Next thing I am filling in a passenger's arrival card which, remarkably, asks me to signify if I am here for the Rugby World Cup.
Even before my flight left (inexplicably 8 hours late), a chirpy German tourist talked about how everyone joined in the excitement of the Soccer World Cup in her country.
"You have to be part of it," said Diana Ernst. She expected the same in New Zealand, and I don't think she would have been disappointed.
So far my only failure to be part of it was not being able to get inside the giant rugby ball. Having in the past scaled a Big Banana, navigated a giant crayfish, been booked for speeding when passing a massive merino monument and marvelled at the rather testicular giant peach down south at Cromwell, I was eager to inspect this ball's entrails.
"An hour and a half wait to enter," bellowed a fluoro-jacketed security bloke. And 200 people were going in at a time. Turbanned Sikhs, women in veils, whooping kids on holidays, those in the queues seemed content to wait.
So on to the Cloud, which I unkindly thought was more like a very large intestine. Within, fashion models were pirouetting like Cory Jane before a most unfashionable crowd, providing great amusement to uniformed policewomen, who nudged each other and giggled, especially at the chaps in bizarre shorts.
Of course there was more: the food festival loomed and with it the sublime combination of oysters and sauvignon blanc, with a chance for a chat with cheery Wendy Potts, the winemaker at Te Kairanga in Martinborough.
Not far away, like a scene from a James Bond movie, a giant black yacht was being manouevred. Other gleaming craft, including several with the silver fern flag, were being ogled by the press of people. From maxi yachts to mini cars, the flags are seemingly all about.
Over all of this hovers the spectre of the baffling French. A TV crew from that country, completing their daily three-course lunch in a flash wine bar, are in good humour. "We hope New Zealand wins," says one, as a nearby TV screens the annihilation of the insipid Wallabies.
The maxim about all plans being forgotten springs to mind, but a saying of the immortal French philosopher Voltaire seems more apt: "Each player must accept the cards life deals to him or her: but once they are in hand, he or she alone must decide how to play the cards in order to win the game."
Henry, G. has a most interesting hand, which all except those of a Gallic persuasion must hope to see played sublimely.
From my $2000 seat (hospitality and free transport to game included) in row T, I don't expect an excess of philosophy, however, but a clash for the ages, a game skilled, exciting and hard, befitting a world championship. The pulse begins to quicken at the thought of it. Black Power on the rise. Write the words in bronze and prepare to celebrate.
Kevin Childs lives in Melbourne and owns three All Black jerseys (unearned).
