The wine bubbled on his tongue, aerating to reveal black fruit, dark chocolate, and a hint of tomato vine.
Camille knew wine, having spent two years prior to this one in France, studying to be an Oenologist - a scientist of wine. He was now at the tail end of a one-year sojourn in New Zealand spent woofing at a vineyard on the South Island. I first met Camille while suiting up for a kayak trip around Tasman Bay, his quiet determination to walk a 6 hour track in this popular national park enhanced by the flimsy yellow backpack strings pinned decidedly to his shoulders.
We met again at trails end, his gaze following applications of lotion and light makeup after a hot shower returned sensation to my kayak-weary limbs. Camille looked much the same as our morning meeting, unfazed by a day of winter tramping, his quiet demeanor seemed at odds with his age. He couldn’t have been more than 25, but he had the air of one much wiser.
Within a 5-minute warning from the driver for our return to Nelson, I piled my bags in the van and stumbled into the first available seat. Camille arrived last, inviting his pretty tramping partner to choose her perch, he took the last, sitting beside me. At first I was a bit self-conscious, my wet hair still wrapped in a turquoise pack towel, but when the van warmed up, I let my hair down and conversation flowed more easily. We spoke of hostels and NZ travels, comparing notes with others in the van. My bare-bones YHA hostelling experience paling in comparison to various BBH hostels described by many, including the gold status given to The Paradiso in Nelson for it’s sauna, hot tub, tasty breakfasts and, most notably, chocolate pudding for dessert. And as it turns out, Camille was spending another night at The Paradiso, while I was booked at the more central, and austere YHA Nelson. By the end of the 1-hour drive we spoke long enough to cement a bond and I was saddened to part with my new friends from The Paradiso.
Arriving in Nelson after dark, I quickly realized that there was little to do on this winter’s night when all but the most enterprising restaurants had closed their doors at 5pm. As I walked the silent streets scouting for food and the bus depot, a colorful van whipped past and dropped a dark-haired man off at a nearby bank. On closer inspection, the side of the van was tagged in bubble letters spelling out P-a-r-a-d-i-s-o. Could this be Camille? I couldn’t tell for sure in this half light, but the person who stood by the ATM hurriedly grabbing cash had an uncanny resemblance to my French bus mate. I quickly crossed the street to avoid an awkward encounter, and thought nothing more of it.
Half a day later, as I sat on the top deck of the Inter-islander Ferry on my return to the North Island, a dark-haired man in a red parka appeared and did a quick double-take as he made his way to the deck’s rail. A long gaze confirmed Camille’s presence, not surprising considering that he had told me of his plans to head north. Recognizing me, he changed course and sat down right beside me in spite of the many open seats nearby. After a polite greeting, he proceeded to tell me of the morning’s hitchhiking adventure that brought him to the ferry in record time (he left Nelson that morning at least an hour later than I had). He seemed both pleased and amazed at his luck at finding a ride that took him the entire distance. I don’t remember much more of our conversation during the 4-hour ferry ride except for the fact that he would be flying out of Auckland to France the day before I was due to leave for the States. That, and he told me he was planning a wine tour of Waiheke Island with a friend. I desperately wanted to ask if I could tag along, but soon realized that I would be travelling to Auckland from a short farm stay in Bulls on the day that he planned to go.
As the ferry turned toward Wellington Harbor, Camille left the deck with his belongings, muttering something about strong winds. After a lame attempt to find him in the cabins below, I returned to the top deck assuming that I wouldn’t see him again. When travelling alone, eventually one gets used to brief encounters with strangers that lack clear endings. This is how I thought it would be with Camille, yet there he was, easily recognizable in his red parka, standing by the baggage claim belt. We chatted for a few minutes, and then got separated when loading onto the shuttle bus. Eventually, Camille walked past the empty seat beside me without a word. A man close to my age sat beside me and we immediately struck up a conversation about things to do and see in Wellington. I saw Camille again briefly, passing him on the bus platform, his profile hinting at a sadness that I could not be sure of. Knowing that we would be parting within minutes anyway, I thought it best not to disturb him. Only in retrospect did I realize that it is far better to endure the awkwardness of a goodbye than to part indifferently, as if we had never met.
Once again, I felt a bit annoyed with myself for failing to ask if I might join him on his trip to Waiheke, yet half-hoping that I might find him again in Auckland. In spite of the distractions of cosmopolitan Wellington and two days on a farm in Bulls, the cadence of his words echoed in my head for days. His French-infused English allied with our shared love of wine and stunning landscapes viewed from high vantage points had left its mark on my psyche. So it was with a great deal of amazement that I spotted a black-haired man with a familiar playful lope just across the street from the Auckland International Hostel as I arrived on Saturday night. This time, my double take was met with Camille’s bright smile and a cheerful greeting. I immediately asked how his trip to Waiheke went and he replied that he was planning to go the next day, asking if I would like to join him. My over-enthusiastic reply gave away a bit too much, but he didn’t seem to notice. He said that we could go over details in the common area of the hostel once I had settled in.
Minutes turned to at least an hour when I was delayed by laundry, conversations with new roommates and who knows what else. When I finally made it to the common area, I found Camille engrossed in a game of beer pong. Needless to say, we failed to discuss plans that night. The next morning just as I was heading upstairs to pack for a day of yet undecided adventure (having given up on the Waiheke trip), I ran into Camille. “We’ll need to leave by 9:15.” He spoke casually, as if he expected to meet me at the last minute. I went along with it even though it would only give me 15 minutes to finish breakfast and get ready. I left him to eat his ginger cookies and tea while I hurriedly cleaned up my dishes.
While Waiheke Island offers many pricey options for wine tourists, Camille and I opted for the more independent (read: less costly) version - biking. We picked up our bikes from a tiny shack 50 yards from the ferry terminal, and after a quick test of brakes we were on our way. If you ever plan to go, you should know that New Zealand it is FULL of hills. When I think hills, I envision the slow, rolling kind. It’s not like that here. New Zealand is more like San Francisco on steroids. Everywhere. None of the locals bother to mention this to unsuspecting tourists because, well, they’re used to the rigors of hill climbing, but for a flatlander like me, it was a constant surprise. The first climb nearly did me in, but I made it to the top without having to endure the indignity of dismounting. And the view was very much worth the climb: downy white clouds stretching on for miles across clear blue skies, emerald hills spilling down to azure blue inlets, adjacent hillsides sprinkled with simple cottages and modernist mansions, miles from an already otherworldly somewhere.
We landed at our first vineyard. Its name emblazoned garishly over top of a panoramic window revealing the picturesque harbor below. My heart sank with the ostentatiousness of the place, but I was out of breath and in need of a break, so we stepped into the sleek, whitewashed interior. Our sweaty sneakers stood in sharp contrast to the well-heeled clientele of the adjacent restaurant. One whiff of this rarified commercial air and we left in search of a more authentic vine. A half-mile more downhill and we found just the place: we rang the bell in the tiny tasting room and the vintner emerged from the vines, pruners in hand, with a heart-on-sleeve gruffness that signaled authenticity. While he and Camille spoke of terroir and the delicacies of Italian single varietals, I languished in the voluptuous red, which he described as tasting like Sophia Loren in Desire Under the Elms. This was one of those wines that you remember for years to come – from that first moment when the bright fruit first hits your tongue, rolls around inside the cavern of your mouth to the final luxurious moment when it languishes on the couch of your tongue just before departing down the gully. I nearly purchased a case, and then remembered that we were cycling and one extra milliliter on the next Waiheke hill would send me tumbling down to sea.
If there’s one more thing that you need to know about New Zealand before you go, it’s that the weather is HIGHLY variable. The day can shift from clear, sunny skies to torrential downpour in minutes, with little warning. On a small island like Waiheke, the likelihood of experiencing such extremes is even greater. I had visited once before, so I came prepared with many layers, including head to toe raingear. Camille’s flimsy red parka took a beating that day, but I hugged him even so. On return to Auckland, we waved goodbye and this time it felt right and good to bid a fond adieu.
I tell this tale, in part, because of the un-canniness of my encounters with Camille. It is not so uncommon to run into the same people throughout a common course of travel in New Zealand. There are only so many roads, and in winter, not as many places to eat or sleep in low touristed areas. I ran into several other people who I recognized periodically from place to place, thinking little of it. My encounters with Camille were exceptional because of their timing. Each time, just as I was about to leave, or in at least one case, upon arrival, Camille would be there, present and happy to see me. Perhaps I’m reading too much into these encounters, or being too mystical about it all, but this is not the first experience that I’ve had with repeated crossings, and usually there is an obvious exchange that takes place to confirm the reason for our meetings.
That said I’m still not sure why we met so often by chance. With Camille I felt a fondness, a sense of closeness, and a lightness of being that only comes to the surface for me when I’m most relaxed and happy – unusual for me with new acquaintances. If nothing else, he was a reminder of a way of being that requires nothing but the time and space to breathe into each moment and settle in. I will miss Camille, and in the missing I will remember him with gratitude for the moments made magic by our time together.
