Hotel DeBrett to Rotorua private car — Isabella's family visit

The early spring chill still had a bite to it when I pulled up to the Hotel DeBrett in Auckland. It was just shy of 8 AM, the city starting to hum to life, but the traffic was already building around the Britomart area. My passenger, Isabella V, was waiting just inside the lobby, a small suitcase at her feet. She was dressed smartly, a navy blazer over a crisp white shirt, and she had the kind of bright, curious eyes you sometimes see in people who have travelled a long way to be here. She mentioned she was visiting family, hadn't been back to New Zealand for a few years, and had been living in Chile for the last decade. It struck me then, how small the world feels sometimes, with people moving between continents like this. Our destination was Rotorua, a good three-and-a-half-hour drive south, and the early spring growth was just starting to green up the trees along the route.

The first hour or so was typical Auckland egress – navigating the southern motorways, the familiar sight of the Hauraki Gulf fading behind us. Isabella was quiet, gazing out the window, probably taking in the landscape again after her absence. I pointed out the Bombay Hills as we climbed them; they always feel like the real start of the journey south. We passed through Pokeno, the sign for the famous ice cream shop a blur, then Huntly with its power station a looming presence. I asked her if she had any particular spots in Rotorua she was looking forward to seeing. ‘The geothermal areas, perhaps,’ she’d replied softly. ‘And my father’s old garden. He used to plant roses there.’

As we moved past the Hamilton bypass and into the rolling farmland towards Cambridge, the conversation opened up a little. She told me about her life in Santiago, the different pace of things, the Andes mountains that form such a dramatic backdrop. She’d been working in finance there, a world away from the kiwifruit orchards of the Bay of Plenty we were now passing through. I’d stopped for fuel and a quick coffee at Tirau, the corrugated iron town a quirky landmark. Isabella bought a flat white and a small sausage roll, eating it back in the car as we continued south. She pointed out a hawk circling high above a newly ploughed field, a flash of white against the pale blue sky. ‘We don’t see many of those where I live,’ she said, a note of admiration in her voice.

The landscape started to change as we approached Rotorua. The air grew heavier, carrying the faint, unmistakable scent of sulphur. Steam wisped from unseen vents in the distance, a constant reminder of the thermal activity beneath our feet. We passed Lake Rotorua, its surface calm under the morning sun. Isabella watched it intently, a thoughtful expression on her face.

‘My father loved this place,’ she said, her voice barely above a whisper. ‘He always said the earth here was alive.’ She’d then described a childhood memory of him taking her to see the geysers erupt when she was a little girl, the sheer power of it leaving a lasting impression. It was a quiet, reflective moment, the kind that hangs in the air after a personal story is shared. She spoke of the challenges of being so far from home, the bittersweet nature of return visits, the way places can hold so much memory.

We arrived at her family's address on the outskirts of Rotorua, a pleasant home with a well-tended garden, though still a little early in the season for the roses to be in full bloom. She thanked me for the smooth journey, her eyes holding a warmth that went beyond polite farewells. As I drove away, heading back north towards the motorway, I thought about the journey itself – a simple transfer of people from one place to another, but often carrying so much more. The scent of sulphur was fading, replaced by the cleaner air of the open road, but the quiet resonance of Isabella’s story stayed with me for a while.