Wellington, Ho!

(I've been having a bit of trouble writing this entry. Part of the problem is that, out of a sense of continuity if nothing else, I feel like I ought to sum up Wellington in a few pithy paragraphs. I've been here long enough that I let my first impressions wear out a bit, but not long enough to really feel like I've got a firm handle on the city as a whole. Also, I have more of a social life here than I had traveling with Mike, who, however friendly and compatible, never really crossed the mental line dividing friendly from friend, leaving me less time to sit in front of a computer screen and just process things. Laziness, of course, has had no part in the process.

More to the point, though, my experience in Wellington can't be summed up in a single post, because it hasn't been and will not be a singular experience. It's going to keep on evolving through the end of summer, through fall and winter, as I get a job and a flat and new friends. And so, the first of many:)


While Coromandel still holds first place for driving, Route 1 south into Wellington is a pretty tremendous road in its own right. It doesn't have the rugged coastal bits or the lush, shifting subtropical backdrop (nothing against temperate vegetation, I'm just used to it); it compensated with a lot of cars. Mike was happy to let me handle the mountain traffic, and I was happy to take over driving*.



Once we reached the city proper, we managed to get lost almost immediately in steep, tortuous residential roads ("Terraces", rather, which should have been a tip-off). Both of us were inclined towards the small, bohemian hostels just north of the city center, but there was no room in the inns. With dinnertime and a Stereolab concert creeping ever closer, we settled on Wellywood, a zebra-striped tower smack in the middle of the city. Having now lived here for some weeks, I can say that it is a place utterly without charm. It is remarkably convenient, though: it has free internet, fair rates, a fine location, and some good people. The transient nature of most of its inhabitants leads to a bizarre ad hoc culture among a core of long-term residents, but more on that in a later post.

We found an overnight parking spot and a grocery store; we ate and showered and changed clothes; we were ready for the show.



The venue, San Francisco Bath House, was on Cuba St., the pedestrian mall and heart of downtown Wellington**. It was very much akin to American indie music venues. Something was wrong, though. It was too clean, the bar served good beer (I heartily recommend Mac's Sassy Red, and not just because of the name), and the hipsters seemed just a bit too nice. The floor wasn't sticky, not even a little bit, and everyone had just a bit of elbow room. Granted, Stereolab brought an older crowd, but still.

Coming in, I caught the end of the starting act-- a local lady with a keyboard and some half-written songs. She was amateurish and inconsistent in a way that was charming and maddening in turns. Every song had brilliant moments that, distilled and built around well, would make for beautiful, distinctive music-- droning electronic ballads, equal parts Dan Deacon, Slowdive and Low. Unfortunately though, it was a set of forgettable meandering punctuated by brilliance, not the other way around. But she had promise, and she had a stage set up that I really, honestly, truly want to steal. She stood in the middle of the stage with her keyboard, her laptop and microphone, bookended by a pair of old computer monitors, each of which showed the waveform of one recorded track of the song she was playing. The drum beats in particular looked amazing, and the presentation of the waveforms combined visual interest and reinforcement of the music in a way that managed to remind me simultaneously of backup dancers and sheet music.

Stereolab put on the kind of show half of all music clichés exist to describe. I don't exactly mean that it was good, though it very much was. But the band and crowd got into a wonderful, giddy sort of positive feedback loop, where they were excited to be here and we were excited they were here and they were excited we were excited and so forth. The band played like they'd been together eighteen years (which, in fact, they have), and looked like it had been half that. Clean living, I expect. Everyone smiled a lot and their frontwoman called Wellington a "special place" at least three times. Man, oh man.


* One constant in my talks and emails about Wellington was a comparison to San Francisco, a city I only know by the words and pictures of other people. But given the vagaries of city streets and Mike's somewhat underwhelming performance driving hills out in the country, I wanted to be the one behind the wheel (or rather, the clutch pedal) when we arrived. This decision payed off on every steep hill start, and payed off double when it came time to make a tight, uphill parallel park in traffic.

** Like a squid, Wellington has multiple hearts. Cuba Street is the cultural one; if you're into party bars, Courtney Place is another; for politics, the Capital and Parliament; for criminals, Happy Valley.