“You can’t beat Wellington on a good day,” says everyone from New York Times travel writers to wiry locals caught on a defensive binge of their beloved city. But what is a good day in Wellington, New Zealand?
As someone as non-local as you can get, I decided, after a 12 hour sloth-like slumber, to take myself out on the town, in day light. The brilliant sunshine and windless blue skies beckoned me to join them, and me – explorer mode in full swing, hair in all its unkempt glory, dashing out the door with a notebook and pen, basking in the closest thing to anticipation I had felt in months.
From my room at the foot of Mt. Victoria, I walk past serious looking girls in active wear, and young yuppie parents pushing expensive strollers past in an effortless glide, buoyant blonde babies optional. I walk past mid-century barbershops still manned by their original owners – and peeked inside to catch a close shave, becoming the unlikely intruder of an intimate moment between the barber and his old customer. I walk past attractive hordes of young hipsters sipping filter coffee and catch a whiff of existential Sunday morning conversation –
“Every good relationship I’ve had…I’ve known within a week if it’s going to be something real, you know?”
I nod along – yup, sounds about right guys! Don’t mind the silent approval from a wandering stranger, do you?
At Coffee Supreme, I order a supremely hipster combination of Ethiopian filter coffee with a dash of soy milk and settle down with a tattered issue of Monocle Escapist. Instead, I blank out in a blissful trance to the industrial hum of the espresso machine, coffee orders being placed in a melange of accents, and the perfect marriage of people and sunshine outside the window. This city has a captivating soul, and though I can’t quite place my finger on its pulse just yet, what has become apparent is that this solo cafe jaunt is offering an experience that can’t be replicated anywhere else in the world.
Despite being the capital of New Zealand, Wellington seems the antithesis of the country’s idiosyncrasies. It is artsy, intellectual, and urban – with a penchant for intricately brewed coffee and beer. While the rest of the country prides itself on rearing strong and silent men with little emotional display, Wellington seems to boast an abnormally high percentage of young urban males who will happily dissect feelings over a single origin cold brew. Here, the same kiwi genuineness manifests itself in the strongest display of identity I had observed in this part of the world. If Auckland was a big city wannabee itching to connect physically to the world despite its pieces not quite coming together into a cohesive whole, Wellington seemed already connected at its core – vibrant, self-assured, and comfortable with what it is and what it isn’t. It seemed devoid of Auckland’s growing pains.
I uproot myself from the cafe and the adventure continues. A short stroll through the eccentric creative hub of Cuba Street and Wellington’s commercial centre of Lambton Quay took me to the iconic Cable Car – one single brightly painted carriage ferrying passengers across the city’s steep hills , only faintly reminiscent of its more urban cousins in San Francisco.
These days, the journey seemed more for enjoyment than transportation. As the bells foretold our departure, an electric buzz radiated from tourists and locals alike in the jam-packed compartment.
The succinct climb (only 5 minutes end to end) took us through lush native vegetation and immaculately grand Victorian villas with the quaint nostalgia for a bygone era. Just before the final stop, we rode into tunnels flamboyantly lit with rainbow-hued lights. It was a surreal moment – as my fellow passengers drop their phones and gaze around with childlike delight, rays of red, yellow, and blue lighting up their smiles, we celebrated a rare moment of unison, collectively wonder-struck by the beauty this world had to offer.
From the top of the cable car, I looked out at the immense blue of Wellington Harbour and lost track of time. All around me, murmurs of admiration in dozens of different tongues filled the air. I suppose the original engineers of the cable car must be gratified at this scene – to find a remarkable piece of engineering bringing so much more joy to the people than they bargained for. For several seconds, I forgot my own existence and dissolved fully into the moment, soaking up the sound and smells as a particle of the atmosphere itself.
Maybe this is what travel is supposed to be. It lifts you out of the bubble of personal misery to immerse in the wonder of a new place. Temporarily, even if it’s just for a few hours, you explore and observe and question and contemplate something much larger than yourself.
And when it’s over, you emerge refreshed, ready to have another go at this thing called life.
Musings of a Leaf 