Ships that pass in the night

In former times she would have been called a 'White Russian', a political opponent of the Bolshevik revolution. Her father almost certainly was. He escaped with his family to America on forged documents in the days after the Second World War, and today, nearly 70 years later that heritage still defines her.

'I came here to New Zealand nearly 35 years ago' she said, as she handed me a coffee: her strong northern European accent still clearly discernible 'It's black with sugar', 'I don't buy milk.' 'Once my family's background became known to the FBI, life there was just impossible. There could be no future for us any more. But here, no body knows. Here, nobody cares'. Her words hung there suspended in the cold morning air.

We'd met just a few minutes earlier. She had walked up her drive to collect the morning paper, right where my car had stalled a moment before following an unsuccessful crash start. 'You'll need the double A service man.' she said, ' here, have a read of the paper while I go down to the house and call him for you. You can use my membership, they'll never know she assured me' Thanks, I said, and she vanished back into the mist from which she had just mysteriously appeared.

She returned and we waited there, together in the early morning mist, waiting for the 'double a' serviceman as she called him. Standing there looking out over the harbor, sipping our coffees, discussing the world news headlines and exchanging our life stories - like people who had known each other for years.

Then just as quickly as we met, she melted back into the morning mist and, thanks to the double a man, I was able to continue on my journey, and she hers.