First of all, Happy Easter to the other side of the world!

Last week, our stuff finally arrived. Everything from Thomas’ and my house came by ship in a giant overseas container. At the port, it was split: Thomas’ half in one smaller container, mine in another. Two households, halfway around the world—and now reunited. Thomas had in-person lectures that day and just said, deadpan: “You’ll have to boss the movers around yourself.” Me: “Yep—and get to watch muscular men do the heavy lifting 😉”

So, off to the house—meeting point 8:30 a.m. First up, four movers with Thomas’ things. Our driveway is about 100 meters long, narrow, and at the start, a huge, beautiful tree stretches overhead—like a natural tunnel. I’d warned the shipping company two weeks earlier, but… the truck was too tall. The guys tried, the branch even creaked ominously once, but no luck. Their disappointment was obvious. Plan B: everything carried by hand. 100 meters. Downhill.

The foreman set me up in the garage with the packing lists. Every box and piece of furniture had a number, and I had to call out where it should go: Garage, Living Room, Dining, Bath, Floor, Bedroom… You name it. He even built me a little platform in the corner—my personal “command post.” And then it began.

Boxes came flying in, numbers shouted at me mid-stride. I flipped through the 20-page list, hunted for the right number, and yelled back: “Living Room!” – “Garage!” – “Master Bedroom!” The order was chaotic—first 2, then 58, then 180…

First came the heavy metal boxes from Thomas’ garage: three massive wire crates, each about a cubic meter, packed with tools. Luckily, Thomas had brought his pallet jack—otherwise, that would have been a serious workout. The movers were amazed. “What does your husband do?” they asked. I explained: just a small part of his workshop, inherited from his ex-father-in-law. The big machines? Left for his son in Germany. “Oh, and by the way,” I added, “it’s just a hobby—he actually works in an office.”

Soon, the garage was lined with table saws, extension cords (“always handy,” Thomas says), drills, spirit levels… you get the idea. Then came the two beer tables with benches. We’ll use them as a makeshift dining table for now. One mover asked if Thomas had built them himself—I paused, then realized they probably had never seen a typical German beer garden set. “Do you know Oktoberfest in Munich?” I asked. His eyes lit up: “Sure!” Turns out, everyone knows Oktoberfest 😊

Next up: Thomas’ instruments and bulky studio gear—mic stands, preamps, the works. I said dryly: “Another hobby of my husband—garage, please.”

To avoid running up and down the 100-meter driveway, we loaded as much as possible at once. I watched from my garage “command post” as a mover piled 3×3 boxes on the pallet jack and added loose items on top. Down it went—steep at first. Clonk. First box hit the ground. The second almost followed, but was caught just in time. The pallet jack threatened to go rogue… I barely dared to watch. Luckily, the other movers jumped in.

After that, we got into a rhythm. Loads adjusted, paths optimized—we became a well-oiled team. When someone came running with four stacked boxes, I’d sprint out and fire off: “First and second living room, third garage, last one master bedroom!”

For a coffee break, I grabbed five Flat Whites and pastries from the café around the corner. The baristas remembered me, were delighted I was getting coffee for the movers, added a croissant, and welcomed me as the new neighbor. The movers were thrilled—apparently, that doesn’t happen often.

Then came the records—boxes labeled “Records Thomas Living Room”—followed by countless electronics boxes. I said, “All small electronics go in the garage.” The mover grinned: “Another hobby of your husband?” I: “Bingo!”

Then my stuff arrived in the second container. By now, they’d organized a small van that could fit under the tree. Load upstairs, drive down, unload—numbers, calls, go. During a break, I joked they could skip the gym that day. This sparked a hilarious debate: one said he goes for the ladies, not exercise; another said you can’t look away when a beautiful woman is doing squats right in front of you; the third pointed out that looking at the floor while lifting weights is also a bad idea. Verdict: they had no choice but to watch 😄 The mood was fantastic.

The piano was the grand finale: on a rolling cart down the hill, three men fully occupied. At the bottom, I called: “Photo for the blog—smile!” Response: “Muscles are more important than smiling!” I: “Sure—I can’t look away anyway 😉”

By day’s end, everything was inside. Beds could be assembled, but the couch and living room shelf were missing screws and legs. Fingers crossed—they’re still in one of the boxes somewhere.

Time to unpack and decorate!

When I opened the boxes, I suddenly went very quiet. There they were—small, seemingly trivial things that stirred up homesickness: my mom’s red Seier ladle, the painting my grandma made me for my fifth birthday, the window crystals that, even here on the other side of the world, catch the sunlight and scatter it into a thousand colors, and my great-grandfather’s ancient Karl-May books from Luxembourg—in old German script, with yellowed newspaper clippings tucked inside about the Ku Klux Klan, U.S. presidents, and their treatment of Indigenous people. As I looked through them, my mind began to wander…

My great-grandfather lived in a house on a hillside, with a view over the valley. Through the nearly floor-to-ceiling living room windows, you could watch the train winding its way through the valley. This love of hillside houses ran in the family: to my great-grandfather’s son, to my father… and eventually to me.

Of course, my house in Germany was also a house on a hillside—southwest-facing and… guess what… with a train running through the valley. In the past, the trains might have been more picturesque—puffing along as a steam engine—but today they are much quieter. My dad was genuinely proud that his daughter was continuing the Wildgen tradition—and that from the living room couch, she could once again watch a train make its way through the valley. Just like the great-grandfather from Luxembourg, who owned those Karl-May books.

And now? On the other side of the world? Our criteria for a rental house: preferably on a hillside (this time northwest-facing—Southern Hemisphere!), in the kids’ school zone, with a large dining area, and ideally a view of greenery. We were lucky—everything checked out. And in the evenings, when you sit on the sofa, you can even see a few city lights. Thomas said, over a glass of red wine with beautiful music:
“We may not see it—but we know there’s a train running through the city down there.” 😊

Unfortunately, on moving day, I caught a New Zealand virus. Five days completely knocked out. Thomas and Marie had already been hit—now it was my turn. And just at the moment when I wanted to unpack and decorate! Patience is definitely not my strong suit. But nothing worked—any small effort left me exhausted, and I had to retreat to bed, drink tea, and play “sweatbox” with myself.

By now, though, we’ve made ourselves really comfortable—and eventually even the long-missed feet of the couch reappeared. Piece by piece, everything found its place. Furniture from two houses now stands together in new combinations, some arrangements completely different from before—and yet (or maybe because of that) it feels surprisingly harmonious. From many individual things, a shared home is slowly taking shape.

And while I was sick in bed, the kids were already settling into their new routine. On Monday, they walked to school from the new house for the first time with Thomas. There is a school bus, but we hadn’t arranged the passes yet—so it was on foot. About 25 minutes, with roughly 180 meters of elevation gain. Downhill in the morning was easy enough. In the afternoon, they made the return trip on a really sunny day. Ferdinand arrived at the door, dripping with sweat, looked at me, and said:
“I’m sweating more than when I biked up to Pregasina!”

Pregasina—a small mountain village about 450 meters above Lake Garda. Apparently, the legendary annual breakfast ride there during our Pentecost holiday had made quite an impression on him 😉

And really, this area keeps evoking memories of southern landscapes. The Port Hills sit at around 400 meters above sea level, and if you follow the pass road near our house a little higher, it winds through a picturesque landscape. Towering pines fill the air with their resinous scent, interspersed with occasional palms and Mediterranean-looking shrubs—a striking but immediately familiar mix. At the top, you reach the pass, which then descends southward toward Governors Bay on the Banks Peninsula. At the summit sits the small café “Sign of the Kiwi.” From up here, the view is breathtaking: on one side, the Southern Alps; on the other, the shimmering waters of the bay. It’s a little like the crisp autumn days in South Tyrol and the view from the “Strada del Ponale” down to Lake Garda—only now we get this panorama right from our own house.

After about a 30-minute bike ride, we stand in the middle of this scenery and take in the view—fresh, calm, unhurried, and completely without the tourist crowds you’d find at Lake Garda during Pentecost.

And next Friday, we already have the housewarming party and my belated birthday celebration. Almost 40 guests are invited—about half German-speaking, half English-speaking—and roughly half have already confirmed. The date isn’t ideal because of the Easter holidays, but unfortunately, there was no other option.

Easter breakfast on the hastily assembled beer tables—white tablecloth on top, and just like that, any Oktoberfest vibe disappears, even though here in NZ April is basically October. And the tulips on the table? Fake. I brought them from Germany because they look great in a bouquet with pussy willow branches—and there’s no swapping hassle since plastic doesn’t wilt. Hanging from the branches are my aunt Cornelia’s hand-painted Easter eggs.

Now the bouquet sits here in New Zealand: plastic tulips in autumn, Cornelia’s eggs, and a few garden branches that aren’t pussy willows and aren’t quite budding yet—but they still bring a touch of the familiar Easter feeling. Let’s just say… I still need a little time to adjust 😉

Anbei noch ein paar Eindrücke vom Haus.

Wishing you all a wonderful Easter holiday—and to my family: enjoy a lovely Easter hike tomorrow!

Warm greetings from Christchurch

P.S.: I was recently asked how Easter is celebrated here… well, I’m still in the middle of my “field research,” but here’s what I can say so far: the holidays themselves are pretty similar, but most people seem to use the free time for road trips—across the South Island, a quick hop to the North Island, or even all the way to Australia. One thing that struck me immediately: the selection of chocolate eggs is… let’s say, modest compared to Germany. And I seriously wondered—if they even sell Eierlikör-filled eggs here, would you have to get the boss’s approval at the register first? After all, alcohol is alcohol, and they usually watch that very carefully. Although… a little supervision wouldn’t bother me, especially if it meant someone occasionally checked my ID 😉. On the bright side, I spotted some really funny Easter costumes for kids in a brochure. Maybe that’s New Zealand’s answer to the lack of Carnival!