We arrive in Christchurch almost exactly a year after a devastating earthquake shattered the city's central business district, and what we see there surprises us.

The drive from Akaroa (where cruise ships now dock) into Christchurch is one of those jaw-dropping scenic routes. The road curls from left to right, winding back and forth, twisting itself into hairpin curves and unexpected switchbacks. The shoulder drops away, leaving a sheer rock face on one side of the car and a steep plunge into a distant valley floor on the other. All around us are undulating hills, taller than they are wide, dotted with sheep and cattle that look no larger than raisins.

We pass through Lyttleton, where the cruiseships used to dock before the quake. The once bright little main street is largely boarded up. A coffeeshop has reopened in the shell of an old corner store, but most of the shops are empty, hollowed out, locked, dark. Our driver tells us there's not even a grocery store in town; locals drive to Christchurch to get necessities.

On the outskirts of Christchurch, the signs of last year's quake are more subtle. Here, a rock wall has collapsed, burying the sidewalk in a spray of boulders and cracked mortar. There, concrete stairs lead up to a vacant lot where a community church used to be.

In the heart of the city, we find ourselves on the perimeter of the Red Zone. The Zone is like something out of a science fiction movie: an entire downtown area sealed off by a nine-foot chainlink fence. We crossed a concrete footbridge riddled with massive cracks, follow a path alongside a stream, and join a small crowd of tourists to peer through the fence and see what can be seen of the quake's aftermath.

A surprising number of skyscrapers -- hotels and office towers -- are still standing. We learn that many of these have already been removed, and that most of the ones we can see today are doomed. This comes as a shock, since many of the buildings, as far as we can see, look fine. But as it turns out, the quake shattered and mangled their concrete foundations ... so the entire structure must be demolished.

Worse, the damage is capricious and unpredictable. This building's foundations will be mulched, while the tower next door will be in perfect shape. As a result, the city can't just march in and dynamite the doomed buildings; instead, they have to be dismantled piece by piece, from the roof level down. As a result, deconstruction could take years.

The most heartbreaking thing we see is the Cathedral. Its left- and right-hand towers collapsed in the quake, and the huge rose window centered above the Cathedral entrance fell inward, into the sanctuary, taking most of the facade with it. Today, a year later, the site is a mess: a house of worship, once the anchor of a vibrant public square, now reduced to a ruin with a gaping black maw.

But even here, in the middle of this apocalyptic landscape, there's hope. The Red Zone is smaller than it was, and the fenced-in area is shrinking, slowly but surely.

At the Public Mall, where so many buildings collapsed and so many people died, a vibrant new district is springing up. Railroad boxcars, painted bright colors, have been retrofitted with windows and glass storefronts, transforming them into grocery stores, clothing shops, bookstores, and restaurants. The streets are packed with people shopping and strolling -- and while some are tourists, many are locals, excited about the rebirth of their city.

I wander into one shop: a British grocery, composed of three boxcars fused end-to-end. The front is all glass; the interior is painted a stark art-gallery white. Inside, the shelves are packed with all manner of UK goodies: marmalades, shortbreads, even Queen Anne dark chocolate eggs (an Easter favorite).

I strike up a conversation with the owner, who tells me his store -- in the family for more than 150 years -- was in the heart of the Red Zone. It was a Christchurch icon, one of those authentic groceries with towering shelves accessible from rolling ladders. As the proprietor, he knew exactly where every single item was filed away, and people marveled at his ability to calculate their bill, plus taxes, in his head.

The new shop is brighter and smaller, but still a delight. And, as a proud owner of a box of dark chocolate Queen Anne Easter eggs, I can verify that the owner can still calculate sums in his head faster than most people could punch them into a cash register. "Come back next year," he tells me, as I walk out. "We'll still be here."

As I walk away, I look down at the warped and buckled pavement. There, springing up from the from the cracks in the concrete, tiny violet and yellow flowers stretch upward, straining to reach the sky.

Well, my American friends, I have bad news. Terrible news, in fact, especially for those of us who love barbecue pork ribs.

Hands down, the world's very best barbecued ribs -- so fat! so succulent! so perfectly sauced! -- are hidden waaaaay down here in Dunedin ("doo-NEE-din"), New Zealand, at Speight's Ale House.

I'm distraught, because from this point forward, every time I indulge in barbecue ribs, I'm going to be sighing and saying, "These are good, but they're not like those ribs at Speight's Ale House." And, worse, once I'm back in Atlanta, every time I get a hankering for Speight's Ale House ribs, there's this little matter of a 22-hour flight to New Zealand I'll have to deal with.

But -- and it kills me to say this -- they're worth it.

After taking the Speight's Brewery Tour ($20 a head if you've taken the Cadbury Chocolate Factory Tour, and you don't really have to ask if I've taken the Cadbury Chocolate Factory tour, do you?), we found ourselves on the streets at lunch time with nothing more than questionable Chinese take-away in sight. So I whipped out my Trip Advisor app, which pinpointed me on the map and quickly identified the highest-rate restaurant within walking distance: Speight's Ale House.

Now, having just come off the tour, I almost nixed this suggestion. The tour was fine -- not too long, not too technical, with a very liberal tasting policy. I felt a little guilty, you know, not getting out and seeing a bit more of what Dunedin has to offer. But the space was big and bright and inviting, with soaring white walls and a gorgeous wooden bar in the center ... and so we decided to trust Trip Advisor and settle in.

We started with a half-loaf of Speight's homemade bread, featuring grains used in the brewery. The load arrived piping hot and slathered with New Zealand butter and minced garlic. Do I have to tell you that it was soft as a pillow? That it was as succulent as a loaf of bread can be? That I ate half of the half-loaf in seconds, and would have eaten the other half of the half loaf if my better half hadn't warded me off with a sharp thwack of a wound-up linen napkin?

When the bread's that good, I normally begin to worry that the best of the meal's behind me. But then, out marched our server with a platter of enormous ribs. These were hefty ribs: thick with meat, with just enough bone exposed to make a convenient handle. Each had been dredged in Speight's signature sauce, which combines tomatoes, sugar, dark ale, onion, and spices in whatever porportions are needed to create the kind of sauce the Buddha might make if he ran a barbecue pit.

And the meat -- so tender! Cooked so perfectly -- just to the point that the pork is *willing* to let go of the bone, but then resists just enough to make you do that thing where you lunge at the rib, teeth bared, smacking and slurping and rocking back and forth in your chair while grunting loudly with contentment. (What? You don't do that? Well, there's a reason: you haven't had these ribs.)

I know, I know. I tend toward a bit of exaggeration when telling food stories, and I've already had one meal on this trip that ranks as one of the very best meals of my life. (And it's not just me. Even Clyde says our dinner at Clooney was one of his most memorable ever ... and when Clyde says something like that, dear reader, you best sit up and pay attention.)

But that said: yes. Yes, it's just the ugly truth. Speight's Ale House (in! Dunedin! NEW ZEALAND!) has the best ribs on the planet. Nothing in U.S. -- nope, not even in Memphis -- compares.

Tonight, as the ship pulls away from port, I'll be out on the promenade, waving and weeping. Some will think I'm leaving behind my family. Some will point and say, "Oh, he loved this little town so much, he hates to move on."

But you, dear reader, will know the truth: I'm mourning the pork -- or, more specifically, the fact that with every nautical mile we travel, Speight's Ale House ribs are left farther and farther behind.

Wellington's botanical gardens incorporate an historic cemetery. There, among the headstones, we stumbled on this elaborate memorial.

A careful read reveals the young fellow was a beloved public servant and member of the labor party. That said, I did wonder what, exactly, one gives the community to prompt the Prime Minister to erect a statue of one's naked likeness in the heart of town.

Rumors I modeled for this statue are mostly untrue.

Rumors I stood naked under the chocolate waterfall screaming, "Who's a lucky boy?!?!" are mostly untrue.

John, our excellent private guide in Akaroa and Christchurch, knew about my interest in spiritual sites. So he took us to this little "kaik" -- a sort of chapel -- situated on the bank overlooking the bay.

What makes it distinctive: the chapel integrates Maori cultural and religious symbols with Christian counterparts. On the baptistery, woodworkers have carved the whirling symbols related to water and birth. More symbols adorn the altar an lectern.

The rest is blissfully plain and simple: dark wood, a pedal organ, and a delightful, faded framed print of a Caucasian Christ with soft brown hair and eyes, steering a ship through a stormy sea.

Stopped today at SHE Chocolates near Christchurch for a glass of hot, melted milk chocolate. If you're playing along at home, follow these instructions:

- Melt Belgian chocolate chunks
- Add cream
- Drink
- Repeat

We had big, big plans for Wellington, especially with the ship scheduled to be there from 8:00 in the morning until 11:30 at night. So we scurried off the ship, jumped on the very first shuttle, and headed straight for the iconic streetcar that ferries locals and tourists up to the top of the city's Botanical Gardens.

We made it that far before stumbling on a promotion for (and free shuttle to) Zealandia, a nature preserve located right smack in the heart of Wellington. Ages ago, the city built two large dams here, creating a massive lake, but later, the dams were found to straddle a major fault line. Fearing that a rumble could crack open the dams and unleash a flood that would destroy the city, the lakes were drained -- mostly -- and the dams abandoned.

But enterprising Welligtonites saw an opportunity to repurpose the space as a nature preserve. Up went high-tech fences (to keep out all kinds of predators, from housecats to possums), in went several dozen rare and native species of birds and animals, and, before you knew it, there was a little slice of paradise right in the heart of town.

We hiked several of the trails, pausing along the way to visit with green-headed parrots, lively geckos, two huge local lizards said to be direct descendants of the dinosaurs, and an aged pair of the rarest birds in the world. The way up the hills into the bush was vertical, but shady and pleasant; the way back down, though, was in full New Zealand noonday sunlight. There's a hole in the ozone layer down here, centered right over the islands, and, as a result, the sun is especially harsh and bright. So, despite a slathering of sun block, by the time we got back down into town, I was feeling a bit like I'd been simmered in butter.

From there, we resumed our original plan, walking downhill through the Botanical Gardens (which, as it turns out, incorporate both an elaborate rose garden ... and a historical cemetery). An hour's walk put us right in the heart of the Central Business District, where there was lots and lots of shopping, but, on a Saturday, not much in the way of dining. (Burger King, I should note, was open.) So we wound up in a local hotel, eating nachos at Arizona, which I imagine is a bit like the local Chili's. Not a four-star meal by any means ... but tasty, especially when you're starving.

We had planned to do more, but our long walk through the wilds of Zealandia and the steep inclines of the botanical gardens took their toll, and once on the shuttle, we headed back to the ship. Once back there, we napped until dinner time, then spent a happy dinner hour swapping travel tales with newfound friends Jim and Doug -- a Canadian couple, together 30+ years, who share our passion for getting out there and seeing whatever the world has to offer.

We're in Picton, a tiny village on the tip of the South Island.

An hour's walk along a pressed dirt trail took us through dense woods this morning. We were surrounded by millions of screeching, chirping cicadas, whose abandoned brown bodies dangled from virtually every tree. The noise -- a cross between a smoke alarm and a needle stuck in the groove of a vinyl record album -- could sometimes drown out conversation.

Now I am on a little rocky beach, sitting by Clyde, listening to the waves and watching Picton come to life.

Stumbled on a wedding in progress here. What a great place to start married life together!