It's 5.45am on a Saturday and someone's trying to jump off Bond St. Bridge. It's for real this time, not because we wrote it into the script. He's not even drunk. He's almost smiling. Welcome home to Auckland.
The airport shuttle drives past and I think, surely the iron-blue uniforms inching towards him are only encouraging his defiant, almost laughing fingers to gently lift themselves from the condensation-soaked handrail. Reaching towards the transient car bonnets conveyor-belting along the dewy tar seal lanes below.
There is no depression in New Zealand, ladies and gentlemen.
A tourist sitting in front of me marks the sign of the cross over their own body, as though they themselves are the one destined for great things. Their partner points out any slightly interesting sight - houses, parks (there's no Skytower here) - to distract them both from a weighted first impression of Aotearoa's grey slump of dawn sunshine.
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