My aunt loves hot air balloons. I remember being young, in her room and absolutely captivated by hot air balloon art and photos of huge balloons floating at sunrise. Last spring, my father-in-law took a hot air balloon ride over the Dutch tulip fields. Seeing the bright nylon balloons delicately gliding over colorful fields was something I wanted to copy. When I was planning our trip, a hot air balloon experience popped up as something to do in Melbourne. I reserved the trip as a surprise for Eric.

The alarm buzzed way too early. We needed to be in downtown Melbourne by 5:15 AM— and Leigh suggested we leave by 4:45 AM. You know those nights when you feel like you just closed your eyes for a second then the alarm goes off and its so early you feel like you must still be dreaming?

This morning was like that. Brutal.

A year before we got married, I joined Eric’s family on an active vacation — I affectionately called “Camp Wagner.” It was a white water rafting trip down the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon. For three days, we floated (sometimes over white water rapids), hiked waterfalls, “showered” in the river and camped under the stars at the bottom of the canyon. The silty earth was so soft — it felt like we were walking on baby powder. It was as exhilarating as it was exhausting. A stark contrast to the few vacations my family took growing up — which were centered around the beach and pool. Excitement was the flavor frozen drinks. In other words, we were diametrically opposed on the definition of a vacation.

In our last several trips, I’ve leaned in hard to the “Camp Wagner” vibe and have been guilty of ambitious planning. During the pandemic, we drove across America in an RV during the pandemic to see the Grand Canyon (and several other) national parks, explored every inch of Iceland, took an Empty Nest trip — spending two weeks driving across Ireland and Scotland. Now, we were in Oceania exploring “Must-Do Australia” like we were on a reality television show.

The Hot Air Balloon Over Melbourne

We arrived blearily-eyed to the hotel where we were supposed to meet the tour. As part of the registration, we had to fill out our personal details — including our height, weight and age.

“Suzy Wagner?”

I stepped forward to the tour operator, my heart racing thinking he was about to shout out my age and weight to the other zombies in the lobby of The Hotel Windsor.

“Hallo Suzy. Glad to have you here. And you’re traveling with Eric? Where is he?”

I pointed to Eric and confirmed we both were present.

“Great. Welcome. We’re going to be leaving shortly. We just need you to fill out this waiver and please go to the loo — there are no toilet facilities for the next three hours.”

The last sentence was said with emphasis, a reminder for everyone to go to the bathroom now.

We boarded the mini bus and buckled up. Like other tours in Australia, this started with two disclaimers:

1. An acknowledgement of country: We want to honor the original people who inhabited the land, and give thanks for their stewardship of it.
2. Reminder of the strict seat belt law: Please put your safety belts on. If we’re pulled over, you will receive a $500 fine.

To be honest, I kind of like both. Imagine if Americans had been more appreciative to the Native Americans and if everyone wore their seat belt. The world would be a very different place.

The bus was silent except for the occasional cackle of a ham radio going off. Someone was rattling off numbers and coordinates I couldn’t decipher even if I had been well rested. I soon learned that our leader, Dan, was monitoring the gauge on a released helium balloon measuring, temperature, wind speed and location in coordination with the company’s other bus, trying to find the perfect place to take off.

This is how I ended up in Melbourne’s version of iHop at 5:45 AM watching a helium balloon disappear in the black sky until all we could see was a faint blinking red light. We did this two more times until, a little after 6:00 AM, we went off-road into a park, bouncing along the green space.

At risk of sounding unappreciative, I wasn’t really sure why we needed to get on and off the bus for this part of the experience. No one knew what was happening — everyone was exhausted, much happier buckled, dozing in their seats. Also, releasing helium balloons felt wrong.

Finally it was go time. We clambered off the bus and watched the trailer tilt back dumping the large wicker basket on its side. Then, a huge nylon bag was dropped off near the basket. Dan, the tour leader enlisted several tall guys to start pulling the enormous pink nylon balloon out, stretching it as far down the field as it could go. On the opposite side, Nick was doing the same thing with a large yellow balloon.

Next, the fan started. Dan walked inside the balloon, flipping it up so the air so it filled evenly. Then he pulled out a huge blowtorch and ignited the heater. (Note: I was really, really tired — so this may not have happened, but I can confirm that flames shot out of the heater warming the air.)

The balloons began to inflate and as they rose, we were instructed to climb aboard.

I hoisted myself up, effortlessly flipping my leg over the side like a professional rider mounting my trusted steed. Or something like that. Since this is my story, let’s go with it.

Dan was chattering a series of numbers into his radio.

“Raising the ceiling to 1,000 feet, over.”

A tiny female voice answered back. I noticed a number gauge next to his raised hand monitoring our altitude. We rose so gently, and the balloon so comfortable (huge, thick wicker basket lined with padded velvet) that initially, I didn’t realize we were off the ground.

It was more exhilarating than scary, and I grabbed Eric’s arm.

“Look!”

He didn’t say a word. He just quietly leaned over the edge, looking at the tiny houses, miniature cars as Tuesday morning in Melbourne came to live far below.

It was exactly what I was expecting. Silent. Smooth. Steady. Maybe a little bit cool. I was grateful to have both my windbreaker and a warm blue wool wrap. Initially I was thrilled to be close to the heater, but as we flew, half of my head felt cold, the other half was really hot. Like, I expected my hair to be singed.

We took turns floating higher than our partner’s yellow balloon.

Dan paused his radio chatter and pointed into the distance.

“Do you see over there? That orange balloon? They started with us — but didn’t follow us to our launch site. They’re already landing.”

He looked just a little smug and muttered mostly to himself, “They should’ve come with us. They were only up for a few minutes.”

I squinted into the distance and saw the other company’s balloon landing just before the bay. If they hadn’t landed where they did, they would’ve been lost over the water. It made me think about all of the detailed calculations that go into the flight.

We reached the flight ceiling just under 2,500 feet. Anything could happen during a flight — but this morning nothing unplanned did. Even our landing was relatively smooth. The biggest challenge was folding the huge balloon up and rolling it back into it’s nylon sack.

Our experience ended back at the Hotel Windsor with brunch in their once-elegant dining room. The service was impeccable and food good — but there was a feeling of nostalgic grandeur in the place. Photos, newspapers — even ladies dinner gloves framed over our table detailed the hotel’s rich history. It made me wish I could’ve seen it in 1954 when Queen Elizabeth visited during her first royal tour of Australia.

It was almost 10:00 AM when we finished brunch and found ourselves back in the CBD (Central Business District). We realized we knew exactly where to go, thanks to Bilal’s tour on our first day.

This afternoon, we were on to see our good friend and celebrated author Sally Hepworth. (If you’re looking for a fantastic read — check her out! She’s really good.) When Sally wasn’t able to make it to Leigh’s big 50th bash, I knew I couldn’t leave town without seeing her. We had a date to see her new place and meet her kids that afternoon. I could not wait!

We’d spent nearly a week in Melbourne. Tomorrow was another early morning, with a flight to Cairns (pronounced “Cannes”) and plans to go to the Great Barrier Reef.

Melbourne felt like home. Seeing Sally, Jane, Leigh and the kids…I didn’t want to leave.

The Girl Scouts nailed it. Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and the other gold. We were so lucky to reunite — and I know we won’t let so much time go by again.

Next adventure: Beware the Salties!

“Have you heard of the Brighton Beach boxes?” Leigh asked.

Of course we hadn’t. Leigh explained that these tiny little beach shacks sell for upwards of $100,000. No electricity, no windows, completely unfurnished — but they’re a place on the beach where you can store your stuff.

Seems like a bargain.

We walked down modern and beautifully built platform steps leading down to the sand.

“Oh, this is all new,” Jane marveled at the transformation from the boardwalk.

Facing the surf, were dozens of brightly colored, uniquely individual tiny houses. One had the Australian flag painted across it. Another had a mural of a koala and a kangaroo. The colors were vibrant, reminding me a little of the Bermuda shoreline — fresh and clean, yet nostalgic at the same time.

We were lucky to find one with its large barn-like doors pushed open. Inside the tiny beach hut was a stack of white beach chairs. A row of hooks held large Turkish-style cotton towels and there were surfboards leaning against the wall.

Jane and I sketched out how we’d decorate our fantasy beach hut. Mine had a flat screen television, fold-out couch, a floating shelf of glasses above a bar and driftwood table.

“You know there’s no electricity,” she pointed out.

“Ah. Good point,” I agreed, “Scrap the flat screen. Let’s add bookshelves full of beach reads and a portable speaker instead.”

Leigh and Eric walked ahead. I was thrilled to see Leigh was wearing the birthday present we brought him — a Washington Nationals baseball jersey with his last name and the number 50 on the back.

St. Kilda Amusements: Haunted Hotels and Penguins

Leaving Brighton Beach, we drove down the Golden Mile, lined with exclusive, super-expensive mansions, toward St. Kilda Beach.

“That’s Luna Park.”

Jane pointed out a quirky amusement park. Just inside the front gate was a giant clown’s mouth that you literally had to walk through to get inside. It was as cool as it was creepy, and of course, I made Eric pose for a photo.

“When we told the kids we were moving to America, they were so upset,” Jane remembered.

“Of course, they were, they were so little,” I said.

“So, we told them we were moving and then told them we were going to Luna Park, and the tears stopped instantly.”

With roller coasters, rides, and “carny” games, Luna Park is the perfect outing, especially if you’re a family with small children.

We walked into St. Kilda.

Jane was excited to show us the Hotel Esplanade. The large whitewashed building had an expansive outdoor seating area. Divided into several different restaurants, each had their own vibe — pulsating dance music competed with classic 80s songs.

When we walked in. I had the overwhelming feeling that the place had to be haunted, but that didn’t make me want to stop exploring.

The building was like a maze — easy to wander down narrow corridors and up old staircases, stepping into the past. There was a parlor with candle wall sconces and what appeared to be an antique horsehair-stuffed couch if it had an embroidered rose pattern I would have sworn it was the same one my grandmother had in her formal living room. The room was decorated with tintype antique photographs on the wall and beautiful oil paintings.

Downstairs, we sat at a vibrant bar with QR codes for ordering food. I picked up drinks at the bar. Mezmerized by the bartender who was so thoughtful in crafting cocktails, it took him nearly 10 minutes to mix a drink. To be fair, Jane’s margarita was gorgeous, and the glass was rimmed perfectly.

Eric made a better choice by getting a Guinness and Leigh cheered when Eric perfectly “split the G.” A nod to our “Empty Nest” trip to Ireland, my husband has figured out how to do the one trick I can’t….yet.

The sun was starting to set, and the air was feeling cool and very windy as we walked toward the beach, hoping to get a glimpse of the Penguin Parade.

Note: There is a colony of the world’s smallest penguin species, nesting in the rocks on St. Kilda’s beach. During the day, the little penguins swim out into Port Phillip Bay to hunt for fish, squid, and small marine creatures before returning to their nests along the breakwater at sunset. Every night, visitors gather at the pier to watch these tiny penguins waddle on shore. It’s one of Melbourne’s most unique and charming wildlife experiences.

Walking down the pier, my head snapped watching a kiteboarder pulled 10 feet into the air — literally flying then sailed back onto the water with a mesmerizing skill and grace. Eric whooped and started to cheer. We couldn’t take our eyes away from the half-dozen aerial surfers flying and landing — surrounded by sailboats, with the Melbourne skyline in the background. It was so beautiful — I felt like I was in a tourism commercial.

Welcome to Melbourne, you’re home.

We walked to the end of the pier and joined a crowd. Unfortunately, huge covered renovation fences blocked us from seeing the penguins.

Vegemite? Vege-might-not

The next morning, Leigh was back at work, the kids were in school, but Jane had taken the day off to entertain her American house guests. I tried to be helpful and make an Australian breakfast at the house.

What could be better than trying Vegemite for the first time? The short answer: anything. Anything would be better than trying Vegemite for the first time — especially if you make the mistake of lathering it on toast like peanut butter.

Eric laughed when he saw my face.

My nose was scrunched. Eyes tearing as I tried to chew and swallow the unexpectedly salty, bitter nastiness in my mouth. I mean absolutely no disrespect to our Australian friends or the country obsessed with Vegemite. The real issue was that I didn’t know how to use it and clearly put too much on.

Jane walked into the kitchen and laughed when she saw the toast.

“That’s quite a lot of Vegemite,” she said. “Here, let me do it for you.” She got a fresh piece of sourdough, lightly buttered it, and then put just a hint of Vegemite across the top.

Eric picked it up enthusiastically and bit into it with an exaggerated “Yum” sound coming from his closed lips. I rolled my eyes. He loves salty treats. I felt shy to try it again, but ultimately was coaxed into taking a little bite. It was definitely better the second time, but I think peanut butter is my jam.

Yarra Valley

After breakfast and another beach walk with Cookie — we were off to the Yarra Valley wineries. Unlike the Vegemite, this was a brilliant decision.

Our first stop was St. Hubert’s cellar door. Known for making outstanding Cabernet Sauvignon, they also produce Chardonnay and Pinot Noirs. (Aka — all of my favorites!) And, their stag crest is one of the coolest labels I’ve ever seen.

We learned the winery was one of the first in the Valley, established in 1862. We walked down a sidewalk carved into the hillside. Immediately, it reminded me of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s house from On The Banks of Plum Creek. The iconic cover had fascinated me as a kid. Her pioneer family lived in a home actually built into the earth. St. Hubert’s had the same eco-friendly, subterranean design and we walked into an expansive underground tasting cellar — with a massive skylight allowing natural light to infuse the space complimented by the smell of wine and leather furniture.

The space included a huge wine cellar, retail shop and small restaurant for tastings, cheese, and charcuterie.

Our young waiter was as adorable as he was knowledgeable on their vintages. He explained the history of St. Hubert’s stag.

The legend of St. Hubert is the ultimate plot twist in a hunter’s story. On Good Friday, 682 AD, Hubert was out hunting when he came across a magnificent stag with a glowing cross between its antlers. Just as he was about to take the shot, a voice from heaven boomed, “Hubert, unless thou turnest to the Lord, and leadest an holy life, thou shalt quickly go down into hell.” According to legend, Hubert abandoned his noble life, devoted himself to faith and over time he became the patron saint of hunters. Lucky for us, he also inspired a fantastic winery.

Our next stop was Chandon — the makers of fine sparkling wine. I recognized the iconic label immediately. Though founded in Yarra in 1986, the winery has an international backstory. Sixty years ago, the founder and his friends started in Argentina, then expanded to California, Brazil, China, India, and finally Australia. I found myself wishing my friend Dana, a champagnophile, was with us sipping sparkling wines and noshing on delicious snacks.

I’m Starting to Think Kangaroos Don’t Exist in The Wild

I love my friend Jane. She is smart, tall, fit, pretty and has great sense of humor…but she may have mislead me about kangaroos.

When Jane lived in America, she told me, “Kangaroos? You see them everywhere. Just like squirrels.”

Young Izzy was obsessed with squirrels. She kept trying to catch one as a pet. I was confused about this until I learned there are no squirrels in Australia.

It was a poor analogy. The truth is kangaroos are more like deer. You see them occasionally and they are a major hazard to nighttime motorists. To her credit, Jane was good natured with my complaining and took us to the nearby golf course in search of the elusive kangaroos. This is how we learned the kangaroos hate the heat and are typically spotted at dusk or dawn. The hunt for kangaroo continues….

We ended our Melbourne day with a beautiful walk on the beach, climbing up cliffs that looked so much like hoodoos — for a split second I felt like we were in Bryce Canyon National Park.

Going to bed I felt sad. We only had one more day with our friends, and tomorrow would be an early one — I had scheduled a sunrise hot air balloon ride over Melbourne.

Next chapter: Leaving on a High Note (Literally)

The day of the big 50th birthday party, even as a guest, I was nervous — running through a mental checklist, thinking about where everything should go, and worrying about little details. Jane, on the other hand, could not have been more relaxed. And, she was the host.

I woke up early to a quiet house. Wanting to be a helpful houseguest, I got ready and left a note saying I’d taken Cookie for a walk — except Cookie didn’t actually want to walk…with me.

We stepped out of the garden gate and into a man walking a nearly blind, very old Chihuahua. Startled, I let out an involuntary yelp.

“G’ day,” he said, barely glancing up, the old dog tottering beside him.

Cookie and I didn’t make it much farther. Later, I learned she only really likes to walk with Jane (and a handful of treats), which would have been helpful information before I attempted our little adventure.

Back at the house, I found Jane in the kitchen. She had just dropped the kids off at their sports activities — Izzy at soccer and Tom at cricket.

“You guys want to come for a beach walk and then grab breaky?” Jane asked.

One of the many fun things Australians do abbreviate everything. Breakfast is “breaky” (sometimes spelled brekky or brekkie) — we’re still debating the correct spelling. Sunglasses are sunnies. Avocados are avo. Sneakers are runners.

Eric and I hesitated. “Are you sure? Shouldn’t we stay and help?”

Jane waved us off. “The cleaners have come, the caterers are coming — everything’s good.” My goal is to be such a relaxed hostess.

It was a five-minute walk to the beach. In the daylight, we could see for miles from the lookout. Jane led us down a steep walkway. As soon as we hit the sand, Cookie was off — bounding into the waves, stealing sticks from other dogs, living her best life.

Jane climbed up some steep rocks, pointing out where the beach had eroded.

“This happens every year,” she explained. “The sand moves out into a giant sandbar and then comes back again in a few months.”

Her long legs easily stretched up the steep rocks keeping us out of the surf, “Sorry about the walk.”

Eric glanced back at me, his feeble wife, semi-crawling across the rocks, struggling to keep up with my friend. Always the gentleman, he offered his hand to help me up the steepest sections.

Back on the path toward the neighborhood coffee shops, Jane pointed out their favorite restaurants, shops and places we should check out later if we had time.

We grabbed a table outside at Limoncello. An adorable teenage girl with long brown hair and light blue eyes came over with a pitcher of water and menus. I guzzled my water like I’d been stuck on a desert island and not a short but hilly walk.

This was when we learned that Leigh’s dad had taken a fall at their Airbnb and had spent the night in the hospital. Leigh was there visiting him now, which was why we hadn’t seen him all morning.

On cue, Leigh walked up with an update.

“Looks like Dad will have to stay in the hospital,” Leigh sighed. “His knee just isn’t stable. He’s going to miss the party.”

On the word ‘party,’ a guest materialized. Jane stood up, “Brett! Hello!”

A couple and their daughter approached. We learned that Brett and Kathrin had just come in from Sydney. The whole thing felt like a wedding — a reunion of friends, people flying in from all over.

Eric wandered into the shoe store, to give Jane and Leigh space to visit with their friend and to check out sneakers. The red-orange clay from Uluru had trashed our shoes, and by the end of our 11KM sunrise hike there was a new hole in mine.

“Eric, take the car. There’s a New Balance outlet about 10 minutes away. You can’t miss it. It’s next to the costume shop,” Leigh told us. “You’ll get a better deal.”

Once nicknamed “Save-a-buck” Eric loves a bargain. Always generous, Leigh handed us his car keys.

“Go explore.”

There’s something about borrowing a friend’s car in a foreign country — where the steering column is on the opposite side and you’re driving on the opposite side of the road — that makes you just a teensy bit nervous.

In other words, this time, Eric let me drive.

That’s how we found ourselves not only buying new shoes but also making one of the best investments Eric has ever made — a red curly wig to complete his John McEnroe costume.

“Are you going to the tennis costume party?” the party store owner asked.

Apparently, people had been coming in all week for accessories. It made me a little nervous about what I was going to wear.

The moment Eric put on the wig, he was transformed. Marching around the store in his best faux John McEnroe voice, he yelled, “You can’t be serious! That ball was clearly in!”

We got back from shopping and helped rearrange furniture to make room for a dance floor. Jane and Leigh said things were well under control and encouraged us to go to the beach.

“It’s February 22nd and I’m worried about getting a sunburn,” Eric passed me the sunscreen Leigh had thoughtfully packed for us.

Then he coaxed me into the water. It felt chilly — but was also refreshing from the beating sun. We wadded around the sandbar Jane had pointed out, never really getting too deep.

By the time we got back to the house — salty and slightly sandy — the party prep was in full swing. The caterers had arrived. Boxes of champagne, wine, and beer were stacked everywhere. Trays of food were coming in. Feeling completely in the way, we snuck off to get ready.

The Party Begins

Key to a successful party, especially if you’re blending different groups of friends:

1. Have a theme.

2. If possible, make it a costume party.

Leigh nailed both.

As an avid tennis player and enthusiast, he’d decided months ago that his 50th birthday party would have a tennis theme. It was genius. Most people wore tennis attire — comfortable, creative and perfect for dancing. Athletic shoes over pinchy heels? Brilliant.

As guests arrived, Izzy and her friend greeted them at the door, handing out glasses of champagne, Pimm’s Cups, or Aperol Spritzes. It set the tone for the evening. The warm welcome put everyone at ease. There were gorgeous flowers and centerpieces on high top tables and balloons decorating the garden. Even a brief rain shifted the heat and made everything feel fresh. It was a perfect evening.

The creativity and effort people put into their outfits was next level.

Tom, their son, wore tattoo sleeves, a backwards baseball hat and a sneer becoming a perfect Nick Kyrgios.

Jane, in a shockingly realistic blonde wig, was Steffi Graf.

“You look so good — you should really consider going blonde,” I told her.

Then, there was Leigh.

I laughed out loud when I saw him. He was wearing a plaid Fila tennis outfit, long blonde wig, and was a perfect, if slightly short Björn Borg.

I was wearing clothes I actually play tennis in. My costume was “a hot pink headband”. As soon as I slipped it on my head, Eric clapped his hands and pointed at me.

“You look exactly like…aaaahhhh…what is her name?” He trailed off, scrolling through his phone.

Then — his Eureka moment. “Andrea Jaeger!”

“Who?”

I squinted at the picture he pulled up of a classic 1980s player and agreed. Andrea and “Johnny Mac” were ready to party.

There were so many good costumes — but the best costume of the night? Jane’s best friend Tammy. Hands down. No contest. Tammy committed to the bit and came as Monica Seles, complete with a fake knife sticking out of her back.

Embarrassingly, my tennis history is a little rough. I had forgotten that Monica Seles was actually stabbed by a crazed Steffi Graf fan during a match on April 30, 1993 (only eight months before the Trailer Park Princess Tonya Harding went after America’s Sweetheart Nancy Kerrigan’s knee.)

Other notable costumes:

• Strawberries and cream — Wimbledon’s signature dessert
• Someone dressed as a tennis ball
• Jane’s brother arrived in tennis attire, flanked by friends wearing all black with “FAULT” written across their shirts — Double Faults.
• A “newscaster” with microphone who interviewed guests throughout the party
• One guest wore a gorgeous green, garden-party-chic dress but looked a little uncomfortable surrounded by all the athletic wear — until I complimented her on her excellent costume as a “Wimbledon spectator.”

Since I didn’t know many people, I defaulted to my favorite party trick — taking photos. I introduced myself to three women as “Jane and Leigh’s obnoxious American friend” and asked if they’d pose for a picture. That’s how I met Leigh’s mom and sisters.

I screamed like they were celebrities and hugged them all. “I’m so happy you made it!”

Meanwhile, Eric had latched onto Paul, who was wearing a John McEnroe shirt with the classic line, “You cannot be serious.” They spent much of the night acting it out for anyone who walked by.

The Night Ends (Kind Of)

There was dancing. So much dancing.

At one point, Eric was tossing tennis balls to our new friend (we’d met at breaky) Brett, who was trying to catch them in his mouth. The videos are priceless.

Wigs were tossed off and swapped. The night literally ended with a splash as people jumped in the pool. Things wrapped up sometime around 3 AM — which, for the over-50 crowd, is basically an all-nighter.

The next morning, everyone was moving slowly. Eric and Leigh went on a search mission for a friend’s phone, which had been lost the night before. Miraculously, they found it in the middle of the street — with only minor screen damage.

It was such a fantastic night. I’m hoping Jane decides to do it again next year for her 50th.

Any excuse to come back.

Next chapter: Rallying with the Best of Melbourne

Then: 2016

Realizing the window to volunteer in the classroom was coming to an end, I signed up to help out in our youngest son Matthew’s fifth-grade art class. With 18 years of experience as a mom, my unofficial resume also included Girl Scout troop co-leader, elementary school recreational soccer coach, several years as ‘room mom’, and a volunteer on countless field trips — including chaperoning the eighth grade spring break field trip to Spain — twice.

When the opportunity to occasionally help out in the classroom came up, I felt confident I could say encouraging things about students’ art while passing out paper, paint, and scissors.

It was a warm winter day. Jamestown’s principal, Ms. Schaffner, was showing another mother around the school. My ears perked up when I caught an Australian accent.

Note: I had recently become oddly obsessed with Australia. Yes, Australia has always been cool. When I was twelve, Men at Work came from the “land down under.” Years before he got weird, I had a teenage crush on 1985 People’s Sexiest Man Alive Mel Gibson. From Nicole Kidman to Hugh Jackman and all of the dreamy Hemsworth brothers, Australia has long captured this American’s interest and imagination.

But for reasons I couldn’t quite figure out, I had become fixated on Australia. Maybe it was the universe telling me I needed to meet Jane Wharton.

I hugged my boy goodbye, left art class and walked to my car. As I was pulling away, the tall brunette with glasses walked out of the school. I slowed the car — like a total creeper — rolled down my window, and said,

“Hi! Excuse me. I couldn’t help but overhear you talking with the principal. Are you Australian?”

The cheerful woman wasn’t the least bit put off by the short stalker leaning out of her car window.

“Hello, yes. I’m looking at schools. My husband’s job is moving us here after the holidays.”

YES! I knew it! You know those moments when you start talking before you finish thinking? That was me.

I actually said, “Oh wow, that’s so cool! I’m actually a children’s book author, and I do a lot of readings in schools around Arlington. If you want to grab coffee sometime, I’d be happy to chat about the different schools in the area.”

Who am I? Yes, I did write several children’s books and even self-published two of them, but I’m not really an author — at least not like a famous author. Yet, here I was, blabbing on to a complete stranger.

Fortunately, the stranger was lovely and said, “Oh yes, that’d be great! I’d love to get together.”

We connected via WhatsApp, and she promised to call me when she came back to the States after the holidays.

If there had been a way to hit refresh on WhatsApp, I would have done it constantly. I could not wait to get together.

She Called!!

True to her word, Jane called me when she arrived in the United States. We met for coffee and realized we had so much in common. We both worked in Public Relations/Communications, liked the same wine, and watched the same kind of TV shows. What could be better than that?

Even better, our husbands liked each other, and though her kids were younger than mine, they all got along.

For several years while Jane and Leigh lived in the U.S. — she partnered on work projects with my strategic communications firm, Brand & Buzz. We had so much fun — date nights, museum outings, trips to the mountains. Jane took me to a book signing to meet Australian author Jane Harper, and she insisted I go to New York with her to meet her other author friend, bestselling writer Sally Hepworth. We totally hit it off. Sally is one of the funniest and most fun people I’ve ever met. That night in New York ending with bloody “shark attack” drinks at some cool bar on the East Side ranks as one of the best nights ever.

Through Sally, I met other fantastic friends/authors — Sarah Pekkanen, Katherine Center, and Alex Finlay.

Jane and Leigh were incredibly good sports — like the time we dressed as Australians for their Australia Day party.

I was so sad when Jane and Leigh moved back home. I remember buying a blank book for their daughter, Izzy, and filled it with stories about the little girl who lived in Tomorrowland and her friends who lived in the Land of Yesterday.

Matthew had become close friends with Tom and gave him his favorite D.C. United t-shirt as a farewell gift.

Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.

Now: The Invitation

We were lucky to see Leigh when he came back to the States for business, but I couldn’t believe it had been six years since I had seen Jane. When she messaged me about coming to Australia for Leigh’s 50th birthday, I had to remind her of our family’s disclaimer: “Are you sure? Because if you invite us, we’ll come.”

Not only did she invite us, but she insisted we stay with them in Melbourne — offered to let us use their car — and even bribed us with the best incentive of all. Three little dots, then this message appeared: We have a dog. Sweet Cookie can sleep in your room if you want her to.

I think I booked the tickets the next day.

The Ripple Effect

It’s so funny looking back on how that chance meeting — and my stalker-like hello — put me on a trajectory to fly 10,000 miles to the other side of the world.

When we worked together, I learned so much from Jane. She taught me to love transport and opened my eyes to how transformational high-speed trains were.

“Think about it,” she’d say. “If you could get to New York in under an hour on the train, you’d open up so many professional opportunities. Transport changes lives.”

Leigh shared my love of IPAs and was even better than Eric at tennis. (As a Division 1 college athlete, Eric has never outgrown the challenge of competitive sports — he loves to play up.)

I aggressively planned our trip to see as much of Australia as possible and decided to squeeze in a trip to Uluru before Melbourne so we’d have something exciting to talk about — not that we needed it.

Old Friends Meet For the First Time

Before we even got to see Jane and Leigh, we had the nicest surprise — my longtime web design partner, Bilal, insisted on picking us up at the Melbourne airport.

I had connected with Bilal nine years ago on a web project for the Embassy of Japan. He did such a fantastic job, we’ve continued to work together for the past nine years. I value his partnership — but most of all his calm demeanor.

The website is crashing? Bilal: “Alright.”
The client is freaking out? Bilal: “Alright.”
Someone deleted a critical page? Bilal: “Alright.”

The man is unflappable. He has worked with me on half a dozen client projects and always gets the job done.

Life is like dropping a pebble in a lake — ripples extend outward, and you don’t always see their impact.

As Bilal pulled out of the airport parking garage, he said, “I’ve been so excited to meet you in person because I want to thank you. Working for your company made it possible for me to leave Pakistan and move to Melbourne. My work counted toward my visa. Now, I’m about to become a citizen, and I can finally bring my wife and daughter here to live with me full-time.”

I was speechless.

I felt a little uncomfortable and deeply touched by his gratitude. What is the correct response when someone says you changed their life?

Driving into Melbourne

Driving from Melbourne Airport (Tullamarine) down the M2, the highway expanded to five lanes. We passed an industrial area flanked by warehouses and suburban rooftops, with glimpses of rolling countryside in the distance. As we got closer, the skyline rose dramatically, revealing a mix of historic architecture, sleek glass towers, and graffiti-covered alleys. Melbourne was uniquely itself — a blend of old, new, and edgy creativity. It reminded me of Chicago, with a river running through it.

While Bilal’s business partner, Adil, raced against rush hour to meet us, we grabbed a late lunch at Desi Dhaba, Bilal’s favorite Indian spot and home of the best Butter Chicken in Melbourne. We explored the CBD — which, to Eric’s relief, stood for Central Business District and not the oil extracted from marijuana.

After lunch, we walked past Melbourne’s version of Fifth Avenue down Collins Street, home to luxury shopping. Known as the “Paris End,” we passed Prada, Louis Vuitton, Tiffany & Co., Gucci, and Hermès.

“Are you Christian? You might like this church.”

Bilal led us up the steps to St. Paul’s Cathedral, a 19th-century neo-Gothic landmark with a simple wood interior and stunning stained glass windows.

I pointed at the stained glass windows and shared a tidbit I picked up last summer in Ireland — the stained glass were designed to tell Bible stories to people who couldn’t read. Children to adults learned the stories through the glass art.

It struck me how, across cultures, storytelling takes many forms. I smiled, thinking about the cave paintings in Uluru, another reminder that, despite our differences, people are all the same.

River, Rails & Street Art

We continued down Flinders Street toward Town Hall Railway Station. (I didn’t realize it yet, but this quick tour of the CBD would come in handy in a few days.)

Crossing trolley tracks, for a split second, I expected to see San Francisco’s iconic red trolley— instead, it was a yellow and green Melbourne’s City Circle Tram, ringing its bell and charging toward us.

We walked up several steps into the faded yellow arch of the domed railway and metro station, a plaque informed us it had opened in 1909. Bilal pointed out where to catch the train in case we ever needed to and briskly led us past food stands, flower stalls, and boutiques. Like train stations in major cities around the world, there were crowds of people and vibrant colors. Everything was in motion.

Popping back onto the street, we crossed Federation Square and took the St. Kilda Street Bridge over the Yarra River.

The river was alive. Motorboats, skiffs, and crew shells glided across the water. Along the banks, floating bars were tied up like houseboats. Bilal pointed to his favorite.

“If you have time, you should go there. It’s a floating beer garden. You can also rent one of those little motorboats and take yourself down the river.”

I had looked into the self-operated boats before the trip but had no idea if we’d have time. We planned to spend five days in Melbourne, and now, halfway through the first, it already felt like we were running out of time.

“What’s that?” I pointed to a white steel tower twisting like a modern Eiffel Tower in the distance.

“Oh, that’s the museum. You’d like that too.”

The sign read National Gallery of Victoria — another nod to Australia’s long connection to the Crown.

Last summer, on an ill-fated trip to see Taylor Swift in Vienna, Gillian and I (thanks to a terrorist plot) ended up seeing the show in London instead. We stopped at the Victoria and Albert Museum hoping to pick up some concert swag and tour an exhibit of Taylor’s dresses. Now, 10,000 miles away, we were looking at another “Victoria” museum, reinforcing British influence in Australia.

Along the Yarra’s banks, I was surprised to see palm trees and had to snap a photo of the Melbourne City coat of arms mounted on the bridge.

A Whale, Sheep, Bull, Ship and a Coat of Arms

The Melbourne City coat of arms blends its British heritage with their Australian identity. The shield is divided into four sections, each representing the industries that built Melbourne — a fleece for wool, a whale for whaling, a ship for trade, and a bull for livestock. On top is a golden crown with a lion and kangaroo as its guardians. The Latin motto “Vires acquirit eundo” (“It gathers strength as it goes”) feels just as relevant today as it did in the 19th century. Melbourne has always been a city in motion — evolving, expanding, and redefining itself with every passing decade.

Walking down the street, you can almost fool yourself into thinking you’re at home — until a foreign flag or symbol reminds you how very far away you are.

Street Art & A Pop-Up Surprise

Bilal led us down Hosier Lane, Melbourne’s most famous graffiti-filled alley.

“This changes all the time. Right now, it’s a lot of hearts — probably leftover from Valentine’s Day,” he explained. “The first time I came here, it looked completely different. In a few weeks, they’ll paint over it, and it will be new again.”

He and Eric were good sports, posing for a few touristy shots in front of some of the most striking murals.

As we emerged from the alley, a woman handed us a flyer.

“You should check out the Banksy exhibit — just around the corner!”

Melbourne is so cool.

Bilal’s business partner — and best mate — Adil pulled into the CBD just as we were about to leave. Having been on conference calls with him for six years, it was fantastic to finally meet in person.

“You’re going to be late?” Adil joked.

I glanced at my watch.

“No, we’re fine.”

“Then why did I rush through traffic to get here?” He grinned.

Open mouth. Insert foot. I scrambled.

“Well, yes, I mean, we won’t be late — but we do need to leave to meet our friends. Seeing you has been a bonus.”

Was that rude? Did I step in it again?

Adil laughed. “Suzy, you must come to our house for dinner. My wife is an amazing cook. It would be an honor to host you and Eric.”

I was speechless. It was such a touching invitation.

Americans are different. We casually throw out, “You must come over!” — but rarely follow through. For Adil to genuinely invite us was a huge honor.

“I think Tuesday should work! Maybe lunch instead of dinner? Let me check with our friends, and I’ll confirm.”

Sandringham

It occured to me while we were driving to our friend's Sandringham neighborhood the powerful influence the United Kingdom still has on Australia today. As an Anglophile, I remembered that the original “Sandringham” was a country estate built in 1870 for Queen Victoria and Prince Albert’s eldest son, Prince Albert Edward (who later became King Edward VII). Fun fact: Today, Sandringham is the private country retreat of the current monarch, King Charles III and Camilla.

It was funny we were seeing buildings with Queen Victoria’s name and heading to a different Sandringham — on another continent.

“Bilal, are you sure you’re okay to drive us out? We can definitely take an Uber.”

“Yes, of course, Suzy. I’ve waited this long to meet you — I’m happy to take you.”

The city faded into the distance as the neighborhoods became more distinct. We drove along the water, passing Brighton and Hampton toward Sandringham.

“This is one of the nicest neighborhoods in Melbourne,” Bilal said, gesturing toward oceanfront mansions. “They call it the Golden Mile.”

As we pulled up to Jane and Leigh’s house, the first thing I noticed was the tall privacy fences dividing the street.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” Bilal asked.

“Uh, yeah… I think so? I just don’t know where the front door is.”

Then, I heard a voice behind the garden gate — Izzy!

The gate clicked open, and standing there was not the little girl I remembered — but a beautiful young woman.

And then — there was Jane.

My dear friend, looking exactly the same as when she left the U.S., coming in for a hug like no time had passed. Behind her, Leigh stepped out with an easygoing grin, offering to help with the bags. I felt instantly warm and so happy — how did I get so lucky to have friends like this?

“Jane, Leigh — I want you to meet Bilal.”

Bilal stepped inside the gate, and without hesitation, Jane immediately invited him in. He politely declined, saying he needed to head home but was looking forward to seeing us on Tuesday.

I’ll admit it — I was beyond excited to see Jane and Leigh, but I was also curious to see a real Australian home. We’ve been in homes in different countries, and — much like visiting a foreign grocery store — it’s always fascinating to see what’s the same and what’s completely different.

Jane and Leigh’s house? Stunning.

Modern with huge sliding glass doors that opened onto a lush (an enviable flat) garden and a gorgeous pool. Single level, sleek, effortlessly functional. My knees immediately reminded me how much smarter this design was than our stairs-on-stairs setup back home.

Jane had put out appetizers, and we spent a few quiet minutes catching up with the kids and meeting their pup, Cookie — who had already decided Eric was her new best friend.

That night, Jane’s brother was joining for dinner, and the plan was to walk to a local Greek restaurant. Seriously? It wasn’t enough that they lived in a beachside community, they also lived walking distance to incredible coffee shops and restaurants.

We sat outside. The breeze was warm. Wine was cold. Enjoying lemony chicken and hummus, catching up on life. It was a perfect night when, the owner emerged carrying cake with candles singing “Happy Birthday.”
Hip. Hip. HOORAY!
Hip. Hip. HOORAY!
Hip. Hip. HOORAY!

The 50th birthday festivities had officially begun.

Next chapter: The Party

The massive red monolith of Uluru might be 550 million years old, but that didn’t stop us from discovering it.

We raced toward the bus in the dark — a glow of morning on the horizon — still groggy from last night’s cocktails at the Fields of Light. Clearly, we should have left earlier than we did — but in our defense the Sails compound was expansive and there was no easy or direct way to get to the front drive.

A cute brunette with a clipboard stopped us at the bus entrance.

“Do you have your park passes?”

A total planner, of course I had them… I just couldn’t find them.

In hindsight, I should have either:

1. Thought to bring the printed itinerary with the PDF attachments like a responsible adult.
2. Remembered that I had already downloaded them to my Apple Wallet.

But at 5:30 a.m., neither of those options had occurred to me. Instead, I frantically battled the hotel WiFi, trying to track down an email confirming that I’d bought them.

I found it, eventually, and we boarded the bus facing about 30 other equally exhausted-looking hikers. The mood was quiet— either because people were still asleep or silently cursing us for the delay.

Sunrise at Uluru

When we stepped off the bus, the first hints of light had started to stretch across the sky — gentle layers of purple, pink, and deep blue giving way to the warm glow of dawn.

Our guide from the bus, Chloe, a young Brit with an impossibly cheerful morning voice, gathered us around.

“Right. Good morning, everyone! I’m Chloe, and I’ll be your guide today as we explore Uluru up close.

We’ll walk for about 20 minutes, stop, and I’ll tell you more about the rock and its stories. Oh, hello!”

She suddenly paused as two mid-sized black dogs trotted into our group — a male and female, clearly a couple, with the telltale signs of recent puppies.

Chloe grinned.

“Well, this is new. I hear dogs barking all the time, but they’ve never actually joined my tour before.”

She guessed they might belong to a nearby Anangu family or park ranger, but either way, they seemed perfectly content to tag along.

With that, we were off.

Uluru’s Legends & Stories

As we started, I stuck by Chloe, walking fast and peppering her with questions. She explained that she was on a yearlong internship from London, where her job included leading sunrise hikes and living in the Outback.

“I love it more than I thought I would,” she admitted. “Every day, the light on Uluru is a little different, and being here feels so alive. I don’t want to leave.”

I completely understood. This is a common issue we all seem to have. A chronic depression when vacation or an adventure comes to an end.

As the sun inched higher, Uluru’s color deepened from soft orange to fiery red, revealing black streaks from ancient waterfalls and patterns carved by wind, water, and time.

Chloe stopped at a rock formation and pointed toward a twisting shape along the ridge.

“See that?” she asked. “That’s the shape of Kuniya, the woma python (a massive snake indigenous to Australia). According to Anangu legend, she fought a violent battle here to avenge her nephew, striking the rock and leaving these markings behind.”

(Uluru’s most well-known stories center around two ancestral beings: Kuniya, the python, and Liru, the venomous snake. These Dreamtime legends explain the rock’s shapes, crevices, and sacred spaces, passed down orally for thousands of years.)

Eric, trailing behind and vaguely annoyed that I was speed walking, was not super interested in the mythology.

“Right, but how did they find seashells here? This is the middle of the desert,” he asked.

Chloe pivoted seamlessly in her talk, grabbed a stick and started sketching in the red dirt.

“Good question! Uluru was actually formed at the bottom of an ancient sea. Over hundreds of millions of years, layers of compressed sand and sea life fossilized into rock, eventually pushed up into this giant monolith as tectonic plates shifted.”

We were surprised to learn archaeological evidence found Aboriginal people have lived in this region of Central Australia for over 30,000 years. The Anangu people are the traditional custodians of Uluru and Kata Tjuta*.

To them, Uluru isn’t just a rock — it’s a living, breathing part of their culture, deeply woven into their stories, traditions, and connection to the land.

She then explained how Anangu women used long sticks to carefully dig for honey ants, popping off their fluid-filled sacs for nourishment — like eating grapes without harming the ants. The balance between survival and respect for the land was deeply ingrained in their traditions.

As we walked, there were long stretches where photography wasn’t allowed — a sign of respect for the sacred significance of these spaces. The farthest side of Uluru was reserved for women’s ceremonies. The opposite end for men’s traditions. We walked close to a cave and saw paintings like an outdoor classrooms, where generation after generation learned how to live with the land, not just on it.

About halfway through our 11KM hike, we stopped for a simple breakfast — cereal, granola bars, biscuits (cookies), fruit, coffee, and tea.

Truthfully, in my mind, I had been expecting made-to-order omelets and mimosas — but since this was a leave-no-trace environment, what they served was more sensible — light, easy, and exactly what we needed. Here, we met another ranger who encouraged our dog companions to detour back home.

Walking away from the shelter several birds were perched on a large orange sign that read, Uluru walks — safety is your responsiblity. Don’t risk your life. The infographic illustrated where to get shelter, what to do when hot weather reached dangerous limits and warned of heat exhaustion and dehydration is life-threatening and common here.

Now, the sun was cresting the top of Uluru, its beams hitting us as the rock radiated heat like a furnace. We walked down a trail, passing another large yellow sign, TRACK CLOSED from 2:00pm today due to extreme temperatures. Nothing like a bold reminder that a few hours can mean life or death.

Our final shady stop was Mutitjulu Waterhole, one of Uluru’s most sacred and surprising spots — a hidden oasis tucked into the base of the massive rock formation. Fed by rainfall cascading down Uluru’s surface, this permanent water source has sustained the Anangu people for thousands of years.

Chloe gestured toward the dark, twisting lines on Uluru’s rock face. “See those markings? That’s where Minyma Kuniya, in the form of a woma python, struck the rock with her digging stick after hearing her nephew had been attacked by Liru, the poisonous snake warriors. They had stabbed him with spears.”

I looked closer. The streaks ran down the sandstone, distinct against the smooth red surface. It was easy to see the shapes and scars in the rock.

Chloe continued, “According to Tjukurpa (the Dreamtime stories), Mutitjulu is where Kuniya, the python woman, battled Liru, the venomous snake man.”

A nearby sign illustrated every mark and its role in the story.

“Kuniya’s nephew was accused of stealing food. While he should have been punished, Liru, the venomous snake man, killed him instead. Kuniya was furious — so she transformed into a snake to fight him. That’s where she struck him down, and there — see that big crack in the rock? That’s where she delivered the death blow.”

I glanced back at the marks, trying to see them in a different way.

“The Anangu believe their ancestors and spirits live in Uluru itself. Do you see that part?” Chloe pointed. “It looks a little like a snake curled up. That’s Kuniya’s body, coiled up, watching over everyone who visits.”

Standing in the shade by the waterhole, surrounded by towering sandstone cliffs, I felt an involuntary shiver. I hadn’t been feeling the deep spiritual significance of this place — but imagining a giant stone snake just over my shoulder, suddenly alive, reminded me I was standing in a place where 30,000 years of history, culture, and nature weren’t separate threads, but one long story written into the rock.

The waterhole shimmered in the light, its smooth, stone basin glistening.

We could see the water lines etched into the rock, marking how this pool could easily flood higher than where we stood — yet had held water through floods and droughts for centuries.

Nearby, an adjacent cave (kulpi) once sheltered the Nyiinka (bush boys), who were separated from their families to learn to hunt kalaya (emu) and malu (kangaroos) with their grandfathers — a tradition that prepared them to become wati (initiated men).

Learning this, I started scanning the landscape again, hoping for a glimpse of a native kangaroo. Chloe had said that at this time of year, the temperatures were too hot and water too scarce for them to be nearby — but like my son Matthew says, You never know…

The morning hike — thoughtfully designed to keep us in the shade as long as possible — was now losing the race against the sun. As we finished, the sky was blazing, and the heat was unapologetically scorching.

By the time we returned to the resort, it was nearly 11 a.m., but it felt like late afternoon.

We didn’t come back empty-handed — each of us received an “official certificate” confirming that we had walked around the great rock. Chloe told us the hike was 11KM, but the certificate says 10KM. Definitely a typo.

Plan B: Sunset & Selfie Sticks

Back at the resort, we raced to the pool. There was a glorious breeze shifting the heat away from us. I was careful to flip my sandals — so the soles would absorb the heat. We hopped along the blazing pool deck like little kids trying to avoid imaginary hot lava. My phone buzzed with an email update: “Due to strong wind, drones may not fly for tonight’s Wintjiri Wiru show. A 30% discount will be applied if drones cannot fly.”

I had been so excited to see the story of Uluru brought to life with drones that I had booked the pricey dinner experience. Sold on the promise of snakes, wolves, and ancestral spirits shifting across the night sky — while the Anangu legends were told — I was happy to splurge on it. Lasers just didn’t have the same appeal as drones. After the sunrise hike, Eric in particular was full on stories — so we made a last-minute decision to cancel.

Instead of the laser show, we ordered Chinese takeout from the restaurant in the adjacent shopping center and hopped in our little Jeep, planning to drive toward Kata Tjuta for sunset.

Taking one look at us, the chef guided us to more mild dishes. Then Eric needed to run back to the hotel for something. By the time we were ready to go — it was clear a 50KM drive would mean missing the sunset. Like O.A.R. sings, we turned the car around and headed back to Uluru (again.)

As we pulled up, the monolith was glowing in its most vibrant red/orange.

The car park was packed with camper vans and travelers, many standing on their roofs for a better view.

I whipped out my selfie stick.

Yes, I get teased mercilessly for carrying one, but here’s the thing, if you want a good group shot in front of an actual giant rock, nothing beats it. It’s all about the angle.

We watched the last light disappear behind Uluru, then drove back to the resort. Our time in the Northern Territory was coming to an end.

Tomorrow, we were off to Melbourne for the main event.

• Kata Tjuta, also known as The Olgas, is a collection of massive domed rock formations in Australia’s Red Center. Formerly called Mount Olga, these ancient bornhardts rise dramatically from the desert, forming a sacred site for the Anangu people.

Next chapter: Melbourne

When our kids were little, they loved going to Outback Steakhouse — the Bloomin’ Onion, super salty steaks, and loaded baked potatoes. America’s take on Australia left us with our favorite Aussie catchphrases.

It felt natural, when we first met our Australian friends, Leigh and Jane, to ask if they loved “putting shrimp on the barbie” and drinking Foster’s (oil can-sized) beer.

To their credit, instead of being profoundly offended, they laughed.

“First of all,” Jane said, “nothing on the Outback Steakhouse menu is remotely Australian.”

It turns out, Aussies eat a ton of fresh fish and chicken, and in general, have a much healthier diet than Americans. Walking around Sydney and Taronga, it was impossible not to notice — everyone looked incredibly fit. I didn’t see any significantly overweight people — and the few I did see were tourists.

Welcome to the Outback

Today, we were flying to Uluru (formerly Ayers Rock) in the Northern Territory — also known as the Outback.

Note: The Outback refers to the vast, remote, and arid interior of Australia. It isn’t a specific state or territory but a catch-all for the sparsely populated, rugged landscapes that cover much of the country.

Alice Springs, the nearest “big town,” was a five-hour drive away. Road signs warned drivers to stock up on water and fuel before venturing too far. The Outback is famous for its heat, isolation, and an almost mythological sense of danger. My big sister had visited Uluru years ago and kept raving about how magical it was. Lisa is a doctor, mother of four and incredibly practical. She’s not prone to hype. I was eager to see it for myself.

The Great Red Rock — Uluru

As our flight took off, the lush Sydney coastline faded away — cliffs plunging into the ocean, waves crashing on wide sandy beaches, manicured green gardens. The landscape shifted. The farther we got, the drier it became.

Below us stretched miles of brown earth, divided by thick black roads. About an hour before landing, I spotted huge white formations in the distance and tapped Eric.

“They can’t be glaciers. What am I looking at?”

On cue, a staticky voice broke over the plane’s speakers, explaining that we were flying over one of the largest salt lakes in Australia.

“They have everything here,” I shook my head in some kind of disbelief.

As we continued, the brown earth deepened into red, speckled with black and gold dots, like poppy seeds on a bagel. I had prepared for a barren wasteland, but instead, there was unexpected vegetation.

Suddenly, Uluru appeared. A massive, glowing monolith rose from the endless flatness. From the air, it was easy to understand why Uluru has been a sacred place for thousands of years. Impossibly it didn’t belong there — yet there it was.

A Sacred Place

Uluru, known as Ayers Rock until 1993, has been a spiritual site for the Anangu people for over 30,000 years. Though it rises 1,142 feet above the ground, most of its bulk is hidden underground, like an iceberg.

The Anangu believe Uluru was created by their ancestors during the Tjukurpa (Dreamtime), and its caves, rock paintings, and waterholes hold deep cultural and spiritual meaning. In 2019, after years of advocacy, climbing Uluru was officially banned out of respect for Indigenous traditions.

Seeing it from the air felt surreal. Otherworldly.

Touchdown: The Adventure Begins

I turned to Eric.

“We only have two days here. It’s the only way I could fit everything in. Our schedule is… ambitious.”

“Good,” Eric nodded. If there’s one thing this man hates, it’s being bored.

We landed at Ayers Rock Airport, picked up our tiny white Suzuki Jeep (license plate: Northern Territory. Outback. Australia.), and hit the road.

Ayers Rock Resort is a collection of hotels, campgrounds, and a small shopping center. I’d booked Sails because of its great guest reviews and massive pool.

After dropping our bags, we grabbed a big wicker lounger, ordered beers and lunch, and jumped into pool. It was a balmy 102°F and the cool water surprised us.

Tonight, we had two things planned: a sunset cocktail reception and a visit to the Field of Light.

Field of Light: A Desert Dreamscape

The Field of Light is a massive outdoor art installation by Bruce Munro, featuring 50,000+ solar-powered lights spread across a desert expanse the size of seven football fields. Each light softly shifts colors, mirroring the changing hues of Uluru at sunset.

Originally designed as a temporary exhibit, the installation was so well received that it became a permanent part of the Uluru experience.

Field of (Frustrations coming to) Light

Eric and I were still adjusting not just to being together again— but to being together 24/7. Code for: we were fussy.

Case in point: Eric had a tantrum after dropping a sweet potato canopy on the ground. Instead of picking it up, he stomped on it like a frustrated toddler, grinding it into the red dirt.

“Goddammit,” he muttered.

The two men sharing our high-top table glanced at us, surprised. Once they realized we were American, they seemed even more cautious.

One of them, a Greek scientist now living in Singapore, explained that he had planned to do his PhD residency in the U.S. but ultimately stayed in Singapore because, “America is a bad place for scientists right now.”

His Singaporean companion nodded. “It’s a scary time. Your new president is unpredictable.”

I have never been more embarrassed for my country.

Facing unprecedented climate crises and still recovering from a global pandemic, America had just appointed an anti-science, anti-vax leader to head Health and Human Services.

Instead of tackling real problems — our government was building concentration camps for immigrants.

Annoyed with Eric — who kept disappearing to take pictures — and embarrassed to be American, I popped in my earbuds and walked through the Field of Light alone for a bit.

The warm desert night, twinkling, glowing landscape and the endless stars — made it easy to feel completely detached from reality.

Resetting for the Next Adventure

Back at the hotel, I wrote off my frustration as “re-entry adjustment” and decided: I was done fuming over politics and it was time to be really nice to my husband.

Tomorrow, we were waking up at 5:15 am for an 11KM sunrise hike around Uluru.

And I couldn’t wait.

Next chapter: Uluru: 11 Kilometers of Magic and Myth Etched in Stone

My last days in New Zealand were a dream. First, there was the unexpected Adventure with James touring around Queenstown, Arrowtown and Wānaka. The next day, I had booked a brilliant tour of four wineries. At the risk of sounding totally hippy dippy— I got into the habit of talking myself up before each day’s adventures. After a lifetime of being with people and negotiating every outing, being completely independent and traveling solo was still new to me.

Besides. A little positive self-talk is a good thing, right?

My mantra went something like this: “I’m open to adventure. I believe something amazing will happen today, and I’m ready for it. I’m feeling positive — let’s go.”

It was definitely a little hokey — but it helped me look for beauty in the ordinary. I’d walk out of the hotel with a ridiculously huge smile, and a little pep to my step.

That last morning, I left the hotel grinning and noticed that Erik’s Asian Restaurant was across the street — it felt like a little sign that my Eric wasn’t so far away. Soon we’d be on our Australian adventure together. Solo-cation was almost over.

I looked up, surprised to see a jogger coming down the alley. I smiled and said “good morning” with so much enthusiasm (borderline crazy person levels of enthusiasm). He looked up with such a gorgeous, surprised smile — like I had just altered the trajectory of his day by projecting a sunbeam of positivity at him. (That’s definitely over the top — but let’s go with it.)

Wine Tasting with the Americans, in Queenstown, New Zealand

After a gorgeous flat white and a quick chat with my daughter, I was off to meet my “private wine group.” The tour guide did a little intro exercise on the bus. For a young Brazilian, she told a surprising number of dad jokes. I was slightly disappointed to learn the group was disproportionately American. The couple in front of me was from the DC area; there was an Aussie mother-daughter pair, an older couple from Queensland, and four Americans from California. After tasting wines at four wineries, we were sufficiently bonded.

One of the Californians was smelling her wine and passing her glass on to her friends and me. Learning that Kyria was four months pregnant, I saw an opportunity to share my favorite mom-wisdom.

“Can I be that person and offer unsolicited advice about parenting?”

She nodded with more interest than I’d be expecting.

“Yeah, sure. It’s our first baby — and we were kind of surprised to be pregnant. I’m looking for any advice.”

“There are three things no one ever tells you about babies.

1. The entire industry is designed to make you feel inadequate so you’ll spend money on more crap. Don’t do it. I mean, get the crib, the stroller, diaper bag — but don’t feel pressure to get “the best one.” The most important thing babies need is 10,000 kisses a day.
2. Raising a child with a supportive partner is amazing — because babies come without an instruction manual. When you feel overwhelmed or don’t know what to do, pass the baby to him and vice versa.
3. Trust your instincts. You’ll know what to do. Oh, and don’t worry. You will love your baby.”

Kyria smiled, looking somewhat relieved. She patted her tiny belly and said, “That really helps. We’ve been so excited, but so nervous.”

The day had started a little slow, but by the end, the group felt bonded. After tasting so many wines, it was bound to go one way or the other. I was glad the afternoon ended with big hugs.

Queenstown Onsen

After checking the traffic, I skipped the drive back to Queenstown with my wine friends and grabbed an Uber to the Onsen Hot Pools — a Japanese-style spa famous for its steaming baths and postcard-worthy views. While researching must-do experiences in New Zealand, this place kept popping up, with people raving about how it was life-changing (which, let’s be honest, is a big claim for a bathtub).

But the real win? My father-in-law — who, at least for me, officially won Christmas when he gifted me the spa treatment.

The entire day was surreal. One moment, I was sipping wine in the gorgeous, sun-soaked Central Otago; the next, I was sinking into a steaming bamboo bath in total solitude, all of the feelings of the day (and, let’s be honest, several glasses of Pinot Noir) melting away.

The Onsen was everything I had hoped for — serene, indulgent, and so breathtaking it felt like I’d stepped into a screensaver. The bath sat in the center of a private room, steam curling into the air, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the Remarkables in all their rugged, cinematic glory. Below, the Shotover River twisted through the valley, its water so vibrantly blue it looked like someone had cranked up the saturation filter.

I slid into the hot water, feeling like an imposter, and let out an exhale-so-deep-I-didn’t-know-I-was-holding-in. The stress of travel (and maybe a one too many tastings from earlier) dissolved. The attendant had left a glass of wine, a pitcher of ice water, and a little snack on a tray — like she knew that ultimate relaxation for me meant not having to make a single decision.

For an hour, my world shrank to just this: warm water, the Remarkable mountains and the quiet rush of the river below. And then, as the bath slowly drained, I wrapped myself in the thickest, fluffiest robe I had ever worn and thought: “Who even am I right now? No. Really. This is ridiculous.”

An attendant knocked at the door to take me for a massage. An hour and a half later, I was sitting in the “relaxation room” sipping tea. It was silly luxurious, and for a several long moments, I considered abandoning my life and becoming a full-time travel content creator. (Is that a thing? Can a middle-aged American mom just…do that? Like. Love — share this blog and help dreams come true.)

Back to Sydney

The cab arrived at 5:00 AM. As I boarded my three-hour flight back to Sydney, the black morning sky gave way to a heavy gray, and it started to rain. The view from the plane window mirrored my feelings about leaving Queenstown. It had been such an incredible trip that, even though I was excited to see Eric, I felt very sad to leave.

We landed in Sydney, and I quickly found Eric in international baggage claim. After traveling 15 hours overnight from the States, he said he felt good. Reuniting was comfortable and further cemented this feeling that five days in New Zealand had been a dream.

Years ago, we took the kids to India for a friend’s wedding. Even though we’d been promised camels and elephant rides — I was nervous about flying all that way without guaranteeing them — so I booked a tour riding to the Agra Fort on elephant. It was a highlight — especially when the elephant sprayed water on them. The groom kept his word, and the kids also rode on elephants and camels as part of the wedding party. I had the same feeling about going to Australia. Koalas and kangaroos were a deal breaker.

Sold on the idea of seeing koalas outside our balcony, I had booked us a night at the Wildlife Retreat at Taronga. Essentially a zoo-adjacent luxury hotel, we were given a little wooden disc on a lanyard (Americans — especially people from DC — love lanyards) that granted us complimentary zoo access.

Even on a plane, Eric had gotten nearly twice as much sleep as I had and was energized to walk everywhere. 18,000 steps later, we had covered nearly every inch of the zoo, seeing several varieties of kangaroos, seals, sea lions, capybaras, penguins, emus, gorillas, and little monkeys. The showstopper was snagging the last two tickets for a private visit with the koalas!

To save the animals stress, Taronga doesn’t allow guests to hold koalas — but they do offer a limited number of people the opportunity to enter a small enclosure with a zoo guide to see them up close. We were introduced to three koalas. Willow was snuggled on a ledge with a very tiny gray fluffball — her baby, Yanada. On the other side, nine-month-old Busta was clinging to a tree branch. He blinked his eyes open and started chomping on eucalyptus leaves.

“Oh my gosh, he is the cutest baby I think I’ve ever seen! Hello, Busta,” I whispered to the little marsupial.

The guide laughed and assured me I didn’t need to whisper, then answered all our questions about koalas and the ongoing conservation effort to help increase their numbers. Anyone who has spent time with Eric knows she was peppered with questions.

Mid-afternoon, we went back to the hotel to officially check in and tour the Sanctuary — a private open-air garden where several of the zoo’s koalas, exotic birds, and other animals live. Exclusive to hotel guests, the Sanctuary is an elaborate space with a huge waterfall, large trees — and no walls. The habitat provides for select animals to live comfortably, surrounded by hotel rooms. Here, we got another view of the koala hanging out in the tree outside our balcony.

After the zoo closed, we joined a small group for a sunset tour visiting dingoes, big cats, and giraffes. Jacinda, our guide through the Sanctuary, also led the evening tour. Her combination of enthusiasm, knowledge, and mostly patience made her the perfect guide. She good-naturedly repeated facts about the tiny tree monkeys for our group and took care in sharing history and context on how Taronga cares for their animals. Her love for Taronga and her job was infectious.

Known as a major contributor to conservation efforts, the zoo invests heavily in education and is currently expanding its offerings.

Jacinda waved at the large adjacent construction site. “We’re building a state-of-the-art veterinary hospital. Scheduled to open next spring, people will be able to see real care of exotic creatures, including surgery. We will be able to care for literally hundreds of animals.”

The tour ended too soon, and we spent the rest of the evening sitting on the large circular deck overlooking Sydney Harbour.

Some people save all year for a Disney vacation as the ultimate fun and immersive experience. Taronga is perfect for people looking to learn and enjoy a real magical experience. Walking back to the hotel, a baby giraffe reached her head up to snack on leaves, backlit by Harbour Bridge at sunset.

It would be amazing to bring grandchildren here someday.

Eric pointed toward the water, and I wasn’t surprised to see fireworks going off over the iconic Opera House.

It was the perfect ending to our first night in Australia.

Tomorrow — on to Uluru.

Karen

As soon as I boarded, I spotted my friends Nigel and Karen from yesterday’s day trip to Milford Sound. We quickly picked up where we left off, this time discussing issues plaguing modern society — or in other words — things old people love to complain about.

I realized that, despite our conversations, we hadn’t introduced ourselves. I said, “I think I heard you’re called Nigel, I’m Suzy.”

Nigel laughed, “Yes, I’m Nigel, and this is Karen — like Karen.”

We all laughed. Karen confirmed she was in fact a ‘Karen.’ “Do you know what that means?” she asked.

“Ah yes, I know Karen. I think we Americans invented the term for a middle-aged woman whose go-to phrase is ‘Do you know who I am?’”

Nigel shook his head. “Not many Nigels left anymore. I might be one of the last.”

Karen seized on the name conversation and shaking her head in frustration, complained, “Our nieces and nephews are naming their kids terrible names. We were very careful choosing names for our daughters — ones that couldn’t be turned into awful nicknames.”

She sighed. “We have a niece named Dot — and she’s, well, not a dot.” On cue, Nigel spread his arms wide. Karen continued, “Then there’s Peaches Coco. Can you imagine? But the worst? Our nephew is named Riot.”

Finding Barry

I excused myself to explore the boat. Nicknamed the “Lady of the Lake,” the TSS Earnslaw is one of the last remaining coal-powered steamships in the world. Now a beloved tourist attraction, it offers scenic cruises to Walter Peak High Country Farm.

I let a tall man in a pink plaid shirt and his wife pass, then ducked into the engine room, hoping to snap a picture of the young man shoveling coal into the furnace. As I maneuvered for a better view, I nearly collided with a woman peering inside.

“Oh, sorry,” she said in an Australian accent. “I’m just looking for my husband.”

I laughed. “I left mine in the United States.”

Her eyes widened. “Did you really?”

Which is how I found myself deep in conversation with two Aussies about my travels. They insisted I needed to meet Barry — “Barry knows everything there is to know about Queenstown. Didn’t you see him? He was in the engine room with us.”

As we docked at Walter Peak, they pointed.

“There’s Barry! The bloke in the pink shirt.”

I scanned the crowd. “You mean the tall guy in the plaid shirt with gray shorts?”

“Yes! That’s him. That’s Barry.”

“Okay,” I assured them, “I’ll go find Barry.”

“Find Barry!” they cheered as I disembarked.

Crashing the Party

By the time I made it into the expansive covered porch, the best tables were already taken. I spotted Nigel and Karen at a cozy two-top. Scanning for a place to sit, I caught sight of Barry — seated at a four-top with his wife and a young man.

I walked over.

“Barry?”

The entire family looked up.

“Hi, I’m Suzy. You don’t know me, an Australian couple on the boat said I had to meet you because you’re the ‘mayor of Queenstown.’ Do you mind if I sit here?”

Barry seemed momentarily stunned but gestured to the empty seat. “Sure, have a seat.”

Only later did it occur to me what an obnoxious American I must have seemed — just barging into their family lunch on a spectacular Sunday afternoon.

Barry introduced me to his wife, Sharon, and their son, James. We ordered drinks and headed into the buffet. It was an absolute feast. One room was filled with vegetables, salads, charcuterie and breads. Another featured “sweets” — clotted cream, toffee pudding, sorbets, olive oil raspberry cake and little jars of chocolate mousse, glass jars lined the shelves filled with candy, chocolate covered marshmallows and homemade marshmallows. Outside, the enormous barbecue was grilling beef tips; slow roasted chicken, lamb, pork, smoked fish, and blue cod.

Sharon smiled when she saw I had blue cod. “Ah, I’m glad you got some blue cod. It’s a delicacy — and very expensive because its so hard to catch. It’s a meaty white fish that thrives in deep, cold water.”

Everything was delicious. Over lunch, I learned that Barry was the head of airport security, their daughter was in the Air Force, Sharon was retired and James was about to start a new job.

The Offer

When I returned from getting dessert, Barry smacked his hands on the table.

“Right. So, if you’re up for it, Young James will take our car and show you around the South Island. You’ll need to drop us off at home and be on your way,” He leaned forward, nodded to James and said, “We just need the car back.”

James rolled his eyes and glanced over at me.

I blinked. Processing.

“Say yes,” my inner voice was shouting.

The opportunity to see Queenstown with a local? It was too good to pass up. James seemed so quiet and sweet — I was interested in hearing his story and seeing the area through his eyes.

I accepted their polite invitation and in a moment to self-awareness, insisted we separate for the “farm show” so they could enjoy some family time without the bold American who had crashed their lunch.

Farm Show

Walking down the dusty, rocky trail to the “FARM SHOW” I stopped to pet a sweet dog laying in the shade. The young man in the hat nodded and said, “Her name is Mist.” Little did I know Mist was the star of the show I was heading to see. Moments later they were on stage explaining all about shearing and herding sheep. Tom showed us old fashioned shears and modern clippers, explained the cost of wool and the value of a good sheepdog. “Most cost $5,000-$10,000 — but a really good dog can cost $50,000.”

Mist, the 9 year old border collie, raced up a steep hill, herded sheep down into the paddock and following Tom’s command drove them back out. She was insanely fast.

After the expo, I tracked down James to let him off the hook.

“I really I appreciated your Dad’s offer for a personal tour guide — but you don’t really have to do this.”

James glanced sideways at me, smirked and said, “It was my idea anyway.”

My hand instinctively covered my heart, because this was the sweetest and most unexpected response.

I replayed the scene in my head. A loud American (me) barges into their family lunch — and Sharon suggested a bunch of “must-do” activities — creating the perfect itinerary for my last day. While I stepped away from the table to get dessert — instead of vacating the table — her son volunteers to spend his last day of freedom showing me around.

How did I get this lucky?

Our Adventure Begins

It was a short drive to their house. Built near a golf course, it was modern looking with large windows overlooking the spectacular Remarkables mountain range. The landscaping was well done with drought resistant native plants — I kept thinking how much my plant-enthusiast daughter Gillian would love it. After a glass of ice water, we were off!

I asked James to tell me his story. He shared how his family had lived in the North, but always vacationed in the South. They’d also lived in England, but moved back to the South when his dad got a job that was too good to pass up. He said it was the best place in the world and while he loved London — nothing compared to Queenstown.

Our first stop was Ayrburn, a historic farm-turned-food-and-wine destination. As we approached, pulsating EDM dance music filled the air.

James furrowed his brow. “Might not be able to get in.”

He pulled up to security. “Just wanted to take a quick look.”

We were waved through. Victory.

Walking the lush gardens, stone pathways, and a rippling stream that framed the stunning venue, James pointed out a life-sized bronze sculpture of a horse and a sheep, “They were actually best friends.”

Napoleon, the Clydesdale, and Ajax, the Romney sheep, were inseparable companions on the farm in the late 1800s. Established in the mid-1860s by Scottish settler William Paterson, Ayrburn Farm was among the first and most successful farms in New Zealand’s Wakatipu Basin. Named after Paterson’s birthplace, Ayr, and the Scottish word “burn” for stream, the farm continued operations until the early 21st century and has since been revitalized as a premier food and wine destination. In 2023, artist Neil Laffoley honored their bond with the sculpture.

Chris Meehan, CEO of Winton, acquired the farm in 2015, transforming it into a premier food and wine destination.

James recalled hearing a story: “One building on the farm was nearly finished — but the CEO didn’t like one little thing about it. They tore it all down and started over.”

Arrowtown

We drove on to Arrowtown, a gold rush-era village with charming old buildings, boutique shops, and hitching posts still in use. James told me occasionally people still ride into town and tie up their horses.

Nestled beneath the Remarkables, the town is rich with both its history and charm. During the 1860s Otago gold rush, just like in America’s Wild West, fortune seekers flooded the region in search of gold. The crowded mining settlement quickly grew into a thriving town with shops, saloons, and a diverse population, including many Chinese gold miners. On first hearing about it over lunch, I had asked Sharon if it’s the kind of place I could dress in old-timey clothes and get a sepia-toned portrait done, like at American theme parks. The real town was so much better.

We wandered cobblestone streets, crossed the main square, and ducked into small specialty shops before heading to Wānaka. Box checked.

Kawarau Bridge — The First Bungee

As we drove, James pointed up ahead, “That bridge is where they did the first bungee.”

Queenstown is home to the world’s first commercial bungee jump. Launched in 1988 at Kawarau Bridge, AJ Hackett and Henry van Asch first planned the 43-meter (141-foot) drop and started New Zealand’s reputation as the “adventure capital of the world.” James told me they had also bunged off the Eiffel Tower.

“They snuck up the night before and set it all up. The next day they did the bungee and got arrested. They were let go under the condition they never come back to Paris.”

We walked down towards the bridge gazing over the bright blue water below. I felt reckless, “Let’s do it, James!”

Without hesitation, James said, “Uh, no.”

Before I could rally a persuasive argument, we saw the bungee was closed. I think we both dodged a bullet.

“They dump you in.”

“What?

James pointed down. There was a yellow dingy tied to the shore. Then he pointed to an endlessly long staircase winding up the hillside.

I looked up at him and then back at all of the steps.

“See. You jump and they dunk you in the river, then you walk up.”

No, thank you. In addition to no sense of direction, I was born with bad knees. The idea of walking up 100+ steps after leaping off a ledge is kind of a nonstarter, and I was suddenly grateful the bungee was closed.

Support the Cause: A Fence Full of Bras

As we drove toward Wānaka, James pointed out a small town called Cardrona and mentioned we’d be stopping there on the way back. Then, with a completely straight face, he asked if I wanted to contribute to the bra fence.

I was sure I had misheard him.

“The what?”

Did he seriously just ask if I wanted to hang my bra on a fence? I had questions. Many questions.

To be fair, it wouldn’t be completely outside the realm of possibility. When I was 23, I did once sell my underwear (Sixteen Candles-style) in a bar to a guy who needed them for a bachelor party scavenger hunt — and walked away with $20. But that was a long time ago.

Sensing my confusion, James explained.

It started in 1999, when a few tourists left their bras on a rural fence, and snowballed into a full-blown roadside attraction. Now, it wasn’t just a Kiwi roadside spectacle — but had evolved into a fundraiser for breast cancer awareness. We drove by and saw colorful bras from around the world fluttering in the breeze.

I did not leave a bra behind. But, I kept smiling, thinking it captured the quirky “free spirit” of New Zealand — a place where even the most random act isn’t just fun — but benefits a good cause.

Wānaka

We drove into Wānaka. James explained how its expansive lakefront is typically lined with boats. It was a quiet Sunday night -but I could see how vibrant this beach town would be during the holidays.

As we walked, James quietly absorbed my endless questions.

I kept mistaking “Wānaka” for the Black Panther’s “Wakanda.” James was very patient with my missteps and misspeaks. He didn’t correct me — but was visibly pleased when I stopped botching the town’s name.

We walked along the sidewalk featuring a timeline for the town’s history. In 1960, the New Zealand government guaranteed equal pay to women and men in public service; but it wasn’t until 1972 that the same guarantee was offered to private sector. In the U.S., the Equal Pay Act of 1963 mandates equal pay for equal work, but wages have never been equal.

I spared James most of my frustration at being a woman in the world, but the truth is, he listens more than he speaks — and I felt like if anyone would understand injustices of the world, it would be James.

We wandered down to Speight’s Ale House for “tea” — which, as James patiently explained, meant dinner.

I told him that in the five days I’d spent in New Zealand, I had only eaten two meals with other people — and both of them had been with him.

Without missing a beat, he took a sip of his Coke, deadpanned, “That’s sad.”

(I am still laughing.)

We ordered food, and as the golden hour light streamed in, James attempted the impossible task of explaining rugby to me. Our table was wedged between the bar and the patio, perfectly positioned to watch the sun sink low over the rooftops — and also to highlight just how little I understood rugby.

If my dumb comparisons to American football were annoying, he never let on.

Just outside the huge glass doors, a couple sat completely absorbed in their phones, oblivious to the half-dozen birds executing a perfectly timed food heist, hopping from the bench to peck at their abandoned fries.

There were so many small, funny moments — my endless rugby confusion, quick chats with other diners, James’s stories that had me laughing. It was all just so easy, so warm — the kind of night that doesn’t feel like a big deal in the moment, but stays with you long after it’s over.

Kind of like how my favorite sunglasses (the ones I’d bought at our family vacation last summer at Asheville’s Biltmore Hotel) stayed behind on our table. But losing sunglasses and earrings are kind of my trademark — and felt like a small price to pay for the joy of the day.

Cardona Hotel

We started our drive back from Wānaka and once again it hit me the drive home is always much faster than leaving for an adventure. Before I knew it, we were pulling into the iconic Cardona Hotel for a drink. Because he was driving, James had another Coke and I had an IPA. We walked through the narrow entrance into a spacious bar — then out to gorgeous garden filled with flowers and chirping birds. We sat outside. The sun was going down and there was a slight chill in the air.

“My sister has wanted to get married here since she was little,” he said.

We talked about his family, his future and life in general. The whole day felt like a movie. In a movie, there would be some dramatic plot twist. Looking at this lovely young man with ginger hair and soft blue eyes, I knew the plot twist was his. Tomorrow, he was starting a new job and his whole life was about to begin. I felt confident that something was about to happen for James.

“Earlier this morning, I has this overwhelming thought, ‘I believe something wonderful is going to happen today — and I’m open to an adventure’ and look what happened. I met you — and you’ve given me this incredible day. I don’t know how to thank you.

Also. I think this new job is going to be great.”

James laughed and said the day certainly hasn’t ended up as he’d expected it either.

The bar was crowded with men wearing goofy striped jackets, like a quartet. We waved good night to the bartender and walked towards the door. Just before pushing through — I whispered back to James, “Do you think we could get a photo with them?”

James had explained the striped costumes were an aspirational goal. Supporters of a Cricket Club typically wear these striped suites. When they lived in London, his father, Barry had been invited to be a “big Hippo” — and got his own striped jacket. James had been a “Baby Hippo” and was hoping, that someday he could be a “Big Hippo.”

Apparently, if you love sports in England or New Zealand, the rules are simple:

1. Wear a ridiculous outfit.
2. Play the game or cheer like your life depends on it.
3. End up in a bar celebrating — win or lose.

Which is how, on a random Sunday night in New Zealand, I found myself hoisted into the air by a group of grown men chanting, “Selfie with Suz!”

Note: I’ve been trying to get ‘Selfie with Suz’ trending for years…my friends regularly give me a hard time about keeping a selfie stick in my purse at all times — just in case. I’ve leaned in hard to ‘Selfie with Suz’ and here in New Zealand — I feel like it might just be catching on….

As we pulled in front of my hotel, I felt both silly and incredibly lucky that I met those Aussies on the TSS Earnslaw. Instead of being alone on my last night — I enjoyed seven incredible hours with a fantastic new friend. And, now that we’re Insta-friends I can watch James blossom into his new life. Cheers mate.

The Last Day

The next day I woke up to last full day in New Zealand. I’d booked a wine tasting tour and ended up in a small group (of mostly Americans) — visiting four vineyards. I had the foresight to save the best for last and ended the day with an hour long soak, followed by a massage at a Japanese onsen. (The gift had been given to me by my father-in-law and was hands-down the best Christmas present ever!)

Back in time for sunset, I spent my last evening enjoying the lake. It was an exquisite end to a memorable trip.

Tomorrow, I was flying back to Sydney — to meet Eric and start part two of our adventure! One Day in Sydney.

While researching “Things to do in Queenstown,” I knew I wanted to book a few tours to see as much of New Zealand’s South Island as possible. One of the top experiences on my list was a 12-hour bus and boat tour to explore Milford Sound, one of the largest and most breathtaking fjords in Fiordland National Park. After a long trip to get here and spending the first day doing “thrill seeking activities — I was looking forward to seeing more of the countryside that didn’t require me to jump, zoom or rough ride. I was wrong on all accounts.

A Brief History of Milford Sound

Milford Sound, known as Piopiotahi in Māori*, was formed over millions of years by glaciers carving through the landscape. A Welsh settler later named it after Milford Haven, his hometown, but its Māori name (Piopiotahi) comes from a legend about the now-extinct piopio bird.

Captain James Cook bypassed Milford Sound twice, unaware of its existence due to its hidden entrance from the Tasman Sea. It wasn’t until 1812 that European settlers fully explored it. Today, it is considered one of the most stunning natural attractions in the world and receives over 500,000 visitors annually.

The Journey Begins

The pickup spot for my tour was a steep 10-minute walk from my hotel. As I climbed the hill, I met two older couples also searching for the white Mercedes van that would take us on our nearly three-hour drive to Milford Sound.

When I asked if they were on the same tour, they made the mistake of following me as I confidently led them downhill — in the wrong direction.

I was born without a sense of direction. Typically, if my gut says go left, I go right — opposite is almost always the correct choice. Unfortunately, this was not one of those times. After a few minutes of misplaced confidence, I realized my mistake and turned us around, finally leading them back to the meeting point.

There, we met Podge, our driver and guide for the day.

The Ride to Milford Sound

We piled into the van, slightly sweaty and grateful for a seat and a sip of water. Podge was an excellent guide — navigating winding, steep roads while sharing stories about the history and geography of the region. He explained his real name was Podrick — Irish for Patrick — and that he’d moved from the Emerald Isle to Queenstown a decade earlier.

On the way to our first major stop, Te Anau, Podge drove the bus straight up The Devil’s Staircase. I was white-knuckled and I was a passenger up the steep and curvy road. Carved into the mountainside in the 1800s, he told farmers lost countless sheep as they ran over the cliff face into the water below.

During the New Zealand Gold Rush, seven schools and hundreds of people called this area home. Today? The population is two. An older married couple lives at the top of Nevis Road, a 1,600-meter (5,250 foot) public road that requires a 4WD to navigate. They have no phone, no television, and for half the year, the road is completely closed due to weather. It reminded me of The Shining, and I could only imagine the couple were a real life version of Jack Nicholson and Shelley Duvall.

The landscape was aggressively shaped by earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, and glaciers, which left behind giant boulders scattered across fields and glacial flour in the lake. The result? Crystal-clear, Caribbean-blue lakes that look almost tropical — but are freezing cold.

We drove through The Remarkables, a north-south mountain range known for its dramatic 45-degree slopes — towering 2,300-meter (7,500-foot) peaks. Sir Edmund Hillary trained here before his Everest expedition.

At one point, Podge mentioned that on a clear winter night, the remote areas around Nevis Valley are among the best places to see the Aurora Australis — the Southern Lights. A dazzling natural display of pink, green, and violet hues dancing across the sky.

Podge was thoughtful, offering frequent rest stops. At one stop, he pointed out a giant sculpture of the takahē. The native bird thought extinct for 50 years was rediscovered. New Zealand has worked tirelessly to bring them back. Podge encouraged us to keep an eye out for one. I couldn’t quite tell if he was joking.

Driving past sheep and cow farms, I was surprised to see deer farms. In the U.S., deer are wild and only hunted seasonally, sometimes, as my German flight friend, Alex told me — out of bathroom windows. In New Zealand, they farm deer, elk, and even moose. Podge laughed, telling us that 16 moose were brought over from Canada in 1901 and released into a national park — never seen again. Podge gave one more piece of advice, "If you see one today, take a picture. If you don’t have a picture, it didn’t happen.”

A Coffee Break & Small-World Moments

At our next stop, Podge picked up our picnic lunches while we grabbed coffee and snacks. I ordered a flat white and a chocolate croissant and sat at one of the two marked tables for our tour group.

“Do you mind if we join you?” a young woman asked, clutching a takeaway coffee.

“Please!” I gestured to the empty table reserved for our bus tour. Then, like a cheesy late-night host, I asked, “What brings you to New Zealand?” Did I really say that?

“We’re on our honeymoon!” she smiled. “Actually, we got married last fall, but we knew we wanted to take a big trip, so we booked New Zealand for now, when it would be good weather.”

I soon learned the young couple was from Ohio. As soon as I mentioned that Eric (my absent husband) grew up near the bride’s hometown, they relaxed immediately. It’s always funny how those small connections make people feel at ease.

“Of course, I know Sandusky! We’ve been taking our kids there since they were little. Cedar Point? The tallest, fastest rollercoasters in the world? That’s what my family loves. Not me. The last time I rode a rollercoaster, I actually cried with relief that I was still alive at the end.” Who am I, and why am I still talking?

“What else have you done that you’ve really loved?” I tried to shift the conversation back to them.

She looked up, thinking. “Oh! We did the steamboat ride to Walter Peak Farm for lunch and the sheepdog show — if you have a chance, you should do that, it’s really good.”

You never know how a little conversation can have such a dramatic impact. I promised I’d look into it.

Rainfall, Waterfalls & Avalanches

As we drove deeper into Fiordland National Park, Podge pointed out the tall conifer trees, explaining they grow 40% faster here than in North America. While New Zealand’s average rainfall is only 0.5 meters (1.6 feet) per year, Milford Sound gets 6–8 meters (20–26 feet).

“We don’t have rainy days here. We have waterfall days.”

The region is too wet for wildfires but prone to landslides and avalanches.

Passing through the Eglinton Valley, we learned the government monitors snowpack levels throughout the winter. They drop explosives from helicopters on unstable snow to prevent full-scale avalanches from cutting off access to Milford Sound.

Mirror Lakes

A five-minute boardwalk led us to Mirror Lakes — perfectly still, crystal-clear water reflecting the mountains. Another American from our bus offered to take my photo, then coached me through different poses and jumping in a field for the perfect shot.

She was quick to give me her life story. She and her husband travel full-time while she works a remote teaching job. It should have surprised me — but frequently people share deeply personal stories with strangers. Hers made me sad. Her son recently married someone that “no one liked” and cut her out of his life. I can’t imagine anything worse than being estranged from my kids — and my heart went out to her.

It reminded me how travel opens people up. Like the honeymooners, once you find a connection, people want to tell their story.

Milford Sound

An hour later, we arrived at Milford Sound for our boat tour.

The landscape was like Acadia National Park, Glacier National Park, and Lugano, Switzerland — all rolled into one. Towering cliffs plunged into deep, glacial blue water. The pictures don’t do it justice.

Onboard, I sat next to Karen and Nigel, a British couple from our bus, as we cruised past waterfalls and sunbathing seals. The captain explained how early explorers missed Milford Sound — from the sea, the mountains appear as one solid range.

The wind was strong.

The sun was bright

The view was worth it.

Karen and Nigel wanted to talk all about the U.S. election and their concern about the new U.S. administration reshaping international relationships. The conversation quickly shifted to the recent changes in inheritance tax laws in the UK, which had inspired them to take this trip.

“It’s outrageous,” Nigel said, shaking his head. “The government takes 40 percent in inheritance tax over a certain threshold! So we figured, if we can’t leave it behind, we may as well spend it and enjoy ourselves.”

Our final stop was the only waterfall you can go under. Before we’d boarded, Podge joked, “If you get wet here, you’ll look ten years younger in the morning.”

The mist drenched us, and 50 people burst into laughter. (Did I wake up looking ten years younger? Absolutely.)

Back to Queenstown

On the drive home, I felt a little sad to say goodbye to my new travel friends. It had been a stunning day in a place that felt untouched by time.

Tomorrow, for the first time in ages, no alarm was set. The only thing planned was a spontaneous lunch trip recommended by the Ohio honeymooners on the TSS Earnslaw Steamship to Walter Peak Farm.

*The Māori are the indigenous Polynesian people of New Zealand, who arrived by canoe from the Pacific around the 13th century. Their culture, language, and traditions remain central to New Zealand’s identity, influencing place names, national symbols, and governance.

Half-way around the world. Alone. With no sense of direction. What could go wrong?

The first day of my “solo-cation” was an adrenaline rush. Kayakers were out on the lake; a few people strolled down the beach as I hustled on, trying to find the gondola. It was my first time in New Zealand. My first real day to explore after 45 hours of travel to get there. And, my first Valentine’s Day alone in more than 30 years — so I celebrated by doing the things I knew my husband would love to do if he were here. (In other words, maybe trying to make him just a little guilty for not coming with me.)

All the reviews said the Queenstown Gondola was a must-do. Hiking up steep streets towards the gondola station, I felt relieved I hadn’t attempted to hike up the mountain itself — because judging how winded I was, I’d never make it.

As we boarded, the operator snapped photos of couples and groups. Feeling a tinsy bit awkward, I stepped forward for a solo picture. She handed me a card with a QR code, explaining there were photo spots around the resort where I could download images for free. I kept thinking, free? You’d never see this in America. The ride was smooth and I chatted with a friendly couple from Wisconsin visiting their daughter, who was studying abroad.

At the top, we hopped out of the moving gondola — like a ski lift — it never stopped. Outside, construction noise shattered the air — a dramatic reminder Queenstown was expanding its resort offerings. Signs for the Skyline expansion made me almost wish I was coming next year.

I grabbed a coffee and stepped outside to the viewing deck. A bright orange paraglider sailed over my head and took my breath away. Queenstown is impossibly beautiful. Ensconced by mountains with a crystal clear glacial lake that is impossibly blue. Luge riders zig-zagging around the mountain track— were a sneak peek of what awaited me. But first, it was time for the two-hour zipline tour.

Seeing the bright orange glider, I was suddenly seized with the idea, “I want to do that!”

Flying Through the Trees

Arriving at the Ziptrek treehouse, our guide, Sydney, checked in a couple from Auckland with their teenaged boys; another young married couple, and me. Her energy was infectious — everything was “great, perfect, fantastic.” (In other words, Sydney was the kind of person who could make going to the grocery store sound like an adventure.)

Within minutes, we were strapped into our harnesses and, with her co-worker Eue, heading to the first platform.

The tour focused on eco-sustainability, making it more interesting — and underscoring a stark contrast. New Zealand is leading the charge on clean energy, while America is still debating whether to cut down the trees and drill for oil in our national parks.

Helmets on, we walked to a platform — like a floating treehouse suspended very high above the ground. To keep things exciting, each stop came with a new challenge.

“Are you ready?” Sydney grinned, “This time I want you to flip upside down!”

I stared at her. “What do you mean flip upside down.” I wasn’t trying to be difficult, I was genuinely struggling with how to flip upside-down while speeding between trees 50 feet high in the air.

“Great question!” Her smile was like a beam of light. “So, you’re going to jump off the platform, then kick your legs up as hard and high as you can until you flip upside down. Make sense? You go first!”

When she pointed to the teenager in the other family, I exhaled a sigh of relief, I hadn’t realized I was holding in.

Note. I successfully flipped upside down, and it was just as terrifying as I expected. Thankfully, I managed to flip back before I smashing my head against the landing platform.

The next tasks including: “Jump off backwards!” and “Sprint off the platform!” were mixed with lessons on sustainability and the rich history of the forest we were soaring through.

The two-hour adventure was exhilarating and over too soon.

I had been challenging myself to post a daily Instagram story — partly as “proof of life” and partly so Eric and the kids could see what I was up to. Today’s story was a 20 second video of me on the final zipline — 240 meters long, speeding at 50 KM/H high above the treetops with a stunning view of Queenstown and the lake below. The video was paired with one of my favorite Eleanor Roosevelt quotes, “Do one thing every day that scares you,” and captured me screaming, laughing, and questioning all my life choices midair.

Next up: Lunch, Lingering, and Luge Rides.

Like the mountain coaster near Seven Springs, PA, the luge is a small gravity-powered ride controlled by a simple steering column. Pull back, you slow down. Lean in, you pick up speed. Mess it up? You may or may not launch yourself into the air.

It took a few seconds to figure out the right balance, but within minutes, I was catching air, flying down the track.

I spent the early evening people-watching and enjoying the sunset by the lake. A sweet family picnicked nearby and was instantly surrounded by seagulls and ducks, instinctively drawn to messy little eaters.

Everything here feels so safe and wholesome — like a throwback to a simpler time.

The sun dipped over the water. I watched two friends diving off a swimming platform into the chilly lake. It was so familiar. I’ve spent decades watching Eric launch himself off of everything — low dives, high dives, the ten-meter platform, even cliffs. Watching the divers made me feel like I was watching my own family and for a minute — I forgot I was alone here.

The Surprising Beauty of Solo Travel

The thing I’ve come to embrace about this trip? How decadent it is to travel alone. At first, I was apprehensive. (I mean, traveling to another country, alone, is a little intimidating.) What I’ve learned is how indulgent solo travel can be.

If I want to eat, I eat.

If I want to shop, I shop.

If I want to sit on the beach and watch the world go by, no one is rushing me to the next activity.

There is no negotiation, no discussion, no disappointment. You just do what you want.

It’s a completely new perspective. And, I’m meeting so many nice, lovely people, having interesting conversations — its not lonely. Listening and learning has been wonderful, but the true gift of solo travel is time.

We’re getting older.

I glanced down at my stacked gold wedding bands. One is mine; the other belonged to my mother-in-law. I like to wear them together — especially on adventures like this. It feels like I’m bringing her along. Nena would’ve loved this trip. My dad died when he was 60, and Eric’s mom passed a few years ago. Looking ahead, I’ve been feeling somewhat paralyzed at the thought of living without my husband. We joke about being codependent, yet I know with certainty — we come into this world alone and go out the same way. I went from living with my parents to having roommates to being with my husband.

But this solo trip has given me a new perspective.

I’ve genuinely enjoyed this time on my own.

And now I know — if or when the time comes, it’ll be okay.

Tomorrow? An adventure I’d been waiting for. Milford Sound!