Christchurch bares its soul
It’s our most exciting city: you just need to know where to look. Brook Sabin and Radha Engling go to find out.
Christchurch, I owe you an apology. You are an unexpectedly exciting place to visit. Let me explain. I lived in Christchurch before the afternoon that changed everything, almost nine years ago. I returned early last year for a family holiday, disappointed. I wrote a strongly worded piece about visiting the city as a tourist, calling the city ‘‘soulless’’.
The reaction was swift and brutal. I’ve been called a fair few things, including a ‘‘puffed up little s...’’ by Pam Corkery in my old job as a political reporter. But the colourful language that flowed my way after the Christchurch piece made Corkery’s outburst look like a verbal bouquet. It was impressively brutal.
In August, I wrote about a ‘‘sense of decay’’ – where ‘‘big groups of tourists gathered around the Cathedral, gawking. The holy rubble felt like a monument to paralysis. People were poking their heads over fences to look at ruins. Others seemed lost, not really knowing what to do. Trams still glide around the city, but it almost felt like an amusement ride through a disaster zone.’’
I continued, ‘‘politicians will tell you of all their grand plans. But, as a visitor, why after eight years does rubble still rule the landscape? Surely, there’d be some urgency to at least get rid of the eyesores that blot the landscape. Tourism is hugely important for the city and first impressions matter.’’
The article, published on Stuff, ended up on the front page of The Press. While some locals got in touch to agree, many took it as a personal attack.
The messages were generously flavoured with expletives. One of my favourites ended, ‘‘I’m not insulting you, I’m describing you.’’
Discussion about the article swirled for a few weeks. The idea was even floated that owners of derelict sites should be given a deadline to clean up their properties.
Then something unusual happened. The city’s promotion agency got in touch, inviting me down: they wanted to show me I’d got it wrong: I accepted.
Like any trip, they have no control over what I write: it was a risk, and they knew it.
The itinerary arrived, and I kid you not, it included a meditation class. They clearly thought I needed to get rid of some pent-up frustration.
And, let’s be frank, they were probably right. Fast-forward to the end of my stay, and
Christchurch, I owe you an apology. I still believe progress in some areas has been slow, but the city’s soul is very much alive and dancing to an exciting beat, albeit one that can be a little hard to find if you’re new to the city.
It’s a region full of exciting secrets. You just need to know where to look.
Melbourne has arrived
The Riverside Market is a bustling hub of local artisans, tucked away in a cavernous building near the Avon River.
The entrance is a little laneway off Cashel St, lined with local gems such as the The Butcher’s Pie Shop. Walk through the sliding doors to the market, and it’s like you’ve arrived in the city’s hidden temple of food. And worship takes place seven days a week.
There are dozens of enticing stalls, from the Bohemian Bakery, The Donut Dispensary, Kombucha Girls, Empire Chicken, Cluck Cluck Slurp, The Kathmandu Momo House, and the social media sensation that is Moustache Milk & Cookie Bar. The brilliant thing about the market is that local artisans can rent a single shelf, so even those just starting out can show off their goods.
Across town, Little High is the kind of place where your ‘‘coolness index’’ rises sharply when you enter: it’s a funky food court, food-truck style. The family-run eateries include a bacon burger bar and Eightgrains Dumplings & Bao.
The final place to visit, making up a golden triangle of chic collections of eateries is The Welder, where six heritage buildings have been rebirthed into a health and wellness centre.
Aside from the delicious organic food, tasty pastries and a yakitori bar, there’s O-Studio: a yogi’s paradise that includes relaxation classes, massages and even float pools.