Ti-Point

This past week Brandon celebrated his 25th birthday. The night before, I spent four hours making him my (mom’s) world famous cinnamon buns. When he thanked me the next morning, I murmured you’re welcome in between dreams. Between the two of us, 14 cinnamon buns disappeared in less than sixteen hours.
That night, we headed out to Valentine’s, a buffet-chain restaurant. Not our usual type of place, but it caught Brandon’s frugal eye the first day we arrived in Aotearoa. “Free on your birthday.” However, when we got close enough to read the fine print (must be accompanied by three full-paying customers), we had to turn back. To be honest, I wasn’t too disappointed. The fluorescent lighting, vinyl seats and two whole customers didn’t inspire much confidence in the fare. So, we settled for a bowl of fresh seafood—blue-lipped mussels, jumbo prawns (eyeballs and whiskers attached), fish, and calamari—atop a bed of spaghetti noodles, swimming in a tomato and white wine sauce. Café Latté is an Italian restaurant a few blocks away that we first visited on Valentine’s Day.
Brandon enjoyed the meal and a few birthday cards from family, but today was to be the real treat.
Ti-point. Fifty-nine climbing routes. Ocean views. It would’ve been our first rock-climbing expedition since moving to New Zealand five months ago. This started to go wrong as soon as we got out of the car in the parking lot and realized I had left my hiking shoes at the front door. I would have to tramp in my flip-flops. Don’t get me wrong, I love my flip-flops. In Canada, I could be found wearing them in the dead of winter. But the trail we had to follow was a muddy one and on more than one occasion I found myself flailing about trying to keep my balance with my heavy pack and frozen toes inhibiting my progress. Yet, I pressed on and repeated my mantra: Brandon’s birthday, Brandon’s birthday, Brandon’s birthday… After all, it was quite beautiful with the sun shining on the East-coast waves as they lapped the rocky shoreline below us.
After about half an hour of tramping, we came to a sign which read, “Congratulations, you’re at the end” but it wasn’t the end for us. We descended off the trail, carefully crossing a field of boulders in search of the cliffs. I was skeptical, not sure why the guidebook hadn’t mentioned scrambling as part of the journey, and didn’t appreciate the way my flip-flops were slipping on the semi-dry barnacles that covered the rocks. But Brandon was sure he could see cliffs around the corner, so we—no, I—continued cautiously.
Eventually, we found ourselves in an area close to water level, and that’s where it happened. I had a prairie-girl panic-attack. Standing there, surrounded by cold hard stone and the thunderous crash of incoming tide, I imagined a spray of icy ocean wiping me clean off the rock then pounding me again and again against the underside of a boulder until all that remained was a single flip-flop floating amid the flotsam and jetsam of the waves. Transfixed and petrified by my vision, I couldn’t move. In mid-step, my calf began quivering, my heart raced, and I couldn’t help but cry. Just a little.
Brandon, sensing my distress, backtracked and offered his hand and we pushed on. After scrambling across more rock and sensing the rising tide, we eventually had to turn back as the route Brandon was hoping to climb was “nearest the sea” according to the guidebook and we really didn’t want to drown. Brandon was disappointed, but vowed to return once we’d acquired a proper tidal schedule. I was relieved, and eager to head out.
From there, the day seemed to get a lot better. On our way home we passed a fruit stand. It wasn’t your average fruit stand – there was fruit, but there were no people. Mandarins: 2.5 kilos for five dollars. And an honesty box. I love that we live in a country where you can buy spray-free mandarins from an un-manned stall where you put your money in a pad-locked wooden box. And they’re delicious.
We then enjoyed potato wedges, pizza, and a hot-fudge brownie at a café in Onewa. Now I’m making homemade bagels and Brandon’s doing homework. Just another average weekend in New Zealand.