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Paradise Would Be A Parking Lot

August 16th, 2010 by admin
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Will wants a car. His mates all wanted to know what he was looking for. “Personally, I’d like a 4 x4, at least a 3 liter. Manual, of course. I grew up with Holdens but I’m liking what some of the European makers are doing. That’s what I’d like. However, we’ll be parking it on a dowtown street. So any old banger, really.”

The “car fair” of yesteryear, where everyone brought their cars to a space downtown and haggled it out, is gone in Wellington. Will’s paradise would have been that parking lot of yore, conveniently downtown, full of used cars on Saturday, but it seems to have gone to the same Wellington landmark heaven as Wakefield Markets.

“So you’ll go on TradeMe, then?” Inevitably, yes. But Will finds this profoundly frustrating as TradeMe presents him with endless possible cars from outside of Wellington. Is it worth driving to Taupo in someone else’s car? What about taking the plane up to Auckland and buying there?

In the absence of a car fair, the next option is to go to one of the locations where car sellers park their cars, all in a row, with the information stuck to the car window with signs. Shelley Beach where Miramar meets Maupuia, Randall Street in Moera, the road between Tawa and Porirua right across from the Moore Wilson’s are some favorites.  He and Winona did spend a precious Saturday afternoon doing this, driven around by Woodrow. It didn’t go well. Winona was a trooper in the rain, but Will nearly got hit by another car checking out a likely vehicle on that Tawa road, and Woodrow got inspired to sell his Ford Fiesta and buy a used Jaguar instead.

The car happens the same way most things in Wellington happen: through word of mouth. Will hears of someone moving to their dream job in Zurich who is selling their car. Three days later, he is affixing the Residents’ Parking Permit to the inner windscreen of a VW that needs a bit of body work but has a sound engine. The body work can wait. It’s going to need  more after a few months on the streets of Mount Victoria. He hopes it’s not a lot more.

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Valley of the Bachelors

August 13th, 2010 by the_lifer
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There are only three escapes from the Flat of Legend. Moving in with a very serious partner – going overseas – or, for males, taking up their post in The Valley of the Bachelors.

In Wellington, three features mark the abodes of men who choose to live alone after they turn thirty-five. Be they blokes or aesthetes, they will have decent parking, very large audio speakers, and a position at the top of a hill. Bachelors on a budget like the windswept cliffs of Maupuia or Wadestown. Those with funds like to perch on the awkward angles of Mount Victoria, or take a penthouse flat downtown. But wherever a road curves around the top of a hill, or pierces to the high end of a valley, sure enough, the last house on the street is the territory of a solo man. Perhaps they are hearkening back to the Kiwi warrior past with these hilltop pas.

Between the leather sofas and the guitar amps, you might find the reasons that they’re unattached in an area that has so many single women. An overflowing ashtray by the bed; too many photos of handsome younger days; disturbing art;  moldy shower walls ripped out and relined, as cheaply as possible, with black garden plastic.

Either there are no pets, or the place is a menagerie, with cats, dogs, and contraband ferrets.

Nervberg, one of Winona’s bosses, has returned to his bachelor aerie, a self-conscious late-70s townhouse with a few round windows. Its stylishness is deceptive. Nervberg received most of the furniture and art when his parents moved to a retirement villa. Putting his laptop case down on one of his waist-height speakers (four of them ring the living room), he takes out a sheaf of papers. Then he puts it down on a glass coffee table. It’s after sundown on Friday, after all.  But he’ll spend Sunday night reviewing the budget for the Department of Stodge, seeing where more cuts can be made.

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Wellington vs. Melbourne: The Case

August 11th, 2010 by admin
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Winona wondered who would actually call her, instead of sending a text. It’s her sister, Helena.

To her delighted shock, Helena is inviting her on a long weekend to Melbourne, air fare and hotel paid, “…if you’d look after the boys a bit? Henry and I could have a little time together, it would be so good for us…” she says, plaintively, as if the burdens of her upper-middle class existence can only be borne with her sister by her side.

This is unnecessary.  Helena had her at “Melbourne.”

Between New Zealand and Australia, there are many trans-Tasman rivalries. Perhaps the one between Wellington and Melbourne has a distinctive blend of love and hate. Both cities are the quirky, intellectual, cool-weather counterparts to another, brasher, big-smoke city. Some say that Melbourne is like Wellington, just more of it, with better weather and more money. Wellingtonians like the idea of that so much that there is now an area of Melbourne referred to by some as “Cuba Street West” for its Wellington expatriate population.

But the flow does go both ways. Wellingtonians trickle back, grumbling about the taxes that Australia makes contractors pay,  a social life that requires being part of a couple, or abodes priced beyond impossibility. Then there are the Australians who move, against all expectations, to Wellington. Often, they can’t pin down Wellington’s charm, but they conclude, “Well, we liked it…it’s nice and green.” We should pay more attention when they say that: it may be the voice of the future.

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The Story In Order Updated

August 10th, 2010 by the_lifer
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The Story In Order page has been updated! 61 entries about Wellington: life, love, work, real estate, bars, bogans, couples, singletons, natives, expatriates, sphinxes, scum, and the Flat of Legend.

Also, WordPress ate Monday’s entry, which will appear Wednesday.

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Nerdxhaustion

August 6th, 2010 by the_lifer
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Five days after his vacation, Will is drained. An IT programmer and an introvert, he longs for the days, three short years ago, when being a nerd meant you didn’t have to be that social. You had your best mate and your girl and your computer, and Hell Pizza delivery, and life was good. He had hoped he’d left a certain need to network behind in London. But a nameless global trend has reached Wellington’s wind-churned shores at last, and Will hasn’t spent an evening at home this week.

Monday was Nerdnite. Tuesday was Ignite. Wednesday was an open-source software user’s group. Thursday is Science Express at Te Papa, on something he’s really interested in. He has run into co-workers at all these evenings.

Will goes out of free-floating anxiety around getting re-established in this town, where connections mean so much. Living walking distance from downtown, he feels he doesn’t have an excuse to not go. Also, he’s afraid he’ll miss something, because he sees all the bright young things from where he works out and about at these evenings.

It hasn’t occurred to him that the young nerds, the ones fresh out of uni, go because it’s cheaper than having to turn on the electric heaters in their uninsulated flats.

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The Wind Up

August 4th, 2010 by the_lifer
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There was a moment on the drive back to Wellington. Winona glanced up from the very back seat. In the rear view mirror, she saw her partner, Will, check out her and Ulrika, nearly nestled together as Ulrika murmured her story.  Intuition twinged in her gut. Her partner was thinking about something, and she was going to hear about it.

Sure enough, two days later, Will called out to her from their flat’s kitchenette. “Win? Come talk to me while I do the dishes?”

Despite being up to his elbows in the metal sink, he was simmering with bloke cockiness. He wanted something, and he knew it was going to be a big tease to bring it up.

Three minutes later, even though she can hear him telling his friends, oh, she was so wound up, mate! she just can’t help herself. “But we don’t need a car! We can walk to everything! That was one thing we wanted in a flat! Even when we were loading up the rental car, you were moaning about the crap parking here!”

“Fair enough. But wasn’t it great to just get in the car and go? Wayne’ll let me use his tools to keep it tuned up, so we won’t be paying for service.” As Winona rolls her eyes at this, he adds, “Besides, Wayne says it’s mad to think of having kids if you don’t have a car.”

She caved, mate! She went down! That’s what he’ll be saying to Wayne, probably over a beer tomorrow night. While she recaps this conversation for a friend, moaning about why Kiwi men put up a shield of boyish taunting around their partners. This isn’t the moment for her observations on that – not when she’s melting with relief against the doorframe. “So. What kind of car?”

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How Do You Solve A Problem Like Ulrika?

August 2nd, 2010 by admin
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On the drive back from the ski weekend, somehow Winona and Ulrika wound up together in the furthest back seat of the 4 x 4. Dusk came down. Will was absorbed in driving.  The two people in front of them fell asleep. And in the darkness and quiet, on the long dull rainy drive home, Ulrika tells Winona how she wound up in Wellington.

Her tale is not unusual. Love; perfidity; heartbreak; seeking a fresh start somewhere far, far away from the scene of the emotional crime. Many single expatriates follow that pathway to Wellington. Her single friend Willow tells her that the dating scene is rife with them, each of them with great lumpy duffels of emotional baggage, and with their own nation’s dating expectations. The result is the opposite of a melting pot as everyone, unintentionally, offends each other.

Ulrika’s heartbreak is fresh enough that she still dwells on details. Winona can see her, barely. Without red lipstick, she looks pale and tired. Winona recalls that her expat co-worker, Jennifer from America, runs around with a crowd of other Yankees. But how many Swiss expatriates are there for Ulrika to pal up with?

Forcing jolliness into her voice, she encourages Ulrika to get out there, do things, meet people. It’s not the same as when she talks to her single friend Willow – but Willow is her actual friend. She knows that Ulrika knows that she knows Ulrika finds Will rather attractive. In a larger city, she’d be putting up more walls between her and Ulrika.

But the motorway signs are now saying that it’s less than 100 km to Wellington, and when they get back there, it’s a small social ecosystem that awaits. They’ve got to sort something out. Winona says, “When it comes to different scenes and groups and such, an American friend of mine said she was told that there’s one of everything in Wellington – but ONLY one. So, she was warned to tread very carefully, and try not to offend anyone.”

And hopes Ulrika gets the right idea.

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The Escape Plan

August 2nd, 2010 by the_lifer
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Sunday, Wellington was hammered by vile weather. Shops were quiet while Facebook and TradeMe hummed.

Woodrow the Weta contractor, didn’t really notice – he was working – but he does take periodic breaks. Little does he know he’s messaging Willow.

Wazzer the bar manager wishes to God she didn’t have to work tonight. However, she is expecting half the staff to skive off – the problem with being in charge is that she can’t. Either it’s going to be dead in the bar, as people take shelter from the weather, or  it’s going to be insane as people run away from their cabin fever.

Amongst the older, more sedate demographic, Wilhelmina is working on a quilt. Wilson is watching sports.

Meanwhile, in Lower Hutt, despite the spaciousness of her Hutt house, Wilhelmina’s daughter Helena is at the end of her rope. Her young boys have been learning about dinosaurs and are currently playing Mass Extinction in the living room. This involves shrieking, growling, and jumping off all available furniture. Helena’s urgings that they need to “play dead better…you don’t look really dead, darling” are going unheeded.

The time has come to plan The Escape. They’ve had enough of the Wellington winter. Two years ago, they went to Disneyworld in August; last year, they went to Fiji when a coup made it cheap. This year, with the recession and all, they are still not inclined to splash out so hugely.  “What about Melbourne? First weekend in September?” her husband Henry says.

Helena gives him a knowing look.

Henry grins, guiltily. “AFL finals. Good fun for the boys. If you come with me to one of the boxes, you’ll have to dress up like it’s the Melbourne Cup.”

Helena is tempted, instantly picturing herself in a saucy hat and a pink dupioni silk sheath, flute of “bubbly” in hand. “But what about the boys?”

“Maybe your sister Win could come, too? If we get a flat in Melbourne for a week, easy enough to bring her along.”

Helena approves of this. “I’m sure she won’t mind looking after the kids a few evenings. And we could have a few girls’ days.”

“Just what I was thinking.” They exchange a kiss and a squeeze.

Then they realize they have had ten minutes of quiet uninterrupted conversation, and peer into the living room, warily.

One sibling is smothering the other under every possible sofa cushion.

“I’m fossilizing him, Mummy! Look!”

ADMIN NOTE: Bonus post to help catch up the plot! Another post in 1 hour.

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Unrecognizable For A Night

July 28th, 2010 by admin
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Willow can hardly believe it. It’s Saturday night. Instead of curling up with her cat and the latest issue of Nature, she has been swept up in Wazzer’s evening. Dressed in gothwear from Wazzer’s capacious wardrobe (“that corset hasn’t fit me in years”), and wearing a kilo of makeup from Wazzer’s even larger cosmetics stash, she barely recognizes herself.

In fact, she barely recognizes her city. They are in an upstairs cabaret club, red walls and white tables, jam-packed with revelers. People in evening clothes and masks – it’s a masquerade – are sipping from champagne flutes and laughing.

It is still Wellington, though. Even though everyone is trying to channel Venetian courtesans, and the evening’s main entertainment is a range of scantily clad dancers under the umbrella of “burlesque”, any atmosphere of sensuality is hampered by everyone knowing everyone else.  Wazzer is close friends with two of the acts, which is why she’s wrangled a night away from work. Willow spends half an hour chatting with several other scientists and analysts she knows. Like her, they are all single for the night. None of their Kiwi fellas wanted to dress up, even to see women take their clothes off onstage.  The few men there are flirting like bandits. Willow chats with one of them for a while, not thinking much of it until he says,  “Will I see you at salsa dancing sometime? Friday night at Amigos? You know where that is, right?”

“Oh, yes,” Willow breathes. Then she freezes in shock. Has she just agreed to go dancing? What made him think she could dance? And how disappointed is he going to be when he sees her actual face?

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