Albany office to National Park Village private car — Marco's trip

June 6th. The North Island winter had properly sunk its teeth in by now. Fog often hung low in the mornings, but this day out of Albany had a crispness that promised sun later. I checked the car one last time – tyres, fluids, a quick wipe of the windscreen not that it would stay clean for long. The office building itself looked a bit stark against the pale sky, all glass and polished concrete. Pretty standard stuff for the tech-park crowd.

Marco arrived a few minutes early. He was a man who looked like he’d stepped out of a modern art gallery – sharp, dark jacket, a single silver bracelet, and eyes that seemed to take everything in without betraying much. He had a small, elegant travel bag, the kind that looks expensive but practical. He introduced himself and said he was heading down to National Park Village. Business, he’d said on the phone, rather vaguely. I assumed it was something to do with the burgeoning tourism sector down that way, given the time of year and the destination. He was originally from Florence, he mentioned, a detail I filed away. Florence. You can’t really go wrong with Florence, can you?

We headed south, the usual journey through the city’s arteries, then the straightforward run down State Highway 1. The traffic was manageable for a Thursday. As we cleared the urban sprawl, the landscape began to open up – rolling green hills, dotted with sheep, the familiar sights of the Waikato. Marco was quiet for the first hour or so, just watching the world go by. He had a way of observing that was intense but not intrusive. I offered him a coffee when we stopped at the BP in Hampton Downs, a necessary pitstop more for stretching the legs than anything. He took a black filter coffee, no sugar, and sipped it slowly, gazing out at the distant grey hills.

He started talking more as we approached Taupiri. He’d been in Auckland for a few weeks, a project he described as 'development consultation', which I took to mean something about infrastructure or business strategy. It wasn't his usual field, he admitted, which was more in the realm of historical preservation. He'd been working on restoring old buildings back in Italy, bringing them up to modern standards while keeping their soul intact. He spoke about the architectural details of Tuscan farmhouses in a way that made me picture the sun-drenched stone and the scent of cypress trees. He’d been brought to New Zealand for this consultancy because of his reputation for understanding how to blend the old with the new, a skill apparently transferable across continents, even if the materials and styles were vastly different. He was travelling alone for this particular piece of work – family back in Tuscany, he said, his wife and two children.

As we continued south, leaving the Waikato’s more gentle contours for the slightly wilder terrain that leads towards the Central Plateau, the clouds began to break. Patches of brilliant blue appeared, and the sun, when it hit the frost clinging to the roadside verges, made the landscape sparkle. We passed through Tirau, the corrugated iron sheep capital, and then on towards the gentle climb towards Lake Taupō. The conversation drifted from architecture to life balance. He admired the pace of life here, even in the quieter towns, compared to the relentless energy of his home country and cities like Milan or Rome. He didn’t slag off Italy, not at all, but he spoke of a certain freedom he found in the less crowded spaces. He said he felt a bit like he was 'walking through history' in his own country, constantly surrounded by it, whereas here, he was helping to shape the future, albeit in a small way. He mentioned how difficult it was to get good espresso outside of Auckland these days. I told him about a little café in Ohakune that did a decent flat white, a place he might find if he had time before his meetings were through.

The final stretch into National Park Village was dominated by the looming presence of the volcanoes. Tongariro, Ngauruhoe, Ruapehu – they were magnificent, even under a winter sky. The air grew noticeably colder as we climbed. National Park Village itself was quiet, a scattering of lodges and small businesses catering to the ski season that was just around the corner. I pulled up outside the lodge he’d booked. He got out, looking a little more relaxed than when he’d arrived. He thanked me, a genuine, warm expression. He said he enjoyed the drive, the scenery, and the quiet company. He mentioned he hoped to get a view of the mountains tomorrow, weather permitting. I watched him walk towards the lodge, a solitary figure silhouetted against the imposing volcanic landscape. It was a long way from Florence, but for him, it seemed, the journey was as much about finding perspective as it was about the destination.