonchalantly
around a play area for children (hey, where’d you get the balloon puppets?).</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">No sighting. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">Numerous people
braved the wild, chilled wind to find a perch on the upper deck to hear the
waves, spot dolphins or birds, and soak in the overall beauty of the New
Zealand shoreline. Surely, Joe Wellington could be one of them?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">As I made my way
up the shiny mahogany stairwell, the seasickness hit me. It’s been over a
decade since I’ve drunk to the point of having wobbly knees and a churning
stomach, mostly because I don’t like the feeling<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.</i> The instability of the ship in the Strait was no different. So, I
had to put my search on hold while this “drunken sailor” sensation passed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">Finally docked at
our destination, stomach settled, we grabbed our bags and stood in line to get
off the boat. Once again, I couldn’t help myself from doing a quick scan to see
if maybe Joe Wellington was among the thousand. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">He wasn’t. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">Now piling into a
rental car in Picton, we were on our way again toward the <a href="http://www.doc.govt.nz/parks-and-recreation/places-to-go/nelson-tasman/places/abel-tasman-national-park/" target="_blank">Abel Tasman NationalPark</a>. The winding roads led us up and up, with views of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pelorus_Sound" target="_blank">The Pelorus</a> and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Queen_Charlotte_Sound_(New_Zealand)" target="_blank">The Queen Charlotte Sound.</a>
Our cameras in hand, we snapped as quickly as we could, aware there was no
picture that could hold what our eyes could see.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 150%;">Breathtaking
colors and
views </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">hypnotised</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> us all the way up and over until finally we arrived in Nelson. The water in
Nelson was a color I don’t think I could ever even attempt to describe. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">We found a
restaurant along the sea so we could watch as a container ship made its way to
port, reminding us of when our things came into Wellington from the USA. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdH9BSkXhLT3KR5-wcMs7d4iwvpZlMTBr03Rn0EzUByBNEQmOWYxmE7vldoHBmJN70wtNpgPeF16wDsAh_jEFRli_qVK1Dd7g9jNQvyDrCCq0JEDur6Cm1zB1H3LYOLN77b6j1idcvTvop/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdH9BSkXhLT3KR5-wcMs7d4iwvpZlMTBr03Rn0EzUByBNEQmOWYxmE7vldoHBmJN70wtNpgPeF16wDsAh_jEFRli_qVK1Dd7g9jNQvyDrCCq0JEDur6Cm1zB1H3LYOLN77b6j1idcvTvop/s1600/photo.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nelson, New Zealand<br />
Photo by Lissa Carlino</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;">People who
strolled by on their bikes, scooters, or boats received a good once-over to see
if just maybe I would have a Joe Wellington sighting.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">I didn’t.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">But what I did see
was diverse landscape and a range of weather from cold rain to warm sunshine in just three hours. And, I never thought I would ever say I sailed the Cook Strait. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">I saw happy people, clearly living in the moment
and enjoying their- for at least the holiday- carefree life. I saw children eager to be active and families sharing a laugh, including my son with his grandparents. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">Euphoria came
over me as I glanced from my parents to the sea green, to my son, to my
husband, and then to the sea again. This was a feeling I did like. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">Yes, I was drunk
on joy. And I stood secure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">Joe Wellington may
not have been on the Interislander ship or in Nelson, but searching with my eyes open leads me to discover something that is much more inspirational than I ever imagined. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigjsrBwCxQk-4ijCZvxd64towv80bTRxGLIyBLf7O9cOy3RWfQQ90s5ee19XrUoMCHFkCJ0tTkSZAJVwZ0f6hXKTvYzzy97KcyfU-G-6l-d02mwP4TMgb0IjLoRNuwIj9y0-_Te8W3JsGM/s1600/photo+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigjsrBwCxQk-4ijCZvxd64towv80bTRxGLIyBLf7O9cOy3RWfQQ90s5ee19XrUoMCHFkCJ0tTkSZAJVwZ0f6hXKTvYzzy97KcyfU-G-6l-d02mwP4TMgb0IjLoRNuwIj9y0-_Te8W3JsGM/s1600/photo+3.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clearly drunk on joy in New Zealand<br />
photo by Steve Waller<br />
<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div>
That <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Cook" target="_blank">Captain Cook</a> was onto something. </div>
<div>
Stay tuned to hear about my search for Joe Wellington in Golden Bay...</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15725574969697616180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980530675493639288.post-10279352178648979532015-01-14T14:13:00.000+13:002015-01-14T14:13:32.615+13:00Possible Sighting #4: Wellington International Airport<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 150%;">Saying goodbye to
loved ones who live halfway around the world from you is not easy. In fact,
it’s incredibly painful. On one hand, you’re full from the memories you created
and the love you shared, but on the other hand you’re eager to get back into
your own routine again. But when you don’t know when you’ll see those people
again, and when it takes about 24 hours to get to them via one long 11-hour
flight, the grief can almost be too much to bear. And it can make a person feel just how far away they actually are and that sucks. The </span><span style="line-height: 24px;">loneliness sucks. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 24px;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">I found myself
feeling all of that and more yesterday, as my parents left for America after a
five-week visit. I’m still struggling a bit today, but only because there’s no
one here to help me do the dishes (they were so fast at doing those dishes!).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">But the time had come to an end so we loaded up
the car with their bags and were on our way. Trust me, I drove as slowly as I
could tempting them with “one last toe dip in the ocean?” or “just a quick
touch of the golden sand?” but they were satisfied.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm1tRIj7GFbJni8vw5rs-bkKoA2giDJwQQz7j_dIqrmd8iTwd81ChXrIz-5YUxgjPa_eFcw9NK0FvHH7AUFVjFYtj8nOE71I71p7YJJkiOBFtaLQYVZUMeQtgLJ6B5kjYq-liFDW1U79hx/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm1tRIj7GFbJni8vw5rs-bkKoA2giDJwQQz7j_dIqrmd8iTwd81ChXrIz-5YUxgjPa_eFcw9NK0FvHH7AUFVjFYtj8nOE71I71p7YJJkiOBFtaLQYVZUMeQtgLJ6B5kjYq-liFDW1U79hx/s1600/photo.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hello, Smaug </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">My son loves the
<a href="https://www.wellingtonairport.co.nz/" target="_blank">airport</a> with the ginormous eagles, Gollum, and Smaug sculptures provided by <a href="http://wetaworkshop.com/" target="_blank">Weta workshop</a>. Walking to their gate, my boy was racing ahead of us shouting excitedly at
everything in his path, and I was dragging my feet as I felt the tears wet my
eyes. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">Not wanting to linger with the goodbye too much, we hugged; knowing
everything we wanted to say to one another had been said at the house.</span><span style="line-height: 150%;">We watched them go
through security easily, with no line, all very laid back with smiles mirroring the
joy that was gained from the visit.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">A very active
toddler, my boy was wiggling about in my arms and is much too big for me to
carry around. But in order to keep him from hopping on the plane with them, I chose to hold him. He wiggled and spoke in his soft, chipmunk voice, “goodbye
grandma and grandpa”, waved one last time and we began to walk away from gate
eleven. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">With heaviness in
my heart at the thought of missing them and the physical heaviness in my arms
with this big boy, I stepped off to the side of the hall to compose myself. I set
him on a chair behind glass that separated us from the departure lounge but still allows you to see the parked planes. As he rattled off the letters written on the
side of the airplane, I spotted a man sitting a few seats over, in the same
area as us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">It was Joe. I was
sure of it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">Reddish-blond
hair, goatee, pale skin, deep-set eyes, glasses… </span><span style="line-height: 150%;">Could it be that
I’ve found Joe Wellington at the airport?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">Trying to keep one
eye on my boy and one on the possible-Joe, my parents then came around the
other side of the glass from their departure lounge and gave us one last wave
with air kisses. A lovely gesture, I waved to them again, but glanced back at
possible-Joe. It <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">had</i> to be him. I
looked back at my parents, still waving and still blowing kisses. Preoccupied, I could not stop silently rehearsing what to say to this possible-Joe. Back
and forth, I looked to my parents, then to my boy, then to possible-Joe. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">I <i>had</i> to ask if he
was my old friend. I couldn’t let the opportunity
pass me by. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">I envisioned what
I would do if it turned out to be him: I would probably yell at my
parents and pound on the glass, “I found him! It’s him! It’s Joe Wellington!” and
maybe I’d get a chance to ask if his surname is really ‘Wellington’ before
security would haul me away. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">We waved our final
goodbye to my parents as I scooped my heavy boy into my arms. My eyes were completely
dry at this point as I was focused on one thing only: I may have possibly found Joe Wellington.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">Shifting my son’s
weight to my left hip so I could speak with possible-Joe (apparently I think more clearly from my right hip?), I leaned toward him slightly as we were
about to turn the corner... </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">“Excuse me, does your name happen to be
Joe?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;">Softly but with eye contact, he
replied, “No.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">“Ok then, thank
you. You looked familiar.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">“No worries,” he
said unaffected. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">My boy and I slipped around the corner and walked slowly back to our car, the reality of why we were at the airport in the first place hitting us hard again. Our vacation time with grandma
and grandpa had come to an end. Driving away, I thought about my friend Joe
Wellington, out there somewhere, and how funny it would have been had that
possible-Joe been actual-Joe at a time like this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">As we watched
grandma and grandpa’s plane take off from a nearby park, the tears returned to
my eyes. I laughed at how distracted I was at the airport, how overwhelmed with
emotion I had been earlier in the day but how not one tear fell from my eye at
the gate. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">So my search for
Joe Wellington continues. </span><span style="line-height: 150%;">And in the
meantime, thanks for distracting me enough that the goodbye wasn’t as sad as it
could have been. I managed to hold off crying until getting to the car.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">Maybe I’m not
supposed to find Joe Wellington right now… but maybe I’m just supposed to keep
looking.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15725574969697616180noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-980530675493639288.post-6265783171029661832014-12-29T22:22:00.001+13:002014-12-29T22:22:44.767+13:00Wellington After Dark<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> Happy Holidays, Joe Wellington followers!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> There has been a lot of discussion
about Joe Wellington the past few weeks as 2014 comes to a close. With the holidays here, I’ve been
traveling and enjoying time with friends and family. My wee family of three
feels very blessed that my parents have travelled from America to visit and tour
part of this gorgeous country we call home. And <i>really</i>, it also means we have
live-in babysitters!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A few weeks ago, my husband and I
were able to have a date night (rarely do we get to go out in the dark!) and venture out for a night in downtown
Wellington. It’s been a long time since I’ve really allowed myself to enjoy the
nightlife- I got most of that out of my system when I was in my early twenties-
but in the past eight years I’ve spent much of my time focused on education,
career, and then starting a family. So when the opportunity to go out without a
little toddler hopping along was presented to me, we didn’t hesitate. We
didn’t really know what to do or where to go and while my husband was eager to
socialize, I saw this as an opportunity to search for Joe Wellington. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>First stop to help ease us back into
date-mode: Husband's office Christmas party. I was excited to attend the
festivities because his company switched offices and I’d heard nothing but good
things about the move. I also just plain like the people I’ve met there. Not
only does my husband work his dream job, but he’s met some kick-ass people. One co-worker who he's always spoken highly of was willing to show us a couple of the
nightspots we’d wanted to try. Unfortunately, Joe Wellington was not at the
party so we had to continue on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Second stop: My husband’s co-worker
and his partner met us at the <a href="http://thelibrary.co.nz/" target="_blank">Library Lounge and Bar.</a> It was packed with
wall-to-wall people and BOOKS. If given the choice, we could have picked a spot on a couch or table and still be encircled floor to ceiling by any book genre to match your mood- nonfiction,
romance, and mystery, literary or even travel guides. As an aspiring author,
this is my idea of the ultimate relaxation spot. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitXUPTd3Ibh5Kvkc_Kv0W1iHUY8ZVnYC_W-lEkDpD3C3KcrHyWJgd7gslz4wp1DlAonT76QmPUH_Pnd2W1RbTVTMWOfFgh65tMn31uwJai3gM750LrcLu07ih05GivdP_4-Btakj98PuuQ/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitXUPTd3Ibh5Kvkc_Kv0W1iHUY8ZVnYC_W-lEkDpD3C3KcrHyWJgd7gslz4wp1DlAonT76QmPUH_Pnd2W1RbTVTMWOfFgh65tMn31uwJai3gM750LrcLu07ih05GivdP_4-Btakj98PuuQ/s1600/photo.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just one of the many books surrounding me that caught my eye at The Library Lounge</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">We were placed on a waitlist for a booth but there was no wait in
getting a drink at the bar. We chatted and listened to the piano lounge singer while
sipping our super sweet-tasting Christmas cocktails. Still, even with all the
literature surrounding me I managed to scan the room for Joe Wellington. Hopeful he was hiding between a pile of books, I am sad to say I didn't find him among the pages. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Third and final stop: <a href="http://www.hawthornlounge.co.nz/" target="_blank">Hawthorn Lounge</a>. We accompanied our friends through a plain doorway and up a narrow flight of
stairs that offered no sign to inform us of our whereabouts. Stepping into a
crowded and bustling room with a bar, I felt like I was transported back to a
1920s speakeasy. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bartenders wore shiny
silver vests with bowties and rapidly but meticulously mixed their signature
drinks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was here that I told our friends about Joe Wellington and led them to this blog and my Twitter page
(@EWallerCarlino). A creative artist herself, my friend was instantly enthusiastic
about the search and vowed perseverance in finding him. She tweeted some photos
I had on Twitter that got a bit of recognition but no leads. It’s those extra
pair of eyes (and tweets) that will help find my long-lost friend. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"> Most people offer
encouragement, stating that New Zealand is a small country so finding him
shouldn’t be too difficult. Yet, here I am a year later still searching. </span><span style="line-height: 150%;">One Twitter follower commented on a
tweet, suggesting that perhaps Joe Wellington doesn’t want to be found. While
that very well could be true, all though definitely not the outcome I want to
accept, I feel like I must keep trying.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Some say his last name must not be
Wellington. Truth is, since I have no documentation (weird for someone who has
heaps of journals) of him, I admit that is definitely and most likely accurate.
So now what?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="line-height: 150%;"> With bright Christmas lights lining the dark streets, l</span><span style="line-height: 24px;">aughter</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> and chatter of the holiday season stimulating me as my beloved and I sauntered down Courtney Place, I am reminded amidst the commotion of why I continue this journey.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> Joe wasn't any place I went to on our date night, but e</span>very store I've entered this holiday
season, every stroll around town, every crowded farmer’s market or restaurant
I frequent, my eyes remain open to whatever is to be found.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> The gems I find along the way, the positive outlook in all of this,</span> is that I’ve new
friends who are eager about this search too, and willing to spread the word about it… and
maybe (I hope!) even add a blog post of their own findings while searching for Joe to this site (contact me if you're interested!).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>While it’s easy to feel defeated
once again, I continue to keep my eyes peeled for Joe Wellington because I never know what I might uncover, who I might meet, and what experiences might enrich my life while looking
for my long-lost Kiwi friend. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> So... w</span>hat can Joe Wellington do for you?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"> Happy New Year, Friends. I wish for you a lifetime of searching, never taming the curiosity and wonderment of the day. I wish for you a year of discovery, of meeting new people who believe in your vision, and to honouring your passions. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"> As for me? I will continue to look for Joe and honour the joy discovered along the way.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Stay tuned into the New Year as my
search for Joe Wellington continues with a tour to the South
Island of New Zealand!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15725574969697616180noreply@blogger.com