When I lived in Wellington, the waterfront was a dreary place devoted to shipping and marine business. At night you could believe it was frequented by low types: murderers, cutpurses, prostitutes, and visiting members of Congress.
It’s different now. We began with breakfast in the Sunday market, then strolled along the water to witness the many ways Wellingtonians were enjoying a reasonably nice day.
The Hotel de Wheels, so called because it was rolled from its former location to make room for Te Papa.
A word about the “Wellington” sign at the top of the post. I originally thought the missing “I” might be due to vandalism, wear, or poor spelling. Miriam pointed out that I was overlooking the obvious. In a world where everyone wants photos of themselves everywhere they go, the idea is for one to stand in the sign and fill in the missing letter with their vertical self. This I will never do.
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