Plenty of love as Daphne and Simon get it on again
With the trans-Tasman bubble opening on Monday, the thirdgreatest ‘‘will they/won’t they’’ relationship drama of the pandemic (after Bridgerton, and the US dumping Trump) looks to be finally happening.
At least we hope it is. Most of us have adopted the new Kiwi Covid attitude of ‘‘should be right, but might be crap’’. Maybe the reason our small nation has done well in a global disaster is our default psyche of pessimistic optimism.
In this pandemic world where streaming services are devouring our spare time, and our mental state can be best illustrated by the ‘‘recommended for you’’ category, Australia and New Zealand have found themselves the Daphne Bridgerton and Simon Hastings of 2021.
If this reference means nothing to you, congratulations on a much more productive lockdown than the rest of us. But for those who also experienced the highs and lows of an eight-episode, alt-history soap opera, that you absolutely regretted recommending to your mum after episode six . . . let’s expand.
Australia of course is Daphne; powerful, respected, yet somehow blissfully unaware of the world and its views, naive to the point of annoyance, and a bit foggy on the rules of consent. New Zealand could only be Simon; brooding, yet more free than most, bound only by the rules they’ve made up for themselves, which look a bit laughable to everyone else, but are very serious to them.
We’ve changed, we’ve grown, we’ve discovered Hello Fresh.
Bridgerton was a perfect piece of pandemic television in that, once you’d finished the series, you were slightly curious about what happens next but mainly felt a deep need to leave the house.
Unfortunately, what New Zealand discovered was, with limited funds and too much time, we were all slightly stuck. You could go almost anywhere in the country . . . it’s just we’re a country whose tourism is mainly based on walking and staring. And the journey back to level 1 was essentially several months of walking and staring.
So finally New Zealanders can visit Melbourne, Sydney, Brisbane, Adelaide, and Perth while Australians can enjoy . . . apparently Queenstown. Sure, that hurts the rest of New Zealand a little bit. But, if we’re honest, Queenstown and New Zealand kind of needed a break from each other anyway. It was starting to get tense.
As we reconnect with our cousins across the ditch, there’s also a chance to take some of the lessons we’ve learned from our lockdown. Because we aren’t quite the same New Zealand that closed its Tasman doors just over a year ago. We’ve changed, we’ve grown, we’ve discovered Hello Fresh. Perhaps the most important lesson is . . . level 4 sucked. Then it was actually not too bad.
Then it really sucked. And we’re all quietly scared of going back into it, which is why we nationally flinch at any sudden press conference announcement. We’re not even sure if it’s still the disease we’re scared of as much as once again cramming a decades worth of family time into a few months.
If scanning into stores and wearing masks keeps us from that, then who are we to argue with God and Dr Ashley Bloomfield, if indeed they are a different entity. Why we weren’t wearing masks on planes earlier seems ridiculous now. What is a long-haul flight but a slowly developing giant can of baked beans?
I look forward to discovering Australia’s Dr Bloomfield, and their version of ‘‘Kia ora koutou katoa’’. Funny how the apocalypse can make a simple greeting become the answer to mass anxiety.
Lockdown and isolation forced Kiwis to reconsider our perspectives, not simply about what’s important but what defines ourselves and our relationships. As we renew this closest of international ties, maybe we can finally admit a sore truth: our ‘‘rivalry’’ with Australia has got out of hand.
That five-million-strong national pride, that helps us accomplish amazing things, and sing Dave Dobbyn hits till the bar is empty, occasionally tips over into pointless xenophobia. Because Australia doesn’t actually care. Oh, they enjoy playing their Kiwi mates, but there’s never the sense of proving a point that our side of the Tasman seems intent on imbuing every encounter with.
We’re the cliched ‘‘little brother’’, afflicted with ‘‘small country syndrome’’, and that probably would have been fine a decade ago, when the Bledisloe Cup was still a contest, and our rivers weren’t so polluted that you’re safer swimming with saltwater crocs.
But through the revolutionary approach of listening to scientists and responding accordingly, New Zealand has become a world leader. Shaking our fist and going ‘‘bloody Aussies’’ at this point just seems childish.
Especially when, hand on heart, we’re over Trevor Chappell’s underarm bowl of ’81 and George Gregan’s last-minute tackle in ’94.
There’s a lot of hugs coming next week, and a lot of tears too. Let’s ensure the tears after that are for all the right reasons.