It astounded me that I could read the descriptions of certain street names in Sydney, and understand intimately where they were referring to. Glebe, Darlington, the Circular Quay. There was the flat expanse of concrete laid before the art museum, and the eclipse-like sculpture; there was the line of expensive terrace housings, each roof a corrugated wave of tin. I remember walking around the rocks at night and crossing beneath a highway, and I could not believe that this was what a city was supposed to be! There's nothing like that in Auckland. Karangahape Road festers with less-than-stellar company, and if you look too closely at the gutters you will find a buildup of silvery-thin needles. Queen Street is always under construction. Even the ocean, somehow, laps pallidly against the harbour. At the core of every city is change, evolution. But Auckland's change is that of constant change—literally, as it is always, always under construction—to the point of stasis. And stasis as a state is pretty much the coping man's decay.
I HATE AUCKLAND RAGHHHHHH