us!”
“Exactly,” she agreed. “Not us.”
We managed to paddle from the boathouse and successfully move up the lazy river. The secret was for me to paddlebackwards from how Jill was paddling, as well as on the opposite side. Somehow this procedure seemed fitting in light of everything else that felt upside down and backwards in this place.
The farther we paddled up the river, the more peaceful and shadowed the river became. On both sides of the water were long stretches of green grass with trees, benches, and concrete bike trails. Women pushing baby strollers smiled at us. Little children waved at us. A man on a bike took such a long look at our unorthodox seating position and paddling that his front tire went off the trail. He wobbled himself back on course and kept going, still casting glances at us over his shoulder.
“It’s nice to have all the boys around here looking at us, isn’t it?” Jill asked with a giggle. It seemed to me she was feeling the lightness of being adorable for the first time in a long time.
I considered reminding her why all the boys were paying attention to us middle-aged mamas. We weren’t a couple of cute, young cheerleaders; we were inexperienced tourists, demonstrating our strange canoe-maneuvering techniques. I thought we resembled Dr. Dolittle’s pushmi-pullyu creature, that endearing, two-headed alpaca that was joined in the middle. But if Jill was feeling young and flirty and having a great time, I wasn’t going to be the one to spoil her fun.
O
ur canoe slid underneath a charming arched walking bridge as Jill chattered enthusiastically. “Don’t you love the colors on the trees? They are so gorgeous. And that green area on the right must be Hagley Park. I read about it. When the city fathers built Christchurch, they set aside almost a square mile for a public park. A restaurant is at the edge of the herb garden. We might have to include a visit there on our pressing itinerary.”
“Oh, yes, our pressing itinerary. I like the way you think. Eat a little, float a little. Eat a little, walk a little. My idea of a true vacation.”
The river took a turn and came into a sunny area where more bobbing ducks peeked underwater for treats. They seemed to be on the same schedule as we were: eat a little, quack a little. Eat a little, paddle a little.
Floating toward us was a beautifully painted flatboat with a young man standing in the back, wearing a straw hat, whiteshirt, and bow tie. He was using a long pole to punt his passengers down the river.
“Look, Jill! It’s Evan the punter we heard so much about. Should we wave?”
“We can do better than that.” Jill paddled faster. “Come on.”
She maneuvered our canoe within six feet of the sedate, “older” tourists who were sitting back with terry cloth hats on their heads and cameras around their necks.
“Hi, Evan,” Jill called out.
“Hi, Evan,” I echoed.
We were the two most popular girls on the lake at summer camp all over again.
“You’re doing a great job, Evan,” Jill said coyly.
“You’re the best punter on the river, Evan,” I added.
The tourists were all looking at us, startled at such enthusiasm in the middle of their placid float.
“Would you sing for us, Evan? Please?” Jill was pushing it now, but I remained her faithful sidekick.
“Yeah, Evan. We love it when you sing.”
With one motion all Evan’s passengers turned their heads and looked at him. He had gone red faced under his straw hat.
Evan kept punting, ignoring us and our request for a song. With a few significant strokes of the long punting pole, he was out of range from us and heading around a bend.
“Oh, Evan,” Jill called after him, “you’re breaking my heart!”
“Just one song!” I pleaded in a shout that echoed off the riverbank.
Evan was too far around the bend by then to glare at us. Jill and I leaned toward the center of our canoe and burst into laughter.
“Did you see the look on his face?” Jill
“Exactly,” she agreed. “Not us.”
We managed to paddle from the boathouse and successfully move up the lazy river. The secret was for me to paddlebackwards from how Jill was paddling, as well as on the opposite side. Somehow this procedure seemed fitting in light of everything else that felt upside down and backwards in this place.
The farther we paddled up the river, the more peaceful and shadowed the river became. On both sides of the water were long stretches of green grass with trees, benches, and concrete bike trails. Women pushing baby strollers smiled at us. Little children waved at us. A man on a bike took such a long look at our unorthodox seating position and paddling that his front tire went off the trail. He wobbled himself back on course and kept going, still casting glances at us over his shoulder.
“It’s nice to have all the boys around here looking at us, isn’t it?” Jill asked with a giggle. It seemed to me she was feeling the lightness of being adorable for the first time in a long time.
I considered reminding her why all the boys were paying attention to us middle-aged mamas. We weren’t a couple of cute, young cheerleaders; we were inexperienced tourists, demonstrating our strange canoe-maneuvering techniques. I thought we resembled Dr. Dolittle’s pushmi-pullyu creature, that endearing, two-headed alpaca that was joined in the middle. But if Jill was feeling young and flirty and having a great time, I wasn’t going to be the one to spoil her fun.
O
ur canoe slid underneath a charming arched walking bridge as Jill chattered enthusiastically. “Don’t you love the colors on the trees? They are so gorgeous. And that green area on the right must be Hagley Park. I read about it. When the city fathers built Christchurch, they set aside almost a square mile for a public park. A restaurant is at the edge of the herb garden. We might have to include a visit there on our pressing itinerary.”
“Oh, yes, our pressing itinerary. I like the way you think. Eat a little, float a little. Eat a little, walk a little. My idea of a true vacation.”
The river took a turn and came into a sunny area where more bobbing ducks peeked underwater for treats. They seemed to be on the same schedule as we were: eat a little, quack a little. Eat a little, paddle a little.
Floating toward us was a beautifully painted flatboat with a young man standing in the back, wearing a straw hat, whiteshirt, and bow tie. He was using a long pole to punt his passengers down the river.
“Look, Jill! It’s Evan the punter we heard so much about. Should we wave?”
“We can do better than that.” Jill paddled faster. “Come on.”
She maneuvered our canoe within six feet of the sedate, “older” tourists who were sitting back with terry cloth hats on their heads and cameras around their necks.
“Hi, Evan,” Jill called out.
“Hi, Evan,” I echoed.
We were the two most popular girls on the lake at summer camp all over again.
“You’re doing a great job, Evan,” Jill said coyly.
“You’re the best punter on the river, Evan,” I added.
The tourists were all looking at us, startled at such enthusiasm in the middle of their placid float.
“Would you sing for us, Evan? Please?” Jill was pushing it now, but I remained her faithful sidekick.
“Yeah, Evan. We love it when you sing.”
With one motion all Evan’s passengers turned their heads and looked at him. He had gone red faced under his straw hat.
Evan kept punting, ignoring us and our request for a song. With a few significant strokes of the long punting pole, he was out of range from us and heading around a bend.
“Oh, Evan,” Jill called after him, “you’re breaking my heart!”
“Just one song!” I pleaded in a shout that echoed off the riverbank.
Evan was too far around the bend by then to glare at us. Jill and I leaned toward the center of our canoe and burst into laughter.
“Did you see the look on his face?” Jill
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