J00sterJournal: Pohutukawa Christmas: Part 1

I'm dreaming of a Kiwi Christmas, like the ones I used to know. The kind of Christmas they immortalize on those one kilo Milo tins: Pohutukawas swaying lazily in the summer breeze over an endless crescent of sand, waves lapping gently to the dulcet tones of Brian Waddle. A couple of overflowing scoops of golden chips spilling out of last decade's faded Herald, slathered with a dollop of Watties as red as those blazing Pohutukawa blooms.

Better keep dreaming folks, lest you wake up to reality: Grey, rainy, and freezing with the kind of vicious Westerly that makes the Manawatu the perfect spot for New Zealand's largest wind farm, and Foxton Beach the best place to spot icebergs north of Scott Station. Sorry son, don't get your hopes up.

But hark, what are these whispered legends, passed down through the generations, of a paradise by a big bay? A fabled land where the sun always shines, the water is always warm, and the ants never, ever enter the garage? Does it exist, this lost Eden? No, not the one where the Blackcaps are all out for 137, the other one, the one where the Iwi bury their ancestors and the sandflies raise their successors. Read on!

No quest for a Lost World is complete without trials, tribulations, and a John Williams score. Hour 20 of the trek from EWR to AKL via IAH. Premier Qualifying Miles never came so tough. Thirty minutes from landing and finally he's out.

The trail is getting warm! We do not follow maps to buried treasure and X never, ever marks the spot. But a flat white, a steak and cheese pie, and a bottle of Watties might.

Here's an old Wellington friend: the little roti canai joint off Cuba Street is still cranking out the best Malaysian this side of Kuala Lumpur. Takes more than a few quakes to throw them off their game.

Just like the roti, something else never changes either: the Wellington weather.

Grillmaster Casey demonstrates how to flip a burger in Wellington: just pop it on the griddle and wait for the next quake to flip it for you. I'll take mine medium rare, what's that, about 4.2 on the Richter scale I reckon?

Paradise waits for no one (or so the Dr. said to get everyone to fork over). Time to hit the road again before the trail goes cold. Ryan's sleuthing suggests the next clue may lie in Inner Mongolia, but the big people overrule him and set course for the sunny shores of Sydney.

Can we bring this cage onto the plane?

Another flat white! Definitely getting closer.

So back in the day a Leagues Club was the kind of place a bunch of tattooed Westies would hit the pokies, the booze, and each other, not necessarily in that order. Fast forward a decade and the Wests Ashfield Leagues club has gone all hipster, stale cigarette smoke replaced by the wafting scent of the wood-fired organic pizza oven. If this is peak hipster, sign me up.

Daddy, why did you leave again?

Daddy, when you said flat white you wanted me to flatten the cup, right?

A glorious Sydney day calls for an excursion to the Botanical Gardens, featuring a celebrity cameo from #dirtylittleyommer. He collects Instagram likes faster than other mere canines collect fleas.

It's like Central Park, with an ocean!

'Sup bro?

This must be it! The quest surely ends at this magnificent big bay, for a truer slice of paradise you'll never find. Wait, say what? This isn't it? It's even better than this? In that case just tell me where to sign!

Last time Team J00ster had one of these legendary dumplings was in the shadow of Taipei 101. Trump's right, globalization has ruined everything, now instead of searching the twisting alleyways of old Taiwan for the perfect xiao long bao you just wander into the nearest food court. Build the wall! Build the wall! And turn the boats back in your budgie smugglers while you're at it.

Overheard on the pool deck of the Shangri-La: Daddy, there might be celebrities out here, can you please put some clothes on? It's ok son, they're all attending the "Media Slant and Investor Inattention" session downstairs.

The futuristic Barangaroo development is like a city within a city, an overdue slice of Pudong in a skyline that mostly grew up in the 80s. Which still makes it younger than someone in this photo.

Daddy, when the robots take our jobs will you still push me? Of course son, but they can do the diapers.

No one said the road to paradise was easy. Another day, another airport. Remember what Mommy said, something about every journey starting with a single drink...

For once Melbourne's weather avoids earning an honorary Kiwi passport.

Out and about in artsy Melbourne.

So, dinner is coming out of a cello tonight? Daddy, what do you mean when you say your favorite chord is double D?

Doesn't look kid friendly. Thank goodness, it's not wallet friendly either.

Daddy, how come my crib at home doesn't have an evening turn down service?

Or a good night chocolate?

It may not be 5th Avenue, but Melbourne does a pretty good job of getting into the Christmas spirit. So Daddy, we flew half way around the world so we could see fake snow? You know we had the real stuff back home.

Barron Trump, meet Ryan Lexington.

Here comes the choo choo. All aboard the hipster express!

Peak hipster is nigh! Lune, a croissanterie hidden down a nondescript residential street in an old warehouse, transforms the simple act of baking a croissant into avante-garde theater.

A team of bakers, clad all in white and moving with surgical precision, are sealed in a soundproof, climate-controlled glass cube in the center of the vast warehouse. With choreographed grace they hand craft a single croissant at a time, seemingly unware of the slightly bemused world outside waiting for their buttery creations to somehow penetrate the airlock. Please don't tap on the glass.

The paradox of the hipster. How to eat like one and still wear skinny jeans.

LL&B. No it's not some newly aggrieved micro-minority the Dems dreamed up, it's the drink that allows uncool people to sound cool when they order a non-alcoholic beverage.