The Agony and the Ecstasy

Ah, "the wind that blasts through it" is no joke. Jogging in Wellington is either agony or ecstasy, depending on whether you have a tail wind or a head wind. As reported in David's blog about the Day of Disaster, when his glasses flew off and are probably in Eastbourne by now (see "Wellington Winds"), I was nearly knocked down by gale force northwesterliess that I had hoped would be tail winds along Evans Bay. A kindly lady driving to the beach with her dog took pity on me and gave me a ride home, inviting us to drop by her boat shed for drinks. (Presumably my foreign accent gave me away and hopefully excused my pathetic floundering in the wind).

Indeed, every Kiwi who hears my foreign accent asks what has brought us to Wellington. When I answer "the balmy weather", they don't seem to realize that I'm joking. Perhaps having lived with gale force winds for all their lives, they don't know any other existence, like Eskimos not having a word for palm trees.

But of course we didn't come for the weather, but for the culture. According to my guidebook, "Wellington transformed itself during the 1980's and 1990's into a vibrant, culture-driven hot spot. Tucked around one of the world's most picturesque harbours, the capital city is intimate, sophisticated, arty and packed with national treasures." And, so far, we have not been disappointed. I have found my fantasy come true in the Penthouse Cinema, which combines showing independent and foreign films with providing an excellent cafe and bistro, all under the same roof. We saw the encore performance of the Met's superb production of "Aida" there and are looking forward to returning soon (David is keen to see a new "mockumentary" about Morris dancing, in the tradition of "This is Spinal Tap" and "Best in Show"). We've been to two completely different types of theatrical productions: "An Adagio Christmas", which was a pastiche of circus acrobatics, comedy and music; and "Wolf's Liar", a one-woman show drawing the memoirs of Traudl Junge, Hitler's personal secretary, as she describes her experience in the inner circle of the Third Reich and slowly comes to realize her own complicity. On the subject of culture, Radio New Zealand should also be praised for its combination of programming, jazz and diverse selections of classical music-- not the same staple of "Brandenburg concerti" and "Four Seasons" that seem to dominate our risk-averse airwaves.

New Zealand does seem quite similar in culture to Great Britain, although more egalitarian and less class conscious (admittedly, Britain is changing in this regard, with most people's origins indistinguishable in their jeans and "trainers"). This seems surprising in light of the vast physical distance between them, yet New Zealand --never used as a penal colony, unlike Oz-- has traditionally considered itself "the Britain of the South". This is reflected in many city names (Wellington; New Plymouth; Nelson; Dunedin-- the ancient name for Edinburgh). Apparently when the Beatles came here in the 1960s and were asked what they thought of New Zealand, John Lennon rather dismissively replied that it reminded him of Britain in the 1950's. (The above photo is the "Beehive", one of the Parliamentary buildings, built in 1977).

Tomorrow we must brave the crossing of Cook Strait to go over to South Island, where we hope to spend a week at the beach and enjoy some wine tasting in the Marlborough region. I'm well-armed with Sea Legs (allegedly better for travel sickness than Dramamine), although reading about the Wahine disaster, when a ferry capsized in the Wellington harbor in bad weather in 1968 and 51 passengers drowned, was not comforting. Stay tuned...
(Posted by Joan on Dec. 13)