Deborah Coddington: Journeys afar highlight cringe factors at home

Home to this beautiful country after five weeks overseas and why does it feel like someone inserted a crummy made-for-television movie in the nation's main channel and pressed constant replay?

MPs know the public hates pettiness yet they're still throwing their toys out of the cot and calling each other puerile names.

For crying out loud - Henare, Hide and Harawira are supposed to be on the same side of the House. These boys need to get out more.

Here's a question for the Act Party: If its leader would sacrifice his ministerial portfolio for his "one law for all" policy, why does this party of principle advocate a different law for children when someone accused of perpetrating violence against a child comes before the court?

I cringe when I read overseas headlines proclaiming that despite New Zealand's dreadful reputation for child abuse, we want to defy international trends and bring back pro-smacking legislation.

How to explain why we'd do this, especially if you talk about child murders like James Whakaruru or Nia Glassie?

Commentators who sneer Sue Bradford's law change hasn't saved a child from death miss the point.

It's illegal to hit an adult but that doesn't stop adults from murdering each other. Perhaps a smartypants will start a petition to permit reasonable force against wives who don't cook their husbands' eggs. We could call it "Jake's Law".

But travelling overseas I don't feel cultural cringe.

I'm proud to be from New Zealand, nowhere more so than in the United States. It's a country of crazy, funny, deeply hospitable people who, on discovering you're a Kiwi, immediately have one of three responses, usually in this order:

"You make wonderful wines in New Zealand!"

"We visited your country and it's so beautiful; we had a wonderful time!"

"New Zealand is number one on our list of places to visit!"

I'm not ashamed of my Kiwi accent, and I don't care if I'm teased about it, or confused with an Australian. In America I just tease them back, tell them they sound like Canadians.

What's more, they drive on the wrong side of the road, their water goes down the plughole the wrong way, and their stars in the night sky are upside down. Throw those lines at them before you jump out of a lift - sorry, elevator - and you'll leave them confused for the rest of the day.

Just last week we were barging along the Canal du Nivernais in Burgundy, where even the ribbing from the Scottish guests about my accent ("iggs" for eggs or "kettle" for cattle) couldn't ruin the bliss of cooling off from the 47.8C heat by occasionally diving into the water.

Finally I growled some choice Maori phrases at the cheekiest of these Celts.

That shut him up for a while. In fact, he was keen to learn te reo and wrote down some words to take home.

We should stop this cultural cringe. New Zealand does matter. The world does look at us and unfortunately notes the worst of us, like our wish to return to legalising smacking.

There is so much about this country that is positive, and I'm grateful I'm spoiled and lucky to travel abroad often and appreciate it.

Kiwis, especially those who speak with New Zild uccints, are our ambassadors, and are doing amazing things all over the world.

We saw that all last week on our luxury barge, La Belle Epoque, where we were treated to magnificent lunches and dinners from Monday to Saturday - unbelievably fantastic dishes created with local Burgundy-grown food by a gifted cook who at every meal appeared to explain what guests would be eating.

And who was this international chef about whom the staff said all the guests raved and clamoured for the recipes?

Actually, it was a young man called Steve Wilson, who hails from Wellington.

His one diversion from serving French food was on our final night when, after our UK friends had waxed lyrical all week about the superiority of British over New Zealand lamb, Steve served them lamb which took their breath away, then told them it was, indeed, from Godzone.