I like to think of myself as an easy-breezy kind of gal. One of those people who impulsively follows the faintest whiff of a fun idea, like a cartoon dog floating along the scent of a pie to where it is cooling on a windowsill.
But if I’m honest with myself (and you), I have to admit I am not really that person. I am someone who makes plans. I confirm numbers, I find and book restaurants, I get tickets to things in advance and I arrive embarrassingly early everywhere I go.
This is why it was so surprising when last year, without planning on it at all, I accidentally moved to New Zealand.
This, like most stories of slightly unhinged behaviour, can be blamed on love.
During the first lockdown in 2020, when all of our lives had been tipped upside down, I started chatting with a mutual Twitter friend in Aotearoa. Even though we were living through a pandemic, and didn’t know if and when we would ever get to see each other in person, we accidentally fell extremely in love.
We went through a stressful and difficult time throughout that year, but after nine months of waiting, she visited me twice for a total of about three weeks. Shortly after her second visit, things began to change again. The border between our countries was still open, but case numbers in Sydney were beginning to rise, and things looked as if they might become dicey.
In a rush of heat to my little gay brain, I decided that I should surprise her with a visit as soon as possible. I wanted to spring it on her because it would be fun, but also partially so that she could be spared the stress and worry of waiting, and hoping. She would skip all of the hard stuff we’d just endured, and simply open the door one day, and I would be there. And that’s what happened.
Guess who flew to New Zealand to surprise their girlfriend who immediately went into a fugue state for approx 40 seconds? Yes it was me pic.twitter.com/Of8qOzlkuU
— Bec Shaw (@Brocklesnitch) June 19, 2021
It soon became clear that I had made it in by the skin of my teeth (a disgusting idiom). It seems almost quaint now, but the plane that arrived directly after mine became big news, carrying a Covid-positive case that went on to tour Wellington.
Cases in Sydney exploded, the border between the countries was shut, and I was trapped in New Zealand. I had meant to surprise my girlfriend with a week-long visit, but I accidentally surprised her with … moving into her home.
There’s a popular joke stereotype about lesbians “U-Hauling”, which means moving in together shortly after beginning to date, but I think surprise moving-in from overseas after spending three weeks together in real life takes the cake.
Luckily, my tendency to overprepare came in handy in this instance as even though I was only coming for a week, I had packed enough underwear to dress a family of five for months.
And even though I hadn’t planned it – I hadn’t said goodbye to anyone, I had told my housemates I would be back in a week, and I hadn’t brought anything important with me – it all worked out, and I was able to settle in as if it had been my plan all along.
It has almost been a year now, and it has been a strange experience, but a blessed one. Everyone has been so welcoming (we won’t mention the one older relative of my girlfriend’s who is OK with the fact she’s dating a woman, but not impressed that I am Australian) and excited to show me around.
Wellington is beautiful, and I have loved getting to unexpectedly notice the little differences you pick up when you spend enough time in one place.
For example, everyone here is obsessed with their native birds, and talking about birds. If you are in a group of three or more people, at some point someone in that group will begin talking about kākāpō breeding season, or will gather around in a garden to see an unusually coloured pīwakawaka.
After gently teasing them about this for months, I recently found myself thinking about how the takahē and kākāpō are actually much more interesting flightless birds than the kiwi, so they should be as famous in Australia … and I knew they had gotten to me.
I have delighted them in return, by making sure to share with everyone two important pieces of Australian culture they don’t know about – Steven Bradbury and Bob Katter.
My favourite difference is how te reo Māori is used here. It’s not just included on signage and official forms, or talked about once a year on a designated day – it’s everywhere you go. Almost every pākehā (New Zealand European) I have met casually uses some reo Māori in conversation.
It’s a small sample size, but they have all been able to teach me about the history of colonisation in this country, of important events, of the racist framework the country is based on. But equally as important, they are familiar with Māori stories of the land we are on.
I say this not to praise white people for doing the absolute bare minimum, or to declare everything is perfect in Aotearoa when it clearly isn’t; I say it to emphasise how completely and utterly barren white Australia is in comparison. Living somewhere for a bit and seeing how achievable the bare minimum is makes me ashamed on a daily basis at how far behind we are.
There are also other stark points of difference. For example, the sweet’n’sour sauce at McDonald’s tastes weird.
Whatever the differences, and even though McNuggets taste worse, I now consider this place my second home.
My spontaneity in coming to visit when I did was not only rewarded, but it actually saved us. If I hadn’t made the decision to fly that quickly, the border would have shut with me on one side and my girlfriend on the other. We would have been apart for another year.
I haven’t watched Sliding Doors for a long time, but I think that timeline would be the one where Gwyneth dies. This experience, and the pandemic in general, has definitely made me more spontaneous, and a bit more audacious.
Should a friend stay in her new well-paying job, or should she fly to Spain to reunite with an ex for a chance at love? The “before” me would have told her to keep that steady work. Now? I’ll take her to the damn airport myself. But we’ll still be really early.
Rebecca Shaw is a writer based in Aotearoa, for now
