When Lynn Barber, star journalist at The Guardian, informed her kiwi friends she would visit New Zealand, their reactions were remarkably alike:

“Beautiful scenery,” they told her. “Really nice friendly people – you’ll hate it.”

Lynn wrote that to love this country one must really like nature and not be too discriminating when it comes to culture. NZ, she said, is a terrestrial paradise in countless ways, a clean country with virgin land and pristine air where landscapes that take your breath away come fast and without relent.

But, Lynn said, she always found paradise to be a touch dull, and assumed New Zealanders were as well. After all, they spend all their intellectual capital on inventing new extreme sports.

But, unlike Lynn, I’m not a smoker. I like nature trails and I’m deeply moved by natural landscapes. But this isn’t what drew me here. If I think back to what motivated me to cross the globe to brave this country of which i knew so little, I could count the reasons on a single hand:

- I’m crazy for Flight of the Conchords, which, in my opinion, is one of the most original series ever made for TV.

- I know Lord of the Rings was shot here. But I haven’t watched it. Or read the book.

- I find the haka, a war dance performed by the All Blacks before each rugby match, is one of the most interesting, moving, and testosterone-frenzied moments in sport.

- I have a certain weakness for anti-heroes. Something told me that the New Zealand psyche has that modest charm shared by countries with a bit of an inferiority complex. Like Canada.

- It’s impossible not to mention kiwis (the fruit and the bird) as well as extreme sports.

More than enough reasons for a visit. But after two weeks, what’s the verdict?

What first caught my attention upon landing in Auckland, her largest city, was an intangible silence. The noise on the street was disproportionate to the quantity of people. On the busiest thoroughfare I didn’t hear laughter, no voices stood out, no one whistled or played loud music, whether from stores or their cars.

Our first contact with local culture was the result of an active search: after three days of ambling among the English and German masses in the hostels, we went to a weekly Couchsurfing meetup. Yes, to score, with luck, a couch for the night, but also to feel closer to the locals.

In this evening, the most toasted and extroverted guy I met was American. But the most charismatic one, blessed with a lovely blend of affection and a great smile, was a Maori guy.

But it was the adorable Danny, born in Christchurch and living in Auckland, who lent us his couch and volunteered as a tour guide of the city.

Despite his love for the country, Danny told us that he really wanted to live in Los Angeles. He stood out for his tempered, almost unidentifiable accent. And it wasn’t by chance: during his world trips, he told us, he began to dislike his own accent and set about to speak with a more neutral cadence.

But since we left Auckland, traveling and sleeping in the campervan, our contact with other travellers and with the locals was noticeably reduced. But it seems that this is the rule, that this is how one travels here: uncovering trails, exploring glaciers, visiting forests, surfing the beaches. Travel is done by couples or at most small groups. One explores the country, the land, while leaving its people and its culture – or lack thereof – in peace.

I’m discovering a sparsely-populated and low-density nation, and, until now, no real defining national food or drink, no rhythm and no bubble gum pop hit.

It’s a country as lovely as a super model, with blue eyes and angular face, whose beauty is closer to a work of art than of a man made of blood, tissue, and testosterone.