I’ve been quite insular lately; not going out much nor engaging with the world beyond my front door. I was going to blame the weather; it has been raining constantly for days, and a southerly wind has blasted up from Antarctica, making even the shortest trip seem quite unappealing.
But of course that’s an excuse. Really I just haven’t felt like putting on my “hello world” face and stepping outside.
Earlier this year I went to Europe with the Big T and our boy-child (with a stop-over in San Francisco). It was the end of the Northern Hemisphere’s winter, and although San Francisco was positively balmy and London turned on a few days of gloriously early spring, both Munich and Bordeaux delivered very season-appropriate weather. Yet each day we donned hats, coats and gloves and we went out. From morning until late we explored, not knowing what we’d see around each corner and reveling in the sheer “otherness” of ancient European cities.
Holidays are finite. We were only in each place for a short time and there was so much to see and do; the idea that we would stay in our apartment to avoid bad weather was unthinkable.
But of course life is finite too — just (hopefully) on a different scale to holidays. Lately, I seem to have forgotten that and have dreaded, rather than looked forward to, the new day. Looking at some of the street photos from our trip has helped remind me of how much I miss by shutting myself away.
Sometimes even solitude is better in a crowd …
… which thought reminded me of the classic Petula Clark song, Downtown (although I prefer Emma Bunton’s 2006 cover)
The title of this post comes from that song, and cheesy as it is, there is a certain truth in the lyrics. A few nights ago the Big T and I had our first date night in a while. We went to see Fallout — a beautiful and powerful play by Bronwyn Elsmore about the sinking of the Greenpeace ship Rainbow Warrior in Auckland Harbour 30 years ago this July. Both of us lived in Auckland at the time of the Rainbow Warrior bombing, and judging by the way this play moved everyone in the audience — we weren’t the only ones who felt transported back to that time. Being part of that collective remembering was a powerful feeling.
Today I persevered through rain, public transport failure, overfull carparks to see Partner with the Enemy, an inspiring documentary about two women trying to build a business together against ridiculous odds.
Now it seems that the rain is likely to clear (at least for a few days) and I might even get a walk on the beach.