Awkward in Auckland

The Auckland tourist board describes its city as “The City of Sails” and simply finding its location on a map is enough for this rather evocative description to make sense. It is located on the spit of land which connects the fly-away far North of New Zealand with the rest of North Island, and its sprawling mass borders two harbours, each spotted with islands, ships and sailboats.
My first impressions of the city were a little less romantic, in fact it initially reminded me a little of Reading in Berkshire.

Once my plane had landed at around four o’clock in the afternoon, the weather which greeted me was already wet and miserable and there is nothing quite like emerging from an airport into the anonymous suburbs of car parks, bus-stops and billboards which surround every international airport in the Western world only to discover that this time, unlike in Sydney, it really is winter, and a proper British winter at that. But by the time the airport bus has made its sluggish way through the rush-hour traffic and into town, I find consolation in the discovery of Gary and Julia waiting for me, and a particularly welcoming beer is planted into my hand. This, I think to myself, is more like it.

The following morning, I amble into town to have a look around properly. Gary and Julia’s flat is situated along the lengthy Great North Road which is spotted with what appears to be excluisvely car dealerships and petrol stations, closer to town things liven up a little and Gary describes this stretch as “like Cowley Road, only seedier". The flat itself is pleasant, and doubtless if its inhabitants were not so understandably reluctant to furnish it, it could be a cosy one as well. As it is, it achieves a sort of minimalist charm with its large, blindingly white living room being home to a handful of chairs clustered around a small, humble looking television as though slightly embarrassed to be caught cluttering the space.

Auckland is not a particularly tall city. It has instead the appearence of a city which has been dropped into place from a great hight and spread expansively as it landed. There are sky scrapers, certainly, but they look rather shy, squat and even lonely rising above the smaller buildings surrounding them. Stark contrast indeed to the proud, soaring clusters which make up the central business districts of Sydney or Melbourne. Here, the towers are few and far between, as though at some point during the planning stage, it was decided that there was no real point in building towers which scraped the sky, given that it could be argued that the local sky seemed rather lower than normal in the first place.
Today, the clouds are dense scribbles of chalk and charcoal, a teasing patch of blue revealing itself once in a while between them as they shift about with the sort of laziness which does not encourage the likelihood of a clear afternoon. Puncturing the cloud layer with a sort of impetuous defiance, and lording it over all the other buildings in town, is the Skytower, which does not scrape the sky so much as skewer it.
The Skytower, like its cousins in cities such as Sydney, Toronto or Seattle, is built for the purpose of height alone. Its bulk consists of a wide concrete trunk, crowned with a blossoming of restaurants, viewing platforms and casinos, and its topped with a large spire to make it seem higher still. It looks for all the world like a giant version of the game, Ker-Plunk, and the fact that people in colourful boiler suits are throwing themselves from the top of it (as Gary did following his birthday) simply adds to the cheerful incongruousness of it.
I meet up with Julia for lunch and she introduces me to one of the city’s many Asian food courts, which boasts a spectacular choice of kitchens and menus serving food from every inch of Asia, it seems. The choice is almost overwhelming and as I wait for my own meal (nothing adventurous at this point, I should admit), Julia’s order arrives: a tray of sushi with all the trimmings which she juggles expertly with a pair of chopsticks.
I confess to her that I have never really tried sushi properly and this earns a look of reproach bordering on abject horror.
“That won't last.” She assures me, “You can't live in Auckland without falling in love with the stuff.”

I start walking back to the flat at around three in the afternoon and as I cross the road bridge over the freeway, traffic roaring below, school kids waiting for their busses roaring above, the sun finally breaks from behind the clouds.
To my right, roads drop away steeply towards the continuing suburban sprawl, and in the distance I can see that the sunlight has ignited the harbour water, casting it in glittering silver against the muted greys of the buildings surrounding the coast. It is one of those moments of beauty which catch you completely off guard. Even though the clouds then close in once more and the view reverts to a more somber palate, it is enough and I am satisfied. You do not, I am forced to admit, get views like that in Reading, and it is as though the city is tersely proving a point before getting on with the rest of the winter.