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IS AUCKLAND REALLY THE WORLD’S BEST CITY TO VISIT?
W
hen I heard Lonely Planet had ranked Auckland the number one city in the world to visit for 2022, my responses, in order, were: 1. Pride 2. Confusion. Such lists are obviously nonsense, more so even than the Oscars, but still I was amazed to see the city in which I was born and in which I continue to live, at its top. The best city in the world to visit has always been New York and second is Tokyo, and that seems unlikely to change, but how many guidebooks is Lonely Planet going to sell by writing that every year? So Auckland gets its year in the sun; probably its last, and it will be a year in which visitor numbers are again going to be way down, but how many moments in the sun do any of us get in a lifetime? Even one is a blessing. It’s hard not to feel a bit ashamed on behalf of Auckland for the long and horrendous road journey new arrivals must endure from the airport to the city, along ugly motorways and through unlovely suburban streets. The city centre, where most will spend at least their first night, is not without its charms but nor is it without its tourist — unfriendly wastelands, including on its main street. Even Lonely Planet seems to recognise the city’s many touristic challenges. This, from the very first paragraph of its entry: “Auckland isn’t the most immediately obvious tourist destination.” Intrigued by Lonely Planet’s willingness to overlook the city’s limitations, I picked up a copy of its Best in Travel 2022 guidebook and set out to test its hypothesis that there is no better city in the world to visit. The guide identifies five Auckland highlights. Over four days, I visited each of them, asking of each, “Is this more fun than, say, the Friday night my wife and I went to MOMA, then up the Empire State Building?”
DAY 1
Morning, Auckland Art Gallery. I went upstairs to the north atrium to see an exhibition called vocabulary of solitude. The entire space was occupied by dozens of life-size clown figures sitting and lying in various poses describing what looked like boredom or at least ennui. The notes for the work read: “BE. BREATHE. SLEEP. DREAM. WAKE. RISE. SIT. HEAR. LOOK. THINK. STAND. WALK. PEE. SHOWER. DRESS. DRINK. FART. S***. READ. LAUGH. COOK. SMELL. TASTE. EAT. CLEAN. WRITE.
Waka Stories of Auckland, which, the museum’s website says, “encourages you to look at your city through new eyes”. I watched a video of a regular guy from Te Atatu taking us around his favourite spots in Te Atatu, arguably the most important of which was the local takeaway. He spoke about going there the day he got his first pay cheque, and ordering from one side of the menu to the other. I found this story surprisingly moving. Nearby, in the small area devoted to The Kings Arms, I found one of the pub’s old toilet doors, featuring frank messages and illustrations, including testicles and a penis adorned with the phrase “Sex is healthy”. Someone else had written: “Imagine how many people have f***ed in here.” In a blog post titled Collecting the Kings Arms, Museum staff wrote: “The objects we successfully bid for might not sound like your typical precious museum treasures, but they help us to tell meaningful stories about life in Auckland.” I loved the toilet door, loved how it made me think, specifically about how many people had f***ed in there. I loved the thought that my kids might one day come here and have their views of what knowledge we consider important changed, although hopefully not for many years.
Greg Bruce asks what’s in a city?
DAY 2
DAYDREAM. REMEMBER. CRY. NAP. TOUCH. FEEL. MOAN. ENJOY. FLOAT. LOVE. HOPE. WISH. SING. DANCE. FALL. CURSE. YAWN. UNDRESS. LIE.” I thought about how that list encapsulates most of the things we will do when we travel to a new place, but how we only anticipate or remember doing a few of them. For example, almost never, prior to visiting a new place, do I think about farting there. Vocabulary of solitude is not a local work, nor is the gallery’s other big current exhibition, Mary Quant: Fashion Revolutionary, but that’s not to say the gallery is short of it. In fact, it’s stuffed with local art: Goldies, Lindauers, Parekowhais, Patersons and so on. It is also an Auckland landmark, a historic building and its recent redevelopment has opened it beautifully on to the lower slopes of the city’s best park for pashing. Still, in spite of its strong sense of place, the function of the gallery is to facilitate artists who wish to use media to transport their ideas from their mind to those of others. That is to say that the Auckland Art Gallery, like any major city art gallery, says something about place, but not nearly as much as it says about people.
DAY 1
Afternoon, Auckland Museum Before I went in, I stopped at the top of the steps and looked out across the parade ground and the harbour, because normally I wouldn’t, and I was trying to see these very familiar things in a new light. “Wow,” I said to myself, “That view is really nice.” I doubted any major museum anywhere in the world could match it. Once inside, I spent most of my time in the area called Tamaki Herenga
Stonyridge vineyard, Waiheke. Below, Auckland’s waterfront.
Maungawhau / Mt Eden I had planned to go to Maungawhau by myself but Zanna had planned to go Christmas shopping by herself so it was decided I would take the kids. Shortly before I intended to leave, it started to pour with rain. When I expressed my disappointment and displeasure, Zanna, who was going to an indoor mall, said: “It’s perfect. This is exactly what visitors going up Mt Eden can expect from the Auckland weather.” It took us two hours to get ready, because none of the kids could find, nor be bothered looking for, any of the stuff we needed to take. I grew increasingly frustrated and then became frustrated at my frustration, because this was supposed to be fun. I also felt increasing resentment towards Zanna, who, 45 minutes earlier, had said, “Okay, I’m going to go”, then left, even though things were clearly going badly for me. I looked everywhere for 4-year-old Casper’s shoes and he told me he’d also looked everywhere for them, although I’m pretty sure he was lying. I texted Zanna. She replied: “Have you looked in the car?” which infuriated me because everyone knows that’s the first place you look, and I’d looked there twice already. I spent another 10 minutes looking for them while the kids waited in the car, and when I eventually returned, defeated, Casper was wearing them. “Where did you find them?” I asked. “In the car,” he said. We parked on a road on Maungawhau’s western slopes, walked up some stairs that weren’t there last time I came and emerged on to a boardwalk, which also didn’t exist last time. It led us toward the city side of the crater rim, with its perfect view, far away from the concrete and car park and related man-made uglinesses of the summit development. As the view began to unspool before us, the kids began running towards it, making sounds of astonishment, which matched my own, non-verbal feelings. It felt like I had never before been to this
