A highlight of our trip to the North Island of New Zealand was our visit to the relaxing Waikite Valley Thermal Pools. The water that fills these pools each day is taken from the Te Manaroa natural boiling spring, and as it’s 100 percent natural thermal water, it’s not treated with any chemicals or filtered or recycled back into the pools. The water is anywhere from 35 to 38 degrees C. It’s probably the only real thermal pool I’ve been in where it not only felt good and relaxing, but the ambiance and setup of the pools was as natural as it could be. Some of the pools are set against a backdrop of actual natural and active thermal pools; these were our favorite ones to soak in. It was quite cold outside since it is the end of New Zealand’s winter and it was early evening when we went, but once we were in the water, it was steamy and relaxing.

The last time we were in a “thermal pool” was in Banff last summer, when we mistakenly went into a crappy pool that was overcrowded with too many tourists (loud, likely mainland Chinese ones), and the pool was chlorinated and felt like a regular swimming pool. I think we lasted about 10 or 15 minutes in the pool before we just got out and left. That was a hack pool and had contaminated water that wasn’t natural.

But this thermal pool in Rotorua – this was amazing. It unfortunately didn’t have enough healing powers to cure me of my illness, but it temporarily made me feel very comfortable and clear.

I don’t know about you, but I’ve never enjoyed seeing a doctor. It doesn’t matter if it’s a dentist, a gynecologist, a general practitioner – whatever, it’s never fun. It’s not fun having things poked and prodded in my mouth or vagina. It’s also not fun having to fill out endless forms of medical history before a visit that probably won’t even last more than 15 minutes if you are lucky, especially in New York.

So now, because I guess my body just doesn’t like the Southern Hemisphere, I’ve now had the misfortune of seeing a doctor in two countries other than my own; first in Tasmania, Australia, in December 2015, to then be diagnosed with whooping cough/pertussis that I unknowingly brought with me from New York to Australia, and now, in Rotorua, New Zealand, to be told that I’ve caught some viral infection that likely won’t end or even start to get better for another ten days. A lot of people at the wedding came with sicknesses they brought from Melbourne given the bad weather there, and the kids at the wedding, all of whom were in frequent proximity of me, were sick. it’s no wonder I got sick.

Side note: the doctor here, like in Tassie, was so down to earth and sweet. She just said her name was Julie. No mention of “doctor” or last name or anything. Just Julie. So humble and so normal. She’s originally from Scotland and has been here twelve years… and never intends on going back.

My friends are joking that I’m allergic to the Southern Hemisphere. I don’t want to joke because violently coughing up massive amounts of phlegm and not having a voice to speak with really, really hurts. That is not fun.

After experiencing the sulphuric geysers of Yellowstone National Park last month, I figured it couldn’t get stinkier than that. I mean, we’d end our days in the national park, and when I’d wash my hair in the evenings, I could actually smell the sulphur/rotten egg smell getting rubbed out of my hair and scalp. That’s how deeply embedded the odors were on our bodies.

Then, we arrived in Rotorua today, and it’s as though the rotten egg haters’ worst nightmares were fulfilled. It’s known for its geothermal activity and mud pools, and… it does not disappoint. You really can’t walk far in this town in New Zealand without being bombarded by that terrible odor. Even our Holiday Inn lobby and the hallways on the higher floor that we were staying on reeked of the smell. And don’t even get me started when it comes to actually being at the geysers and in front of them; it’s so bad that at times, I was gagging and holding my scarf over my mouth and nose.

It’s certainly an experience, though. To be around these wonders of nature is a bit surreal, and to think that things like this exist kind of blows my mind. The natural colors that come from these areas — the nearly florescent blues and electric greens and bright oranges and reds — seems like someone just painted it all and claimed it was real so that they could justify charging high prices to visit these sites.

That doesn’t really happen in a place as pure and gorgeous as New Zealand, though. They don’t even allow GMOs here. And I’m positive that their farm raised fish is 100 times safer and healthier than ours back in the States.

On our first full day in Hamilton Island the day before Chris’s cousin’s wedding, we decided to take a hike to the tallest mountain of the island called Passage Peak. It didn’t seem that strenuous from the description of it, but as soon as we started, I realized how steep the walk was and immediately became tired within just five minutes. It didn’t help that it was getting hot and sunny very quickly. When we stopped at Hilltop Lookout, which is the first stop that overlooks Cats Eye Beach and the resort area, I was all at once exhausted and impressed by the view that when we left to continue going up the mountain, I left my DSLR on the bench at the lookout point. I did not even realize I didn’t have it around my neck until we reached the mountain’s peak, when I asked Chris if he could hand me the DSLR. Then, I immediately went into freak-out mode and started running down the hills…. and went the wrong way. A New Zealander island worker ran into me, and I asked if she had stopped at the lookout point and seen my camera. She immediately became worried and decided that she’d come down the mountain with me on another route, to then come back up with me to get to the Hilltop Lookout (Kiwis are the kindest, nicest people on earth). She said if we didn’t find it, she’d take me to the Los and Found on the island to report it missing. Chris eventually called me and said he got the camera, and so she left me to continue her hike (on her day off… I felt so bad, but she insisted it was fine).

That’s the thing about a place like Hamilton Island. It’s privately owned and an expensive place to visit and spend a holiday. So chances are very slim that anything you have left out unintentionally will get stolen — because who else wants a random low-grade DSLR, anyway? Now, if only people everywhere could be that honest.

And thank God nothing happened to the camera because we’re both idiots and haven’t backed up the memory card since last November. I’m so behind on photos and scrapbooking.

I’ve never been on a piece of land where cars were not allowed until we arrived on Hamilton Island today after a short layover in Sydney. Only commercial vehicles are allowed on the privately owned island of Hamilton Island. If you need transport, you have a few options: 1) walk, 2) bike, 3) catch the shuttle bus, which supposedly makes regular stops at major points throughout the small island, or 4) rent a golf buggy. We rented an apartment for our three nights here for the wedding, which came with a golf buggy hire. Even though I haven’t driven it yet, riding in it is so much more fun than being in a car. They have very limited speeds, so it’s not like they could do that much damage, and you can call out to other passersby and buggies quite easily while on it. This is the type of transport I’ve been missing out on all my life.

And to make things even better for the environment, golf buggies are electrically powered. Take that, cars.

Traveling to Australia from the U.S. always feels so strange, especially since you lose a day in transit. This time, we left on a Saturday to arrive on a Monday. What happens to Sunday? How do I compensate for Sunday via my 1 Second Every Day app/videos? One day, it’s Saturday, then suddenly it’s Monday. One day, you’re in a corn syrup infested obese person’s and Trump land, and in the next, you are in grass-fed cows, sheep, and kangaroo land. How does it only happen in about 20 hours?

This will be my sixth time visiting Australia. Every time I come back, it’s like a real home away from home, except this time, I won’t be going back to Melbourne, but to Hamilton Island for the first time. I can always expect a lot of Chris’s family’s excitement at our arrival, and many hugs and kisses along the way.

I never seem to get that type of excitement when I arrive in my own home.