While the plane taxis, I buy a New Zealand eSim and switch over to cellular data. Still, the portal gives me the same error:Sorry, the document cannot be loaded.
I still haven’t heard back from the sender, so I add another follow-up message to demonstrate I’m being proactive.
The lack of reply isn’t super surprising; the production staff are busy and have likely been sleeping the whole time I’ve been on the plane. While stars get the white-glove treatment, people like me are expected to be low-maintenance. Nobody’s going to lose sleep over a stunt performer being a little out-of-the-loop as long as the production keeps spinning. They have my promise that I’ll be there ASAP, and they’ll be counting on that—and ready to blacklist me should I fail to keep that promise.
Fortunately, I know the drill.
I pause briefly to grab a coffee and a pastry from a café in the terminal, then follow the signs to baggage claim. Since my bag was the last to go in, it’s one of the first to come out, and I sling it over my shoulder as I stuff the rest of my croissant in my mouth. After washing it down with burnt coffee, it’s an easy stop in customs to get my passport stamped before heading on down to arrivals and looking for my name.
A middle-aged man in a golf cap holds up a piece of paper withMylo Ryewritten in block letters, and I offer a wave as I approach.
“G’day, then!” he says, offering a hand.
I nod and respond with a firm shake, and his smile deepens.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Mylo, but you already know that.”
The man chuckles. “Jack. This way, cuz.” He beckons, and I fall into step beside him.
“How’s the flight?” he asks.
“Good. Long.”
Another chuckle. “Good as gold. Well, let a wrinkled ol’ Kiwi welcome you to New Zealand.”
“Thank you.”
I follow Jack outside. The brisk, fifty-degree Auckland winter is a welcome change from LA’s peak summer heat. According to the airline website, it shouldn’t get much colder than forty-five while I’m here.
As we reach the waiting car, a small green sedan, he gestures at me to take the front passenger seat—on the left-hand side of the car, since cars travel in the left lane here. I’ll be very happy to let locals, or at least people more accustomed to it, handle the driving here. As soon as I’m buckled up, backpack slung in the back seat, we set out.
I’m dying to ask Jack a thousand questions about the production, but he could be anyone from a local gig driver who knows nothing to the director’s brother, so I have to stay on my best behavior, which means not asking too much.
So, it’s Jack who asks the first question.
“Whatcha doin’ on the movie, ay?”
“I’m a stunt performer.”
“Far out! You wonna those ones’s jumps from buildings?”
“Yeah. And fights, acrobatics, that sort of thing.”
He shakes his head. “Always wanted to ask, ya brave or crazy?”
I chuckle. “Little of both.”
Turns out Jack is a big talker, and he quickly gets into telling me about the landmarks we pass by. He doesn’t give me much chance to respond, which is for the best, since I lose every fourth word on account of either his thick accent or the local slang.
The industrial zone around the airport gives way to suburbs, and the palm trees lining the highway feel oddly similar to LA. As our drive continues, the houses sprawl wider and scrubby brush takes over, unfolding into rolling fields of gold and green.
Jack must know the area well enough to not use a GPS, so I have no idea how much further we have to go, and I’d rathernot risk sounding ignorant to ask. It’s not like the answer will change anything.
I have the fleeting thought that there’s a nonzero chance I’m being trafficked right now, but given the brilliant blue sky and friendly company, I figure there are worse fates.
Taller trees rise around us, spindly branches winding outwards to puffs of leaves at the end. With palms still scattered throughout, it’s like California-but-not.
I note the road signs as we pass: bright blue here instead of green, but otherwise familiar. We seem to be heading toward Bethells Beach, though what really catches my eye is a hand-painted community notice board pinned with equally handmade signs advertising wetland restoration, a local cafe, a recruiting poster for a Junior Surf program, and even a hand-drawn memorial plaque for a name I don’t quite catch.
