These are some words I wrote the week before I left Wellington amid the chaos of packing up my life. A love letter of sorts, it’s my attempt to capture a moment in time, spanning eight years. Like any great love story, it has its ups and downs, but that doesn’t take away from it. On the contrary, it’s a reminder that whilst it wasn’t always easy, moving to this city was the still the best thing I ever did. An experience I’ll carry closely with me as I embark on my next adventure and prepare to do it all again.
I’ll start with the numbers.
I’ve lived in this city for the better part of a decade now. 416 weeks. Over 3000 days. For more than 30% of my life I have called this tiny, windy city at the bottom of the world home. Slowly but surely, month by month, it has crept under my skin and become a defining part of me.
They say you can’t beat Wellington on a good day—and there have been many, many of those. Graduations. Promotions. First days and last days. Blowing out the candles. Festivals, summer evenings and the wild nights that ran into slow mornings surrounded by the people I love. I am so grateful for all of these core memories. However, it’s the thousands of days in between these great moments that make up a life. The long walks to uni in the rain, the thrown together dinners, the nights in, the flat dance-offs and the questionable microwave baking experiments. These seemingly unremarkable days, they are the fabric of it all. It is the texture and colour of these days I never want to forget.
So I’ll start at the very beginning.
The University Years
In 2016 I flew the nest and arrived in Wellington. I remember it like it was yesterday. A wide eyed, innocent 18-year-old—optimistic and excited, but decidedly unsure of herself. Life was about to begin, properly, for the first time. Here we were—me and my two best friends—in the big smoke, left to our own devices and we couldn’t be more excited about it. University was going to be the best years of our life. That’s what they all said.
You can imagine our disappointment upon realising it was not, in fact, all that. That’s not to say it was bad, it certainly wasn’t and the privilege of being there was not lost on us, but as with life itself, most things get better with age and the really good stuff came a little later on.
When I think about uni, I think about trips to Briscoes, half-price scones, disappointment, cheap wine, unrequited love, trying to fit in and—in hindsight—having absolutely no idea who I really was. It didn’t feel like home for a long time, home was somewhere I went at the end of each semester when I packed my bags and flew down south.
I remember long days and late nights in the library with nothing but a container of densely packed couscous ‘salad’ for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Salad might have been a push; on the days before the student allowance came in it was almost definitely just couscous with French dressing.
I remember nights getting blackout drunk with my flatmates, dancing around the living room to an eclectic mix of Basshunter, ABBA and Nickleback, the night peaking with a quick stumble up the road to get some wedges. It’s at this point I risk making us sound really lame, but my god we had fun.
If I had to categorise this time into an ‘era’, it would be the character building one. This is mainly because of where we were living at the time. Our little slice of paradise was a third storey flat on Manners Street. It was questionable in every sense (structurally speaking), but an excellent location. Most importantly it was a roof over our heads and a place to call our own. The fact was, we were nineteen and city living. Small luxuries like carpet, functioning windows and fire exits weren’t even on our radar, so we didn’t really miss them.
After two years of living the urban dream, we eventually left Manners Street and made a break for the suburbs. Needless to say, our quality of life improved vastly from this point.
The Work Years
When we moved out to Hataitai I graduated, turned 21, got my first job, and travelled to Europe all within the first few months. Starting at the Council, funnily enough, is when life really started to get good. It was the first step into a career I completely fell in love with, and a job that would introduce me to some of the greatest friends I’ve ever had.
On a practical level, having a steady income meant I could make salads with more than two components and even turn the heating on from time to time during winter. Life was good. Slowly and then all at once, Wellington become home. Then lockdown happened. As the whole country quietened and retreated indoors, we spent many weeks cosied up inside, cooking around the world, playing with water colours, testing our DIY skills and not to mention thrashing Monopoly Deal every lunch break. We also got two cats—Kura and Arabella—which I’m convinced was one of our better lockdown decisions.
But life doesn’t stay the same for long, and after lockdown came heartbreak and a parting of ways. The end of an era and a new beginning.
Circumstances meant Liv and I had to find a new place to live, in just two weeks. Two weeks, two girls and two cats against the world. Endearing as it sounds, unfortunately that combo makes it really difficult to find a flat amid a housing crisis. After a couple of blips and a near brush with homelessness (not the first), we found ourselves a cat-friendly oasis with a white picket fence Mornington.
Around that same time, I met a boy who properly lit me up for a moment, only to block him 12 months later. A true modern day love story. More character building. Good for the plot etc. Cue the healing era. We set our sights on becoming gym bunnies and I churned through my self-help and development books like there was no tomorrow. Burrito bowls and protein shakes become the new couscous as we stalked our macros with the unhinged precision of two girls seeking distraction from matters of the heart.
Having long since ticked the best friend and flatmate box, Liv and I were more like sisters at this point. Being single and away from our families, we always were each other’s home base. We existed as a couple in many senses, providing the emotional support and companionship most people find in their other halves. We were very lucky. But we were also only 24. And as much as we loved those Saturday nights in with the cats watching re-runs of Schitt’s Creek we knew this couldn’t be it. It had to be bigger than this. I distinctly remember one Sunday, I was reading out on the deck with some biscuits in the oven and Liv was trimming the hedge. We looked over at each other and burst out laughing. When did we become an old married couple?? Shortly after this Liv booked a one-way flight to Melbourne and I to London. The fun wasn’t over yet. There was no way.
Saying goodbye to each other and the cats was one of the hardest things we ever had to do, but—if you’ll allow me a gardening metaphor—we had to repot if our roots were to continue growing and that meant going it alone.
This wasn’t quite the end though, with a bit of time up my sleeve before the big move I shifted to Queens Wharf for my final months in Welly. Short but sweet, I choose to mention this because I’ve never had so many wonderful neighbours. We hosted and attended countless boozy dinners that regularly ran into the early hours of the morning. I think I drunk more in those nine months than I did in the seven years preceding. But even if my liver suffered, my heart was full. It was like all the best parts of a university hall, minus the curfews, beige food and social anxiety. Age didn’t seem to matter, as far as we were concerned we were all just living out our best lives next door to one another. Everyone brought something different to the table, a different experience, a different story, a different perspective. Truthfully, I wish I could package up those neighbours and bring them with me so we can live next door until the end of time – borrowing sugar, exchanging anecdotes and getting outrageously drunk on random week nights. These are the kind of people that make the mundane not only bearable, but a little bit wonderful.
In sum
The first three years in Wellington were full of precious and formative memories, and I wouldn’t change them for the world, but they were shaky at times. I was a just baby then, learning how to walk and who I was in a place so big and so far from home.
The last few years have been the best yet. I’ve created a strength of community that makes me question how this city didn’t always feel like home. These days I feel resoundingly sure of myself and who I am. My independence is my strength, and I wear it with pride. This is how I know I’m ready to go.
It’s bittersweet because I love my life here. I love how everyone knows everyone. I love the waterfront, the wind, and the view from Mount Victoria. I love the scones, the coffee and and the corporate buzz in the air. I love the Bucket Fountain, the gardens and the buskers. I even love the pigeons and the politics.
Most of all I love my people, my family away from home.
I have all of these wonderful things and the thought of leaving breaks my heart.
But when I take stock, I remember this:
I didn't always have these wonderful things that make saying goodbye so hard, it was a love that grew over time. I chose these friends, worked for this career and built this life around me with intention—and I can do it again. In fact, I’d be mad not to.
Next stop London…
All my love,
Eva x
Comentarios