Questions
The Trip
- What is this trip actually for? Is New Zealand the place in which something—attention, encounter, movement, friendship, curiosity—is allowed to happen?
- How much itinerary creates possibility, and how much itinerary begins to destroy it?
- What deserves more time: an extraordinary road, an extraordinary landscape, or an ordinary town in which something interesting has begun to happen?
The People :
- What conditions make an encounter more likely—campgrounds, cafés, pubs, small towns, staying two nights instead of one, simply not being in a hurry?
- How do I leave enough emptiness in the itinerary for somebody I haven't met yet to change Thursday?
Lingering :
- Can a day be a good trip day if almost nothing happens?
- Can a day spent washing clothes, drinking coffee, walking around town and talking to one person be as important as riding one of the great roads in the country?
- How much recovery does an experience require before another experience merely piles on top of it?
- What is the difference between resting because I'm tired and stopping long enough to actually notice where I am?
- Does boredom have a legitimate place in a great trip?
- What becomes visible on the second morning in a town that is invisible on the first afternoon?
The motorcycle:
- Is the motorcycle primarily transportation, part of the adventure, a social object, or the point of view from which the country is being experienced?
- When should a spectacular motorcycle road win over a more socially interesting town—and when shouldn't it?
- Does camping make us more available to the country, or can cabins, bunkhouses and little motels sometimes put us closer to people?
- How much hardship actually adds something—and how much is merely hardship?
The Itinerary:
- Why is this town still here?
- When should the itinerary be challenged? When should it be refined?
- Am I constructing an itinerary to make sure the trip happens, or constructing one that knows when to get out of the trip's way?
What happens when a grieving, increasingly isolated person gains access to a tireless language interface that can receive the same pain repeatedly, recognize the particular loss inside it, and respond without needing him to hurry up, pull himself together, or protect the listener from his feelings?