I have big plans to live small. I want a small house on a big, treed lot that puts space and time between me and the neighbour’s crackling country music. When I was a kid there was an empty lot beside my house. Actually, there was one house on this lot, but it was about one foot squared and it belonged to birds. And we got lots of morning sun and there was a little hill for tobogganing and running around.
This was written a few weeks ago, on my first Monday in Wellington.
There’s a casualness to this city. Sure, I expected it—New Zealand basically invented the concept of “chillaxing,” right?—but it becomes even more apparent in times of extreme weather. The rain today is causing surface flooding on the roads: ankle-deep lakes that empty into every last dry space between your toes and under the arch of your foot. Rain like this isn’t uncommon in Canada, I suppose, but I’ve never experienced it in a city. In small Canadian towns, this kind of rain becomes a source of entertainment. After staying the floodwaters as much as possible, you inevitably haul out your canoe—or hop in a neighbour’s—and paddle around the streets with a giant “hey-how-canadian-is-this-guys” grin on your face.