Auck-land, BABY
In late May 2025, I had the opportunity to visit New Zealand for the first time. My flight into Auckland landed just as night fell. I had rented a car so I could visit Vivian Falls the next day — which meant driving on the left side of the road. At night. In the rain. In a brand-new city. By myself.
To psych myself up, I sang a made-up anthem:
“You’re a bad bitch, you’re a bad bitch, who’s driving on the left? You’re driving on the left! Left side! Left side! Driving on the LEFT SIDE!”
Did I mention I was recently diagnosed with mild cataracts? In both eyes?
So when I finally pulled into the parking stall — after inadvertently causing a minor traffic jam in downtown Auckland (deepest apologies, Auckland fam) — I celebrated like I’d just won the Super Bowl.
And friends… hadn’t I?
No one was harmed. No property was damaged. And I had friggin’ driven — at night, in the rain, on the left side of the road, with cataracts (mild), at 49, in a major metropolitan city.
Cue applause.
Also: mental note that hiring a driver next time is probably the move.
That night, I met up with a friend for dinner at a spot called The Nightcar. It’s described online as a hidden gem, but we’d describe it more as walking into an underground Twin Peaks meets Chinatown, with an upscale speakeasy vibe.
The food? Top-tier.
The experience? A perfect tone-setter for a weird, wonderful, and unforgettable week in Auckland.
“Oh, You’re One of Those”
The next day, we hit the road (safely and in daylight, thank you very much) toward Vivian Falls. With poor signage and overconfident American optimism, we mistakenly drove into someone’s driveway, then hiked for more than an hour — past the sound of the falls — before finally encountering a local.
We asked where we could actually view the now-distant falls. Her response?
“Oh. You’re one of those.”
Excuse me, ma’am? One of what, now?
Turns out, we’d walked right past a gate we were supposed to open and walk through. But as two farm girls from Oklahoma, we explained that opening gates in a rural area — without permission — is a capital offense. We've chased enough rogue cows in our day to know better.
Bless her kind heart, she walked us back to the falls herself, gently evangelizing along the way and encouraging us to visit a seaside stained-glass installation featuring Jesus walking on water. (You can Google it — it looks stunning. Sadly, we missed it.)
She was an absolute delight, and for the rest of the trip, we proudly introduced ourselves to everyone we met as those people. Because, well… we are.
The Gates of Hell
Next up: the Gates of Hell.
We learned that the white settler who “discovered” the mud pits — long after the Māori had known and revered them — was an atheist who liked to tease his religious friends by claiming he’d found hell itself.
And honestly? It tracks.
The sulfuric stench, the boiling pools (hot enough to allegedly dissolve a horse), and the endless plumes of steam do paint a certain picture. But the truth is, the area is sacred.
Beautiful. Healing.
The Māori came here after battle — to cleanse the blood and pain of war, to meditate, to heal, to leave behind their own versions of hell.
Despite my natural inclination to avoid talking to other people at all costs, we somehow made friends with two fellow visitors. They told us about their work with adaptive equipment and a tinsel tree museum in their hometown (which, yes, is now on my must-see list).
Meanwhile, I was letting a local mud mask work its magic on my skin — baby-soft in minutes. Just don’t put it on your forehead, or it might wash into your eyes and cause temporary blindness.
You know… just a little beauty hazard.
Final Tally:
So, in my first 24 hours in New Zealand, I have:
✅ Driven on the wrong (but legally correct) side of the road, at night, in the rain, with cataracts
✅ Dined at a Twin Peaks–meets–Chinatown speakeasy at midnight
✅ Been labeled “one of those” (accurate)
✅ Avoided blindness in a volcanic spa
✅ Talked to strangers. On purpose.
All in all: a very successful first day.
Let’s go, Auckland.
The Momente
My little queer fashion wink for the day was a playful nod to camp: my Bugs Bunny-as-Brunhilda Overlord trucker hat. I’ve been obsessed with the gold-and-purple color combo ever since visiting the lady’s chambers at the Biltmore Estate in Asheville, NC. And honestly—who doesn’t love Bugs Bunny in drag?
