Waitarere weekend

To be able to fill leisure intelligently is the last product of civilization, and at present very few people have reached this level.

-Bertrand Russell, Conquest of Happiness



The city grind wore away at the boys, serene Wellington starting to feel like an actual hustle and bustle. Perspective needed to be returned to these working stiffs, these blue collar toastmasters. To the countryside they go.

One hundred clicks up the Kapiti coast lies a sleepy seaside town called Waitarere. No stop signs, let alone stoplights, Waitarere was an isider's tip your correspodent received from Establishment regular Tommy, who used to call it home. Sixty years old and Irish born and raised, Tommy is the regular you love to see pass through the door; always with a smile on his face, quick to bring a genuine one to yours. Tommy enjoys visiting on my sleepy afternoon shifts, talking sex, drinking, traveling, the bar girls, the roommates. If there's a personification of the classic Kiwi adage "Good on ya!", it's Tommy. He felt Waitarere was the remedy. That was good enough for me and the beach house was booked online that evening.


Morgan, Shock, Charlie, and myself made the trek, with travel buddy Irish John in tow. Trainer could not make it, as he was on a North island tour with Maggie, and Dunne could not attend due to nine to five constraints imposed by the New Zealand banking industry. Deliah served us well but broke down literally at the foot of our building upon return. The old girl might need to be put down, but that's a story for another post.

As far as the specifics of weekend activities, I don't think they would surprise too many. Drinking, feasting, muisc, card playing, and world classs lounging dominating the hours. Not to say nothing constructive occured. Shock developed his beer marinade, Mogan and Charlie stumbled upon a 19th century shpwreck, and my man-crush on Barack Obama deepened after reading more on his Chicago beginnings.


Tommy was spot on, as the weekend seemed to be what everybody needed; the tanks have been refilled. At press time, Morgan, Charlie, and myslef regroup at the penhouse sipping cold kiwi ale. Afternoon turns to evening. Clocks have gone back and autumn lies in wait. My work week hours away. Here we go again.