In 2019, emergency services closed a street block after an exterior cladding panel was blown off the side of an apartment building. Six years later, one side of the complex is still clad in scaffolding and I’m still clomping past it under the protection of a metal tunnel with scraps of ragged carpet at the entrance.
Auckland footpaths have more scraps of torn carpet than a Dunedin student flat. Sometimes, when the sun hits them, they smell like a bathroom that hasn’t been cleaned for a week.
In November, this is all in a day’s walk to work. In January, fresh from two weeks in the southern wilds, it is unbearable.
My bus stop has shifted. Zero notification on the Auckland Transport app, zero staff to redirect commuters 270m uphill to a temporary stop. Eventually, I find a map tacked to a pole. Every street is labelled – except the one containing the temporary stop.
Over the break, someone has dumped a mattress on my suburban berm. It leans against a lamp post until the wind flips it to the road. Call an 0800 number and the voice on the other end promises resolution within five working days.
The next morning, I sit on a stationary bus as the lights go green-red-green-red-repeat. There are six-seven-eight-more buses ahead of mine, all waiting to turn into the same street. I get out and walk.
It should not be this hard to love Auckland.
On my last weekend before work, I’d walked around the waterfront. From Wynyard Quarter, across the pedestrian bridge that was out of action for nine months, and past the much-lauded Karanga Plaza pool that did not, at the time of the writing, exceed national guidelines for faecal bacteria or toxic algae bloom.
“Let’s make Auckland as colourful as its characters” say the small protest stickers affixed to sections of the Maritime Trail. “All these upgrades are turning our city grey. Remind an Auckland councillor today. Lively colours create a lively city. Good vibes? A paint job away.”
But the path I’m on is woven from multi-hued bricks. Sienna, ochre, and ombre pavers laid in a pātiki pattern.
The seats – generous and numerous – are constructed from thin wooden slats bleached silver and grey by salt and sun. Ramps to the water are closed off by thick safety glass; walls that become whatever colour the Waitematā decides to be that day.
The post-summer holiday re-entry is never easy. It requires, for example, makeup and underwear that is not also togs. Foundation purchased in November will not match a January skin tone. Mascara is an irritant. There are still no teaspoons in the office cutlery drawer.
Down the line from Auckland, there was a 1910 miner’s cottage open to offers over $369k. A beach that surrendered a piece of pounamu that gleamed like sea glass.
The sunsets were the colour of road cones, and there was a stretch of river in a magical kahikatea swamp forest where 50 breeding kōtuku had built their nests. At the op shop in nearby Whataroa, I bought a complete set of 1970s fondue forks in their original box for $2.
“Do we even have a fondue?” wondered my husband. “We might one day,” I said.
It is, after all, only January.