Victoria Birkinshaw
Wellington is divided into suburbs that are as divisive and consequential as geological fault lines, says Leah McFall.
OPINION: 'Wellington's such a village," people who aren't from here often say, airily, with a wave of a hand. "Everybody knows everybody, and politicians are always at the supermarket." Then they might add: "I saw Simon Bridges once, in Thorndon New World. Literally in the bagging area."
Sure, Wellington is a world capital full of people clustered, like angels, on the head of a pin. We're cheek by jowl, villa squeezed next to villa; blown by the same gale-force southerly along the same wind tunnels, plagued by the same bus strikes and honked at by the same, lumbering cruise ships as we fight through the elements to the office and then home again. Home, where we can't park closer than half a block to the house itself, and need pitons and rappel ropes to reach the front door.
We're told we're bookish, thoughtful, badly groomed (see southerly) and ruthlessly optimistic (see gale-force). Everyone has such affection for Wellington, excepting Katherine Mansfield. Yes, she built a career on her undeniable genius, but also disaffection for Wellington. Forget the luminous sentences. Not liking Wellington enough to stay here was her Unique Selling Point or at least a Key Performance Indicator, and we can all agree she smashed that.
READ MORE:
* A love letter to the library, by Leah McFall
* Leah McFall: New beginnings in the suburbs
* Leah McFall: A flash in the pan
But what outsiders fail to see is that Wellington is divided into suburbs and thence, subcultures, that are as divisive and consequential as geological fault lines. The people who live in Kelburn are as Kelburnian as they are Wellingtonian, and don't get me started on the lifers in Island Bay.
It's not exactly the Crips and the Bloods, but if you're from Roseneath looking to hook up with a hottie from Johnsonville, then somebody's going to end up saying pointlessly deep things about the human condition before chugging a narcotic and waking up in the family crypt.
I've lived in Wellington for a surprisingly long time. Surprising, because I never expected to stick around for longer than whichever contract I had at the time. I wasn't a true local, surely, because (and I could never say this out loud) I don't enjoy arts festivals. You might even say I have an antipathy toward arts festivals: they give me the trots. People who don't naturally appreciate world-class Gregorian chanting, let's say, are under-represented in this city. We may even be an oppressed minority.
But even I've become tribal about my suburb. I've had six addresses since first arriving here, and they've all been in the northwest. It's like the stars and tides keep me on an unswerving course and this course, so far, has led me to Karori. Where I'm beached.
Karori, we all agree, is a state of mind. It tells others that you'd rather have drive-on access than a view. It's a byword for middle-class dullness. Tell someone you live here, and they'll immediately imagine the tiebacks on your curtains. Cool people don't have tiebacks; they don't have curtains at all. They're interesting enough to be brightly lit and open to observation, as if their apartment is a stage and their window, the proscenium arch.
People in Karori aren't this interesting, it's assumed; we close our curtains because there's nothing to see here.
I have tiebacks on my curtains. They're made of wrought metal, like little sickles, and they hook the draped fabric to the side. They're not to my taste but I don't have the time or motivation right now to change them. This is what we overlook when we buy a place – we can be stuck with the vendor's choices, sometimes for years. This can be for boring reasons (the priority is the guttering, or the piles) or for psychological ones. You've forgotten how much you hate the tiebacks. The affront has gone out of you.
Sometimes your suburb is a punchline at a dinner party. "It's so much better since we got colour television!" you'll trill, to guests who might live in Miramar. And as you shake their hands good night, you might say: "If you're ever passing through Karori…" and everyone will laugh like drains, because you can't pass through a dead end.
But here's what I love about Karori and its sister suburbs (new-build subdivisions often nicknamed "Nappy Valley", brick and tile retirement zones busy with mobility scooters, or cul de sacs in beach towns, too far from the sea). We're underestimated. There's freedom in that. Boredom fertilises the imagination. The suburb can be the atelier of your mind – a place to assemble all the pieces.
Karori is undeniably routine. It walks the dog twice daily and washes the Mazda on Sunday. It's short back and sides at the barber, half-a-head of foils at the salon. It's well done steak. It's a bowl of open air, fringed in bush. It's a path sewn with stars. It's home.
Sunday Magazine
