Just another day

Publié le 16 Février 2015

As it has become a morning habit, I did not succeed in waking up early on this day. Since I arrived in New Zealand, it seems my nights have to last more than nine hours to be relaxing, and even then, a few more hours would not be too much. I do not really know why. It might be the air or the fact that Wellington is by the sea. I remember that few years ago, when I was going on holidays with my parents in Arcachon, the same was happening to my whole family. The ocean proximity, nature and the nearly absence of pollution might have then explained it.

I woke up at midday but my alarm was set to ring at nine. I had been awoken at night by a bird's scream I did not know, but quite peculiar: I had heard him few nights before, its squeal difficult to describe, similar to a child who would clear the bottom of his throat emitting hight-pitched sounds, dissimilar from cries. I had a look at the local weather forecast whereas the sky was shining blue under the sun hidden on the other side of the house. It was probably around twenty degrees and the temperature was supposed to be the same the whole day, until late in the evening. A little later, once I had had my lunch, I saw the sky was darkening, only an hour and a half later. The weather forecast had changed and they were now announcing scattered showers and seventeen degrees or so until the end of the afternoon. This is what the weather is like in Wellington: no one can rely upon it. Galloping winds run so fast that they sweep away clouds or take them above the city in no time.

I then went to Newtown in the afternoon. I do not think I ever mentioned this southern part of the city. To reach it, you have to cross a nearly no-man's land stuck between the Town Belt and Mount Cook district, where cars pass on a large avenue strewn with for lease storehouses, or second hand cars and construction equipments shops. Once you have gone past the hospital, small wooden villas with pistachio, tangerine or garnet fronts take the storehouses place, sheltering cafés or shops selling jumble. My research taught me Newtown was a worker district in the past and then became the migrant spot in the 1970s. Gentrification finally reached it in the early 2000s, but I have to say that it has nothing in common with gentrified areas in France. There is still a strong migrant population but no communitarianism, and some streets are still not highly recommended at night (well, compared to other places in New Zealand). If the streets get empty during the weekdays, they are busy on Saturdays market by a colourful crowd, where the five continents and all generations meet

After this detour by Newtown and having applied for jobs in a cybercafé, I went to the film archives where a kiwi romantic comedy from 2010 was broadcast. My wedding and other secrets was produced by a young cineast from Auckland, where she evoke the difficulties she had coming from a Chinese migrant family, to make her parents accept her relationship with a Kiwi, and her rough journey to start in the film industry. It was really different from other similar movies, and I think I was able to see a little kiwi print in the story adapted from true events by its producer. In the evening, Jess my flatmate, told me that this film had been a huge success in New-Zealand but that at the beginning, many people wondered why an Asian girl was playing the main character whereas it was supposed to be a Kiwi film. She added that according to her, it was logical as many Asian people and their descent live in Auckland and are a not neglectable part of its population.

I went to bed quite early this evening but was awoken several times by our neighbours' newly installed wooden gate which had been not properly closed and kept slamming because of the strong winds. At two, I decided to wake up to close it and end my night. I woke up at nine this time to have a look at the Love Parade (the local gay pride) but learnt it had been postponed to Sunday, due to the windstorm. Another day, cooler than the previous one, was beginning, interspersed by a nice conversation at a café terrace in Newtown with a stammerer homeless person who had travelled extensively in Europe during his youth.