I loved Wellington once, twice. I used to live here, before leaving and then returning. And then I left for the very last time, feeling bitter that the city had turned on me.
Have you ever made a decision about your life and then everything just seemed to go wrong? Shortly after moving to Wellington, I found that the room I had rented on a year-long contract fell through six months in, so I paid the rent on two places for months and ate into my savings, my boss was abusive, my hours horrendous. I had no time, money, energy or friends, and the ten months I lived in Wellington were the longest of my life. If I were a little more spiritual, I’d think it were the universe’s way of telling me that I’m on the wrong path, because when I moved to Sydney at the beginning of 2011, everything just fell into place with ease.
By the time I left, miserable and sour, Wellington had been tainted. I no longer looked at the city as a place of life and energy. All I saw were sad, decrepit buildings, and wind battered students, and seedy nightclubs. And I wanted out.
Last night, however, began with a walk down Cuba St, under lights, amid laughter, surrounded by activity, and I ended the night with a new regard for Wellington. It seems that even after all we went through, I still like this city.