The Queen Charlotte Sound, New Zealand

December 7, 2010- I'm sitting here now watching the late afternoon waves lap against the jetty. It's low tide and so calm the emerald water sounds more like liquid sloshing in a bucket than like the ocean. It's gray and in the distance, mist shrouds the far side of the bay. The air is heavy, fragrant and cool enough to chill just the tip of your nose.

In the dark soil below my balcony, a hydrangea bush extends its first tentative blooms. It's just now spring here. The bush will produce flowers on and off for the next four months. Each bloom, a soft-ball-sized burst of purple and white will live just long enough to be cut down in its prime by scissor-wielding backpacker (likely German but possibly Irish, English, American or Japanese). The flowers will find their way into vases in the rooms of newly arrived guests. Their last scents guiding the travelers to much needed jet-lag naps.

Plucking these flowers was once my job. But now, through a miracle of aging and marrying well, I am the lucky traveler. And the scent is mine to savor as I head back to my bed in seek of the gentle pleasure of an afternoon vacation-induced slumber.