They've walked these halls a thousand times. They've hopped off the team bus and wandered through the same lobby, and caught the same lift up to their rooms and back down again to the same old restaurant.
They've mapped out the hotel - they could probably walk it in their sleep - and memorised the patterns on the carpet. They've stared out the same windows for weeks on end and heard the same traffic clogging up Auckland's Hobson St day after day.
And now they're here for one last time, some of them at least. I watch them as they come and go. The Franks brothers are having a coffee in a quiet corner, speaking in Franks, oblivious to the foot traffic and the depressing jazz fusion background music, and the stares from passers-by and fellow guests. Charlie Faumuina is hovering, as much as a man that size can ever hover. Jeremy Thrush and Dane Coles are laughing at each other. They tend to do that.
Jerome Kaino was here earlier, in the lobby, waiting for another meeting. For a man with such a big presence on the field, he always seems at pains to occupy as little space as possible off it. It's as if he gets pumped up for every match and then lets most of the air out for the rest of the week. He hides in plain sight.
Wyatt Crockett walks in. He and the front row forwards had finished a particularly brutal scrum session. "I'm getting too old for this," he says with a chuckle. There's a lot of talk about age at the moment, I thought to myself.