I never have breakfast on the flight into Auckland. From LA or SF it's a 12-hour stretch (or lack, thereof), and not only is the limp, lukewarm in-flight omelette marginally appealing at best, it's an insult to the city that awaits.
A meal on the plane is a meal wasted when you're landing in Auckland. My routine doesn't change: I clear Customs. I transit. And I choose one of so many extraordinary cafes for breakfast and two flat whites.
I reckon New Zealand has the best cafes in the world. Better than France or Italy or Buenos Aires. Better than Turkey or Egypt or the US. And by sheer concentration and variety, Auckland's cafes are the very best of the best.
Nowhere in New York can you get a scone like those at Lot 23. Nowhere has the space, the light or the acai of Heaven Scent. The ginger crunch at Foxtrot Parlour haunts my dreams.
I like to walk in Auckland. I walk K Rd in the morning, as the sun pings off the footpath on the south side and all the vagabonds and rascals squint and blink and scurry away for the day.