Wellington was creepy last night. The veils of rain felt like winter, suddenly. Despite all the bars being full of people, it was eerily subdued. They were quiet as they drank. Everyone’s eyes were glued to screens; TV screens, computer screens, smartphone screens, whatever would give them a news infusion the fastest. For the second Christchurch earthquake is a very digitzed disaster.
It was so much easier last time. Wellingtonians could trot out the platitudes: “At least nobody was seriously hurt or killed…everyone did so well…pity about Gran’s garage…did you know anyone down there?” Not this time. Saying any of these things in a Wellington bar last night, you’d’ve been invited to take it outside.
Didn’t hear anyone saying, “That should have been Wellington’s earthquake,” either. But I did catch someone glancing at the high hills that hem in every area of this town, and whispering, “Fuck…”
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glad you’re ok.
Yes, I looked down from my perch on Beacon Hill (near the airport) and uttered a similar expletive.
So sorry about the earthquake and its disastrous consequences. Words sound pretty inadequate, but nonetheless, genuine sympathy coming the way of New Zealand.