Manuel had his first mini breakdown yesterday. LauraLe and I were on our way to a beach outside of Raglan to catch the second day of a surfing competition when the car started to make a horrific noise. A nut flew off one of my rear wheels, and the resulting wobbling was not only incredibly loud, it very nearly sent us careening off the side of a spectacularly beautiful emerald green cliff. It’s a good thing I’m such a timid driver because my snail’s pace probably saved us from catastrophe. So instead of perishing in a fiery ball, we were assisted by a lovely German surfer who found and returned the offending nut, and a lovely Kiwi from AA (that’s AAA to the Americans—not Alcoholics Anonymous) who came and fixed Manuel up like a champ.
So, Raglan. I guess it’s kind of cool, but incessant rain just puts a damper on everything. We did meet two hilarious ladies from Auckland who convinced us to go watch this Argentinean band play at a place called the Yot Club (Yot Club? Kiwis are terrible spellers). Anyway, I’m not sure if it’s a cultural thing or a surfer thing, but peeps in Raglan can dance. They were very intimidating. I can’t put my finger on exactly when or where I lost it, but at some point I—much like Stella—would like to get my groove back. I may need to return to Raglan to do it.
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