Sleepwalking in Wellington

Hello! I'm in Wellington, New Zealand. Sitting in a lovely cafe called The Lido, on Wakefield Street, where I have been twice in the 18 hours I have been in the windy city. Staying in a hostel last night has promptly destroyed the hint of backpacker romanticism which was creeping back into my naive and nostalgic mind. My back hurts. My head hurts. I slept all night with the light on. My bunk bed creaked every time I exhaled. YAY TRAVEL.

Perhaps being sleep deprived makes travel feel like more of an adventure. It's like travelling on a hazy cloud of grumpy. Also, being tired makes one care slightly less about the fact that they look like shit thanks to having to keep bathroom trips/makeup application to a maximum of five minutes so that the others in the dorm don't go on a sighing, moaning, foreign-language mumbling rampage. Yes. I am tired and I look like shit. I don't know how I did this backpacking thing for three months straight at a time.

Anyhow, no more hostel sleeps now as I'm meeting my parents today and we're going to stay in our beach bach for a week or so. It's a rickety old house (with retro furniture and definitely no internet) next to an isolated beach of black sand, seashells, and driftwood. It used to belong to my Grandad and I love going there because it is the only place which has stayed constant throughout my entire life. I have so many childhood memories of building sandcastles with my Dad and Grandad, and riding the motorbike over sand dunes while my Grandad ran along behind me swearing at me because I wouldn't stop. My best friend is coming to stay with us for a few days, the last time we were there together we were nine and everything seemed so big and exciting; climbing a sand dune was like climbing a mountain. I haven't been back since my Grandad died and I am hoping I feel the same way about the place as I did when he was there.

Third coffee coming up.

Photo: Anna Rosa Krau