Our mission now is to avoid going through the big city of Christchurch and find a cozy pub somewhere in the middle of nowhere to spend the night at. Well, we find a cool bridge in the middle of nowhere.
After driving all over lots of nowhere, we end up in Christchurch. James points out the Carlton Hotel, which our Queenstown friend, Cliff, either managed or owned; James can't recall which.
Persian rug sale at a church. I find this amusing.
James and I are very hungry by now, and very grumpy about it.
Finally, we find a pub motel with atmosphere and price that suits. Now, I'm trying to figure out this scene: the sign is to protect the prettiness of the garden, but the sign itself is an eyesore.
In-room coffee. There's those little cup packets of real milk.
Interesting old night stand.
After a massive dinner of ribeye steak (covered in sautéed onions), chips (French fries) and "salad" (which in this case meant a pile of potato salad, a pile of pasta salad, and a pile of seafood salad) ... a dinner James and I each got, the portions mountainous on the plates, a dinner of immensely pleasurable flavor, a dinner where the plates went back to the kitchen looking like they just got the tar beat out of them, but the plates exclaimed, "you should see the other guys!!" ... after dinner, I hit the "pokies," and then on to the off-track betting room to pet on dogs, and sulky races and thoroughbreds. Gambling is legal in New Zealand.
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