In which I apologise to my city

i. 


Last Saturday was the stuff of dreams.

It was the kind of Saturday I've always hoped would be a consistent feature in my life, at some point in the future when I'm mature and sophisticated and I live in a real city.

I didn't expect to find such a Saturday in the middle of my current, exceedingly ordinary life in the heart of what I thought was a dull, lifeless city.


ii. 


I get up at the lazy hour of 9 o'clock and drag myself into Jessica's room to complain about the wind that had kept me awake during the night.

She's sympathetic, but turns the conversation pretty quickly to her plans for the day.

"Have you ever been to the Addington Coffee Co-Op?"

I tell her I have.

"Do you want to go?"

Twenty minutes later we're out the door.


iii.


After circling around some pretty beat up streets to find a park, we finally find one and walk out in the drizzle to the coffee shop.

We walk into the warmth and I'm reminded of how much I like this place with its wood panelling and commitment to ethical business. The smell of french toast and bacon isn't half bad, either.

The place is packed and we're told by a white-haired waiter that we'll have to sit on the stools and wait for a real table to clear up, so we sit and take in the surroundings.

My eye is drawn to a lanky guy in a green sweater sitting opposite a girl he's clearly trying to impress. He's so eager, so intentional. What I wouldn't give to have someone make that effort with me.

We eventually snag the edge of a proper table and talk my favourite subject: books. Our conversation consists mostly of "Oh my gosh, you haven't read that?!" from both sides and I leave the table with a full stomach and a long mental list of books that I need to read.

On the way out Jessica stops me and says "Be subtle about looking, but over there on the couches there's a couple who's clearly in the very early stages of a relationship."

Great minds [notice] alike.


iv. 


After breakfast we wander the op shops in the area, first The Salvation Army, then St John's. We try some things on and Jessica leaves with a $2 tank top; I'm saving my coins for the paperback store across the street.

Inside, I put my nose to yellowed pages and breathe deeply. I'm fairly certain that I've inhaled harmful substances more than once from employing this method, but I can't help it, I'm an old-book addict.

Jessica reads William Blake's The Lamb and The Tyger out loud to me and I leave with a pristine copy of Rise and Shine to add to my Anna Quindlen collection.

On the way to the $2 book sale Jessica asks me how I found out about it.

I tell her that I was randomly flipping through the pages of a community paper (something which I never do) and the ad was right there on Page 3, calling to me.

"My parents are amazed at my eye for these things," I say.

"I'm amazed at your eye for these things!"

I leave the book sale $10 poorer and millions of words richer -- it's a good trade.


v. 


In the afternoon we make our way to the heart of the still-broken city.

The streets are periodically blocked off for road works and the lack of zoning makes for an eclectic mix of buildings; it's not uncommon to see a house next to office space.

We make a quick stop at the Cardboard Cathedral, which is far more beautiful and far less transient than it sounds. We go in to find it's being turned into a dinner venue for a prominent business' annual event; the pews have been swapped out for cloth-covered tables and the cathedral takes on the role of a great hall.

We take a few quick photos and marvel at the beauty of recyclables.

After a few wrong turns we find a park and pick up the pace to get to our event on time. We're late but we sneak in the back and the speaker walks to the stage as we take our seats.

We spend an hour laughing and listening intently as Steve Hely sheds light on life as a writer. I take both physical and mental notes on the life I one day want to live.

We walk out towards the last stop of our day.


vi.


The sun is lowering when we reach the Margaret Mahy playground. It's every kid's dream: a tall, winding slide, things that spin, things to climb. We debate going on the slide, but can't imagine that parents would be too thrilled at two twenty-somethings jostling their six and seven-year-olds to the top.

Instead we walk along the perimeter of the park and talk about how much we're looking forward to taking our own kids to the park one day.

As Jessica braves the ropes, I stand at the top of the hill and realise that this has been a dream day. More than that, it's been a dream day that has defied all of my misconceptions about Christchurch.

All of this has been right here all along and I've missed it.

I've spent so long telling myself that Christchurch is lifeless, that nothing even remotely interesting goes on here, and I never bothered to go looking for evidence to the contrary.

I've been singing the lifeless-city song for so long that I failed to see the truth: it wasn't that the city was lifeless, it was that I refused to search for the life in it. Doing that might have meant that I wouldn't have an excuse for being so dissatisfied in the place God has clearly called me to for this season.

It's a stark revelation.


vii. 


So Christchurch, the city that isn't home but is home for now, I have this to say to you: I'm sorry. 

I'm sorry that I've been counting down the days until I can get out of you permanently; sorry that I refused to see your potential; sorry that I didn't recognise your still-beating heart.

We both know that our relationship will end someday and that I'll move to a place that truly feels like a heart home, but for now you are mine and I will take you as you are.

So please go on, show me your shows and your quirky coffee shops and I will come, just as I am, and appreciate them just as they are.

Let's make up for all those lost years.