Noelle McCarthy: If emotion's an illness, then I'm terminal

Watching people greet each other at airports is a dead cert to make you cry. I realised this last week while waiting for my sister to arrive off a flight from LA.

I was jittery enough arriving, at 5.30am, nerves ajangle at the prospect of seeing her after 2 years. Ten minutes hanging around at arrivals and I needed half a blue valium and a lie down, such was the emotion and intimacy of the reunions taking place around me.

Two women in matching sensible shoes and haircuts cried like babies as they rushed into each other's arms in the middle of the walkway. Trampers perhaps, separated by time and distance for too long, overwhelmed at the prospect of essaying the Milford Track once more?

An extended Polynesian family, clustered around a fragile-looking woman who tried to hug them all at once, so all you could see were tears and smiles and mussed-up hair. The excitement on the face of the woman beside me when she spotted a young girl who had to be her daughter and rushed up to grab her trolley and steer her home.

For almost two hours, I stood there and watched the joy and relief that loved ones bring with them when they finally walk through the arrival doors.

And, finally, it was my turn. The red lei I brought was a bit crushed from the bag and my hands shook a bit putting it on - I blame the four cups of McDonald's tea.

But it felt very sweet all the same to welcome a most important ambassador to my home. We added a few tears to those already christening the walkway and headed outside to a specially arranged baptism of fire courtesy of Auckland morning traffic.

The sister had plenty of time to soak up the delights of Tamaki Makaurau in the hour-and-a-half it took us to get home.

Operation Sorority is one week under way exactly as I write this. Seven days in and my sister has roadtripped the Waikato, danced with some trannies and stuffed herself silly with tiramisu on Ponsonby Rd.

She's also discovered the wonders of a private karaoke room on Queen St (the tambourine took it to another level), learned to find her way using the Sky Tower and, in the best tradition of things, seen quite a few sheep.

The mud pools of Rotorua freaked her out somewhat and she's yet to get a taste for onion dip (so am I, for that matter) but between myself and my friends, we're hell-bent on giving her as many authentic Kiwi experiences as possible, save perhaps hitting the P or a few whacks off the bong.

She enjoyed the prettiness and lushness of the landscape as we barrelled through the North Island last weekend, stopping only to marvel at the freshness and candour of the native people, like the guy who waved his willy at us on State Highway 1.

Some people here have been expecting her, thanks in part at least to my decision to turn her into fodder for this column over the last few months. So her jaws hurt a little from smiling and answering questions about how she likes it, and how long she's staying for.

She has no trouble understanding the lingo, despite the worries of a few of my more culturally insecure acquaintances, and she's not a huge fan of Australia so she's fitting in just fine. She thinks we smoke too much in Auckland but loves the food, and the weather and the wine.

She's liking Paul Henry on TV - less smug than presenters at home - but thinks Shortland Street is complete rubbish and can't keep a straight face whenever Kieran off Coronation St is on. (She remembers his singing career, not to mention his brush with politics, a few years ago back in Britain.)

She isn't a huge fan of dub music or cigarette holders, so I'm not sure if Wellington will be on our agenda, but we're off to Queenstown today. It'll be a first time for both of us and I'm not sure what to expect.

Twenty-four-hour party people, I'm told. I know it's a festive part of the country, but I'm hoping for quiet times by Lake Wakatipu as well. The prospect of being surrounded by hordes of backpackers drinking themselves into oblivion when not merrily launching themselves off cliffs does not appeal.

It will be fun seeing it through someone else's eyes though, just as it has been lovely over the past seven days, in a self-indulgent sort of way, to see my city and my life filtered through someone who's nearly me but not quite.