You can imagine the conversation in the White House over the next 24 hours.
Donald and Rex will be swapping notes about that funny little country at the bottom of the world, next stop Antarctica, where the weather's not much different from being on the ice. They'll be comparing their experiences because the last time Donald Trump came here, 24 years ago, to unsuccessfully make a bid for a casino licence, the weather was about the same and so was their length of stay in the country, less than a working day.
At least Trump could go to the Hyatt to freshen up in the Presidential suite, as if he knew something that we didn't.
Tillerson stepped out of his comfy plane into a Wellington blizzard, challenging his skills on handling a brolley, into the driving rain. Through the deluge he could make out a big bloke at the foot of the stairs in his suit as if it ain't no thang. Gerry Brownlee took him firmly by the hand which would have given him a little ballast or at least a sense of being anchored as the merciless wind battered the brollies.
Then it was a race through town to the vacant Premier House, where The Premier, or Prime Minister's not allowed to live because he's already got a house of his own in the city. The small American media contingent, small because their numbers have been pruned by the President from around a dozen to four, couldn't help but notice how many birds were flipped at the motorcade as it sped past.