The wine bubbled on his tongue, aerating to reveal black
fruit, dark chocolate, and a hint of tomato vine. Camille knew wine, having
spent two years prior to this one in France, studying to be an Oenologist - a
scientist of wine. I first met Camille while suiting up for a kayak trip around
Tasman Bay, his quiet determination to walk a 6 hour track in this popular
national park enhanced by the flimsy yellow backpack strings pinned decidedly
to his shoulders.
We met again at trails end, his gaze following applications
of lotion and light makeup after a hot shower returned sensation to my
kayak-weary limbs. Camille looked much the same as our morning meeting, unfazed
by a day of winter tramping, his quiet demeanor contrasting youthful visage. He
may have been 22, but judging by the softness of his skin, he couldn’t have
been more than 25.
With a 5-minute warning from the driver for our return to
Nelson, I piled my bags into the van and stumbled into the first available
seat. Camille arrived last, inviting his blonde tramping partner to choose her
seat, he took the last, sitting beside me. We spoke of hostels and NZ travels,
comparing notes with others in the van. My bare-bones YHA hostelling experience
paling in comparison to various BBH hostels described by many, including the gold
status given to The Paradiso in Nelson for it’s sauna, hot tub, tasty
breakfasts and, most notably, chocolate pudding for dessert. And as it turns
out, Camille was spending another night at The Paradiso, while I was booked at
the more central, and austere YHA Nelson. By the end of the 1-hour drive we
spoke long enough to cement a bond and I was saddened to part with my new friends
from Paradiso.
Arriving in Nelson after dark, I quickly realized that there
was little to do on this winter’s night when all but the most enterprising
restaurants had closed their doors at 5pm. As I walked the silent streets
scouting for food and the bus depot, a colorful van whipped past and dropped a
dark-haired man off at a nearby bank. On closer inspection, the side of the van
was tagged in bubble letters spelling out P-a-r-a-d-i-s-o. Camille? I couldn’t
tell for sure in this darkness, but this person before me had an uncanny
resemblance to my French bus mate. I quickly crossed the street to avoid an
awkward encounter at the ATM, and thought nothing more of it.
Half a day later, as I sat on the top deck of the
Inter-islander Ferry, Camille re-appeared offering a double take as he made his
way to the rail for an unobstructed view. A long gaze confirmed his presence,
not surprising considering that he had told me of his plans to head north.
Recognizing me, he changed course and sat down beside me. After a polite
greeting, he proceeded to tell me of the morning’s hitchhiking adventure that
brought him to the ferry in record time (he had left Nelson at least an hour
later than I had). He seemed both pleased and amazed at his luck. I don’t
remember much more of our conversation during the 4-hour ferry ride except for
the fact that he would be flying out of Auckland to France the day before I
would leave for the States. That, and he was planning a wine tour of Waiheki
Island with his friend who would be meeting him in Wellington. I desperately
wanted to ask if I could tag along, but soon realized that I would be
travelling from Bulls on the day that he planned to go.
As the ferry turned toward Wellington Harbour, Camille left
the deck with his belongings, muttering something about strong winds. After a
few attempts to find him in the cabins below, I returned to the top deck assuming
that I would not see him again. Yet there he was, easily spotted in his red
parka, standing by the baggage claim belt. We chatted for a few minutes, and
then got separated when loading onto the shuttle bus. Looking away when he
stepped on the bus so that he would not feel obliged to sit near me, Camille
walked past without a word and sat a few seats behind. A man close to my age
sat beside me and we immediately struck up a conversation about things to do
and see in Wellington. I saw Camille again briefly, passing him on the bus
platform, his profile hinting at a sadness that I could not be sure of. Knowing
that we would be parting within minutes, I thought it best not to disturb him.
Only in retrospect did I realize that it is far better to endure the
awkwardness of a goodbye than the part indifferently, as if we had never met.
Once again, I was saddened by the thought that we might
never meet again, and a bit annoyed with myself for failing to ask if I might
join him on his trip to Waiheke, yet half-hoping that I might find him again in
Auckland. In spite of the distractions of cosmopolitan Wellington and two days
on a farm in Bulls, the cadence of his words echoed in my head for days, much
like Luciano’s had, only this time with the poetry of English pronounced by a
Frenchman allied with our shared love of wine and stunning landscapes viewed
from high vantage points.
So it was with a great deal of amazement that I spotted a
black-haired man with a familiar playful lope across the street from the Auckland
International Hostel just as I arrived on Saturday night. This time, my double
take was met with Camille’s bright smile and a cheerful greeting. I immediately
asked how his trip to Waiheke had been and he replied that he was planning to
go on Sunday, asking if I would like to join him. “Yes,” my over-enthusiastic
reply giving away a bit too much eagerness, qualified by, “ if that’s o.k.”
revealing a bit too much vulnerability. He hesitated to respond, but did not
retract his offer and said that he would go over details in the common area of
the hostel once I had settled in.
Minutes turned to at least an hour when I was delayed by
laundry, conversations with new roommates and who knows what else. When I
finally made it to the common area, Camille was busy setting up a game of beer
pong with a couple of German men, and either he didn’t see me, or chose not to
acknowledge me in front of this younger crowd. At any rate, we did not discuss
plans that night because I failed to see him again in spite of perching myself
in an obvious spot in the lounge with a book for hours. The next morning just
as I was heading upstairs to pack for a day of yet undecided adventure (having
given up on the Waiheke trip), whom did I run into but Camille. “We’ll need to
leave by 9:15.” He spoke casually, as if he had expected to meet. I went along
with it even though it would only give me 15 minutes to finish breakfast and
get ready. I left him to eat his ginger cookies and tea while I hurriedly
cleaned up my dishes.
Although I plan to tell more of our adventure on Waiheke, I
tell this tale because of the un-canniness of our encounters. It is not so
uncommon to run into the same people throughout a common course of travel in
New Zealand. There are only so many roads, and in winter, not too many places
to eat or to rest one’s head. I ran into several other people who I recognized
periodically from place to place, thinking little of it. My encounters with
Camille were exceptional because of their timing. Each time, just as I was
about to leave, or in at least one case, as I was about to arrive, Camille
would be there, present and happy to see me. Perhaps I’m reading too much into
these encounters, or being too mystical about it all, but this is not the first
experience that I’ve had with repeated crossings, and usually there is an
obvious exchange that takes place to confirm the reason for our meetings.
With this said, I’m still not sure what the reason is for
this set of chance meetings except to say that when with Camille I felt a
fondness, a sense of closeness, and a lightness of being that only comes to the
surface for me when I’m most relaxed and happy. If nothing else, he was a
reminder for me of a way of being that requires nothing but the time and space
to breathe into each moment and settle in. I will miss Camille, and in the
missing I will remember him with love for the moments made magic by our time
together.
