Christchurch

‘Christmas in Christchurch’. Appropriately corny, but more importantly, convenient. Kray had to move on and fly away home, while John and I had our eyes longingly set on further northward escapades. The two days we spent here offered countless spires, parks, wide town squares, and hours of vacant strolling, with enough time to let crystallise the several thousand splendid images of the week past.

Along the way, an inland “Scenic Route” from Lake Tekapo took us into what closely resembled a ghost town – Mt. Somers. Starved and in dire need of wholesome nutrition, we stumbled into the only place that looked like it contained anything edible AND fulfilled the basic requirement of being… um… open. Amazingly enough, the tavern (clearly the only one in “town”) we munched at managed to dish out fare that few could fault. Even this herbivore chomped away happily at her serving of cheesy nachos and beans, making idle (mental) guesses at the number of drinks the local drunk at the bar had managed to down that day, still young at 2:00 p.m.

After the gluttony of landscapes and natural beauty that we’d dangerously started to take for granted, the unmistakably charming-European-city-esqueness of Christchurch delivered a completely refreshing experience. Contemplating the infamous backpackers’ “supermarket breakfast” (i.e. cold, soggy sandwich + vending-machine coffee) while taking in bustling views of the centrally located Cathedral Square, I couldn’t help but feel stupefied by the utterly undeserved good fortune that had me sitting there, in that moment, tired, sunburnt, and painfully happy. Heartbreak heaven.

Both Queen Victoria and Captain Cook feature prominently throughout the city, in the form of statues, memorials, gates, street names, ponds, gardens, parks, benches, little fish, buildings, restaurants, puddles of mud, local flower species. Honestly, I exaggerate only ever so slightly.

The one thing that was open in the city was the Botanic Gardens, and while the thought of 10,000 plus varieties of plants didn’t particularly drive me into raptures of ecstasy, a visit promised more gardens to stroll in, delicious hues to feast tired eyes on, and dewy grass to sprawl and roll around in. Few things can match up to such joyful, indulgent vegetation.

Pure serendipity saw us wander towards the local Arts Centre, which, although closed, as with everything in Christchurch over the holidays, boldly hinted at the volumes of talent and skill that lay within. Originally grounds that housed Canterbury College and University, the spread of gothic buildings and facades, accessorised by quirky modern art additions (a wire-framed “house”, seemingly suspended in mid-air) charmed us shamelessly.

The one thing to carefully avoid in Christchurch is anything that claims to be a “beach”. A close, confused examination of the Lonely Planet failed to reveal even the slightest mention of sand fairies and happy, bronzed surfers, a perplexing omission in a country that boasts of a coast within arm’s reach (ok, approximately a couple of hundred kilometres) of any town. It was only after we drove around, in a considerable number of circles, and towards a promising (on the map, that is) spit that we realised why. Bounding up a steep dune (and kicking shovelfuls of sand into each others’ faces in the process) we realised that a beach littered with seaweed and some odd, brown stuff (rotten seaweed, perhaps? Dog poo?) was probably best left unexamined.

Christmas eve saw the city abuzz with chirpy revellers hollering drunken seasons’ greetings to every passerby who spared a smile, the faithful devout, who flocked toward the sombrely tolling Cathedral bell like moths to a flame, the calmly lonely, sitting quietly on streetside benches, seeking to soak any excess holiday cheer that chanced their way. And people like us, curious and bright-eyed, with no agenda in mind, and no expectations to meet. Our tummies led the way, yet again, and we wandered into an amber-soaked Japanese joint, with stern, no-nonsense waiters, incongruent with the mellow, inviting interior. I’d never have imagined that my first taste of sake would be far, far from Mount Fuji’s home, but, as with every little upside down thing that’s happened this past year, it felt oddly appropriate.