Novotel Auckland Airport to Turangi private car — Giulia's family visit

The air in the Novotel lobby was thick with the faint, sterile scent of polished floors and recycled air, a world away from the crisp August chill outside. It was Monday morning, the kind of grey Auckland day that made you appreciate the warmth of the car. Giulia R was waiting near the entrance, a compact figure with dark, intelligent eyes and a travel coat that looked far too elegant for an airport hotel lobby. She had that particular stillness about her, a quiet confidence that spoke of someone entirely at ease with themselves, even in transit.

She’d booked through the office. Auckland to Tūrangi. A long haul on a cold morning, but not an impossible one. Her reason for the trip? A family visit. She'd mentioned, when confirming, that her partner’s family lived down in the central North Island, and she was meeting them for the first time. Her partner, she explained, was already down there; she was the one joining him. There was a subtle excitement in that, a nervousness masked by that outward calm.

The car purred to life, the heating kicking in a welcome wave of warmth. We pulled away from the airport, the familiar landscape of South Auckland unfolding under a sky threatening rain. The Southern Motorway was its usual Monday morning self – a slow, deliberate crawl through Botany and Manukau. Giulia didn’t seem to mind. She gazed out the window, a slight smile playing on her lips as she took in the rolling hills and the occasional glimpse of industrial estates, a contrast she found intriguing. She was originally from Milan, she told me. She worked in fashion, a world that seemed as far removed from the grey Waikato plains as I could imagine.

Our first stop was a quick coffee at the BP in Pokeno. The air was damp and smelled of wet earth. We grabbed our drinks and a quick pastry, the silence punctuated only by the hiss of the milk steamer. It was a brief respite before the real drive south began. I pointed out the old salmon farm ruins as we passed, a local landmark slowly succumbing to nature. Giulia nodded, her eyes sharp, taking it all in.

As we cleared the Waikato, the landscape started to change. The flat plains gave way to more rolling hills, dotted with sheep and fences that seemed to stretch on forever. We skirted Hamilton and headed towards Tirau, the corrugated iron sheep adorning the town a cheerful, if quirky, welcome. The conversation flowed easily now. She spoke of her family – her parents in Milan, a sister in Rome – and the deep-seated Italian tradition of large family gatherings. She confessed she was a little apprehensive about meeting her partner’s extended whānau, particularly his grandmother, who, she’d been told, was quite the matriarch. I reassured her that most Kiwis, far from being intimidating, were generally quite welcoming, especially to someone making the effort to travel so far.

We stopped for lunch in Taupō. The lakefront was windswept, the water a deep, steely grey under the cloud. She wanted to walk by the water for a few minutes, a chance to stretch her legs and breathe in the cleaner, mountain-tinged air. We watched a few hardy souls out on the water, small specks against the vast expanse. She told me about her partner, how they’d met during a conference in London, and how their relationship had blossomed across continents and time zones before he’d decided to relocate to New Zealand. She was here to give it a real try, a new chapter not just for him, but for her too.

The final stretch from Taupō to Tūrangi was shorter, the road winding through pine forests and past small, rustic bach communities. The light was fading early, the August day drawing to a close. The landscape became more rugged, the volcanic presence of the central plateau subtly asserting itself. Giulia grew quieter, her gaze fixed on the passing scenery, perhaps rehearsing introductions in her head, or simply absorbing the vast, wild beauty of the region.

We arrived in Tūrangi as the first streetlights flickered on. It was a small town, nestled by the river. I pulled up to the address she’d given me, a modest house with smoke curling from the chimney. As she gathered her bags, she turned to me, a genuine smile finally lighting up her face. “Thank you, Harry,” she said, her voice warm. “It was a very good drive.” I watched her walk up the path, a lone figure under the pale yellow glow of the porch light, ready to embrace her new chapter. It felt good to have played a small part in getting her there, safely and on time. The drive back north, under a sky rapidly filling with stars, felt a little longer, a little quieter, but no less satisfying.