We are imposters here.
And the irony of the situation is not lost on me.

As we approach the hotel’s grand entrance, I attempt to smooth back a few greasy strands of airplane hair, taking note of the uniformed valet service standing by on a slab of expensive marble. Crossing the threshold and navigating the spacious lobby to the reception desk, we are assisted by a young, smooth-faced “Kevin” according to one gleaming name plate, pinned upon a pressed lapel. His Windsor knot is separated from our sweaty socks and day-old teeth by a high, polished desk. As Kevin slides two keys across to us for Executive Suite #842, I wonder if he knows my suitcase doesn’t contain a real bra, of if he would be able to guess that I opted to leave both hairbrush and razor at home on Woodlands Lane. Accepting his polite smile and directions to the lobby lift, we drag our dented and dilapidated carry-ons across a floor designed for the smart, sharp click of high heels.

Successfully checked in to our five-star digs for the weekend, it’s now time to indulge in the world of hot water on-demand, ensconce ourselves in bleach-white bathrooms, and start scouring the classifieds for a conversion van.

Hello, New Zealand.
Let’s get down to business.

^ My current window office, facing the largest building in the Southern Hemisphere. Further entertainment: watching a car commercial being filmed 8 stories below. Who knew NZ had such a healthy industry? We’ve now witnessed 3 commercial shoots in the span of 2 days.

-K