The Concert

In Wanganui there was a spooky feeling in the Victorian-era Opera House, which was made all the more evident in the disappointingly half empty cavernous space, with all its original details still intact, although the worse for wear. The Steinway Grand sat imposingly alone on the deep, weathered stage, a red spotlight outlining its classic features. Our two front seats were at a perfect angle to see the maestro's fingers work their magic, and we had the row to ourselves.

A couple of minutes after the starting time an impeccably attired smallish man walked briskly onto the stage   briefly acknowledging the warm applause give by the faithful few. Wanganui had not come out in force to hear its most brilliant exponent of Beethoven. But G and I were there to hear him play four beautiful Sonatas, one of which, the most familiar Pathetique, was instantly recognised and at the end Michael was welcomed back for a second bow. The audience was good and receptive, but the small numbers in the large chamber was not conducive to a rapturous result. But it was very satisfying and later we followed a lady back stage to pay our compliments. He was alone in his dressing room and was gracious as we stayed only a minute to express our thanks.

On walking home it was strange to think how strong the Beethoven presence had been, and now we were in somewhat philistine Wanganui streets.  G walked me back to The Grand Hotel and said goodnight, we were seeing each other for a look at the coast in the morning. As I mounted the oaken staircase to the first floor, I looked down and caught sight of a small black besuited man followed by a white bearded friend walking a few steps behind, entering the Irish Bar. Michael Houstoun obviously did need to come down after such a virtuosic performance, and it was here that he and his friend had chosen to come. Discreetly I went in to my bedroom to watch some Maori Television, leaving them to have private drinks. It was a good way for me to end a very interesting evening in Wanganui.

I'm sure I'll return one day for another visit to Wanganui, as my conversation the following day with G at his Castlecliff beach home was only a prologue.The beach which he showed me at Castlecliff had black iron filled sand, and was bleak, but somehow was quite mesmerising, with small but relentless Tasman waves breaking onto an empty but driftwood strewn stretch of sand, which ironically cast my mind to think of the Yorkshire Moors in Charlotte Bronte's 'Jane Eyre'. 

Tonight, however, I am to have my first experience of witnessing the 'Whirling Dervishes', which is apparently a very popular pastime for some in Wellington, including my friend B from Scottish Dancing, who has kindly invited me to attend. 

We are celebrating the anniversary of the most famous Persian Sufi of them all, the much-loved poet of   love, Jalal al-Din Rumi.

Wanganui Trip

A prompt departure at on the Intercity coach at 10 am, with a rather gruff voiced mid-European accented driver at the wheel. The day is drizzly but nice to get out of the city, high temperatures are predicted, and that means twenty-one or two for down here. Managed to attain the front seat, and next to me is Reserved, in big letters, for the driver's passenger list. Sacred. 

Last night's Malaysian meal went well, and the three Indio-Malaysians were very happy with their reception in Wellington. They're being well looked after. However I didn't digest the chicken sambal too well, and confirmed the fact that I am a picky eater. So be it. I'll be ultra careful in Wanganui as I don't want to burp through Michael Houstoun's stellar performance. And I discover he is a personal friend of Viva's Mum so I now have an entree there.

But a phone all from L just before I rushed to leave  made me take a quick detour to BP on the way to the station where the coach leaves from. The BP information flyer was prepared and on a quick proof read I discovered, as always, a typo, a misspelling of the famous Courtenay Place. Easy to miss, as it is quite a strange spelling. The flyer, btw, is fantastic, and was in part due to a press release I had prepared after the Media seminar the other day, which also has a follow up on Monday. So things are heading in the right direction, and fast.

A change of drivers at Palmy North results in a more bluff than gruff Kiwi of a grand stature who makes himself known immediately to all and sundry. During the next hour and half trip he acknowledges and waves to at least thirty or so other vehicles, all rather large ones of course, but he just knows everyone, whereas our earlier driver seemed oblivious to everything.

 The trip winds down through beautiful green lamb covered hills, indeed a delight on the eyes. Wanganui appears and it was exactly as last time. I find the Opera House in five minutes, pick up my tickets and then descend onto the Grand Hotel which looms at the end of the same street. Checked in immediately and see Irish bars everywhere, and photos of ancient Rugby Gods on the walls. The hotel is most likely owned by an All Black. I find my crisp white room and collapse on the very soft queensized bed  and quickly fall asleep. I knew I needed a nap.  Refreshed an hour or so later I descend to the foyer to pick up the password for the Wifi. All is good and my emails are replied to. However I can't find G's phone number but peu importe, I am seeing him at six in the foyer for a quick bite.

In the meantime I take a stroll around the town, it's not difficult to cover it in half an hour. The museum is closed at four thirty unfortunately, but the mammoth tree in the park is worth much more than any remains in a museum. It is one of the most majestic trees I have ever seen, possibly because of its position on the hilly side of the main park. I do a few photos and and sit in the street on a convenient bench to finish this.  Hear a female voice, French accented, asking me where the Information Centre is. As I don't know, I hail a local who kindly says it's on the river bank. I wish the heavily laden SUV 'Bonnes Vacances' and receive a smiling 'Merci' in response. The French love New Zealand.

The chimes of the town clock remind me I have half an hour to shower and change before dinner and the concert. The weather is sultry and a few tiny drops of rain try to squeeze on to the rather dry street scape. It is good weather for Beethoven.

Leaving a wet Wellington

A rather lush foyer at the aptly named Grand Hotel

Te Aro

Strolling up Aro street to discover a rare Vinnie's, and eureka, it was there on the corner and had a great Hawaiian shirt for me to use at Vinegar Hill! Also lucked out with a juicer, which of course, I had left in Hobart. So now I can do some healthy juices for my afternoon tea party, whenever I do it. I haven't really been in this nook before, but it is only a ten minute walk from the city, and quite quaint, leading up into the hills behind the city.

Just spent earlier, some time at BP to organise my application for the 2014 International AIDS Conference in Melbourne next July.  I am told that I will be a delegate from Wellington, but need to get a recent CV together to submit. Lesley again, was a great help. 

This morning I had to escape the workers again as they are now hell-bent on finishing the job, which means arriving early and leaving late, and making a big noise while they are there. Oh, well it won't last forever...

Good bakery in Te Aro so bought a loaf to try.

Tried a lemon and honey at local caff - it was extra good!

Amusing feminist reaction to Mick Jagger's lips!

I just discovered that one, Alan Wickens from Aotea, has written to the Dominion Post saying exactly my thoughts about the dreary lack of Christmas decor and lights in the centre of this wonderful city. He has inspired me to write as well. Wellington needs to show off what it has, and that is a sparkling shopping precinct and great nightlife in its centre.

On the other side I also read that the Aussie tennis coach I spoke about, reported lost in Hamilton, was seen wandering into the river, somewhat disturbed, and no-one has yet found him. That teaches me not to jump to conclusions, I only hope he is found, and treated, for something is very wrong there. His parents have come from Melbourne to help find him. We'll see what emerges. I am more than happy to withdraw my comments about gay bashing in NZ if what is wrong is this person's mental state. Life is never simple for a talented young Jewish boy from Melbourne.

It is four-thirty and I am being gently removed from the Te Aro cafe - they don't keep late hours here. But tonight I am happily warned we are all eating out after our regular Wednesday night HU song. A group of Malaysian ECKists have arrived from Auckland and D and V have suggested it is time to have a Chinese, or Malaysian, more to the point. So it will be a nice night, and manana, I am off to Wanganui for the big Beethoven Concert which I am so much looking forward to. What to wear, God only knows! I'll play safe with all black, with my new (old) black leather hoodie. I'm sure the Wanganui opera buffs won't look too askance at me when I arrive, besides, I'm sure G won't be dressing up too much.

Summer morning in Downtown Wellington

It is a beautiful balmy day about twenty degrees and I have escaped the noise and mayhem of the two elderly painters at my house. City library calls but I am caught just before I make there, to have a traditional coffee/croissant at Cafe Felix, named after, I suppose, the Cat.

The news in The Dominion Post is pretty banal, as usual. People not getting claims for legitimate PTSD, a wealthy restaurateur trying to keep his niche restaurant when the council wants to cater for the average Joe Blo. This is an interesting point, as Wellington has such an egalitarian society it is a pity when choice venues on the waterfront cater only for those who have enough disposable income to  afford their quite high prices. I am all for the change suggested.

But a disturbing piece of news which struck me to the core, was the reported missing of a young tennis professional instructor from Australia who had been coaching in Hamilton. His disappearance smacks strongly of a 'gay bashing', as there is no other explanation for it. He did have a wallet full of cash apparently.These events are indeed rare, but the fact that they occur at all is a subject of great concern to minority groups such as gays, and should be to society in general. I am wondering what follow-up will occur after this 'disappearance' becomes perhaps, a mortality. New Zealand is obsessed with reporting sport with its accompanying triumphs and disasters, but such things as gay bashings may still not warrant the air space.

Btw, we had our final Six on Six meeting last night when the Auckland Body Positive CEO gave an excellent report on the state of 'disclosure of status' in New Zealand. This position has gone from archaic to reasonable, where now the onus is on everyone to behave responsibly, sexually. B was a fount of knowledge and is certainly on the coal-face in this fight against the spread of HIV. It was a stimulating and informative session to end with. We are all sorry it is over for the year.

Finally I get to the City Library where there happens to be a sale on of old books, CDs and DVDs and it's quite a good one. I buy a DVD biopic of Ray Charles, which I have long wished to see, and a CD of Jose Carreras singing fabulous arias - what nice things to take home.  

On the shelves I hunt for more Witi Ihimaera books and find The Matriarch and Dear Miss Mansfield - they should keep me going for a while, and then I see perched on a shelf all alone, a book called 'Between Men' a modern anthology of best gay short stories; there are sure to be some I have not yet read, so I take it home too. Its foreword, which I read immediately, by English writer Richard Canning, is exhaustive and fascinating. There has been so much 'gay lit' out there in the last three decades that a lot just passes under the normal radar. I now have lots of holiday reading to do. This library is very user friendly and I can easily spend a half day here and it just disappears in a moment.

Oh, btw, did I mention my Nelson Christmas house sitting job which I had enquired about at least three weeks ago, has come through with a belated request to 'please come'. I balefully reply, 'sorry, too late'.That may be a Kiwi way of doing business but not mine, at this stage anyway, perhaps later I may become a little more kiwified! lol! 

Below, the Michael Fowler Centre, the major concert hall in Wellington which is..

...next to the old Town Hall, now being refurbished...

...opposite (below) the cafe Felix

The day after

Could not believe we survived the 130km/ hr gale winds of yesterday and today is a pussycat of a day, even too hot! 

I have come into town for the final Six On Six meeting and am having a moment at my old friend Midnight Espresso. It just never changes, and still does an excellent hot honey and lemon drink.

The Post-mortem from Saturday's BBQ was that with the right enthusiasm and people, you can make a success out of any event, however bad the weather may turn out to be. Of course in the case of Wellington, people are well and truly used to adversity, so my pampered upbringing doesn't really permit me to say much. I just have to 'man-up' as they say, like all the others.

However today the man involved was my landlord who came to the house for inspection of the 'work in progress', as I had told him I feared it would be months before it is finished. What with the  workers' hours and vagaries of the weather, it wasn't an unreasonable supposition, but not one I fancied for the duration of the festive season. Whatever the result, he will see that the house is in a sorry state of neglect, and needs more than he had expected to render it presentable. Such is the fate of the wealthy land-owner, which indeed, Mr P. is. In Wellington he is known for his large portfolio of properties, but he never lets on that he has a penny. It is not unusual in the world of high finance I know. Say no more!

My position of renter actually gives me more freedom than most have to make decisions to move on when I see fit, but if ever that happens in Wellington, it will have to be a damn good reason to move on, as this city gets more and more under your skin, in the best possible way.

My favourite drink at M. Espresso

The island on 'Island Bay'.

Who's that man with the Charlie Chaplin moustache?

Lesley has turned out to be a great force for good with BP and you can feel his energy in this photo taken at the BBQ.

BP Christmas BBQ at Island Bay

I'm having a coffee at Cafe Scopa and it's a welcome relief from the gale force winds which sprang up yesterday and practically blew me into the bay, again. Today I think I have learned that lesson, go back with the northerly, up the hundred steps and catch the 14 bus from Roseneath school. Well that's what I did today and it works. I am on my way to the final ECK discussion in Wellington for the year.

But back to yesterday's BBQ in the gale at Island Bay.

I had long wanted to see this mysterious Island Bay, as people had told me how lovely it was. They're right, it is quite beautiful in a small way, but it wasn't small yesterday and our group of about eighteen from BP braved the elements to establish, in the stone hexagonal shelter which was built for bands I am sure, a small area for food which we tried to keep from blowing away.

 We had qualified success, but as always, in the the face of problems, everyone rallied and we all had a fabulous time. Presents were hilariously passed around (everyone brought a small one for distribution) and B, the CEO from Auckland, even flew down for it and was lucky his plane was permitted to land. This weather is so unpredictable. I had good chats with people I hadn't spoken much with, and feel now I would like to open my doors for a festive event at my place. I was even presented, as were most attendees, with a Certificate of Appreciation for support during the establishment of BP in Wellington. I was quite chuffed as I am an Aussie blow- in!

BP has been an undoubted success due in the main to B and R who instigated the outreach from Auckland where it had been going well for a few years. Needless to say one of the stars of the day was my Maori friend and ballroom dancer supremo, H, who showed how much he has to offer the world in his good nature and great style. H was getting more relaxed and told me some fascinating stories of his earlier life - there is lots more to hear from this exceptional man.

Cafe Scopa, reminiscing about Maori grandma's wisdom.

Stopping at The Laundry for a Chai latte before Sunday's Ballroom Dancing

Some interesting design features at this converted laundry. Where IS this customer going??

Tosca on Cuba

High drama today with an amazing rendition from the Met Opera of Puccini's masterpiece Tosca. 

Sung with Patricia Racette in the title role, this opera was made all the sexier with the very popular tenor Roberto Alagna playing a superb Cavaradossi. 

At the small Lighthouse Cinema I was the only man in an audience of six, comfortable in our armchairs for this three and a half hour Napoleonic melodrama with Art, love, jealousy, murder and suicide on the agenda, all stuff of High Opera. I thoroughly enjoyed the High Definition production with Renee Fleming being our more than gracious and knowledgeable host, talking us through the plot and introducing us to the stars. What better way to see a world class opera, and for a quarter the cost, than in the most comfy atmosphere of one's own hometown.

Feeling the need to digest the lavish production I have decided to take a hot lemon honey drink at my local bar The Library, today served not by a Farrah, but  by a very young Alain Delon, a heavily French accented young waiter. Again at five pm I am the first here, which I like, and the quiet background music is always to my taste. It's funny how retro the kids are in Wellington, they really know my taste. Last week it was Adele, as well one of my very favourites.

At five-thirty and the bar is fast filling with young people, it is Friday afternoon after all, and the Christmas season is nearly here, although there are sadly few decorations in the streets of Wellington, something which is a bit disappointing as there is a great opportunity to deck these lovely streets with some fabulous lights, like in Paris. Oh well, one day I'll just have to get on the city council!

Above flowers and tragedy at the Cuba Lighthouse

Last night was my last appearance with the Glamaphones, a final rehearsal for the Christmas Carols for Sunday, a gig which I just discovered I can't do as I double booked an unmissable ECK event. So be it, I can always sing next year. The rehearsal was at the regional Porirua Art Gallery/ Museum, called Pataka, and I went early with one of the altos who offered me a lift. We checked out the Art and I discovered my friend's photos in one of the exhibitions. Three degrees of separation in Wellington, some say only two!

I decide to have a second honey drink, and my French waiter confesses he is Italian, oh well, I think Delon was half Italian anyway! The place is now suddenly full and buzzing with chirpy conversation. The weather is good, tomorrow is Saturday so all is happy in this little paradise.

A few words on my alto singer friend, who tells me on the way home she has a daughter in Auckland, given to her, a little unwillingly I felt, by a black Jamaican during her fifteen years OE (overseas experience) when she lived and worked in New York, strangely the same time that I was there in 1969. I hazard a thought that our experiences there were a tad different although we did have the Jamaican in common! She's been back a while in NZ and finds it hard now she's nearing retirement age to find a good place to live. I told her not to sweat the small stuff, she worries too much. I think she took it on board, but I thought her experience might echo a few of local talented lassies trying to make in the big OS. After all, we are all a bit naive, in the Antipodes!

After-work kids having their cocktails at The Library.