Dakota's Journal

Lovely building isn’t it – Says the British girl behind me with a London brogue. The ornate windows are illuminated with the advertisement of models in photography, probably Russian or Croatian, holding diamond accessories, fondled by bottles of perfume that own illustrious reputations. A teal colored evening envelopes the street as the cars pass in an orchestral motion, we are standing on a traffic island, the evening is recognizable, not only by the stars but also by the closing bloom of the street flowers that were once opened during the very same day in daylight.  

A city chandelier. Entwined with French renaissance stands this air of expression on Albert street. Galleria of Gucci, Prada, Hermes, Christian Dior, Louis Vuitton, Tiffany and other luxurious names, it’s presence stays true to it’s cosmopolitan inspiration, originally designed by Thomas Mahoney in the French renaissance style, constructed as the original Auckland City Customhouse in eighteen eighty nine. 

An acquainted traveller or airline steward may feel a somewhat Meccan allure, for everything enclosed within this building holds a ticket with a destination. Swarovski jewelry from Austria, the most impeccable leather accessories from Italy, or perhaps a scent or two of quality international perfumes.

I can still smell the Oriental scent of cinnamon and lime against my skin. One tends to forget time when standing in a fragrance aisle, the enclosure of colors alone is a distraction and the innocent loss of time is evoked entirely by curiosity. Gold tinsel decorates the internal architecture, gold and eccentric like the gold plated paper in which the most expensive French chocolates are wrapped. Christmas decorations reflect all levels of elevator luminosity with romance red, as red as a lipstick stain on a white coffee cup in a café.

I can hear the sound of Estelle’s American Boy as I walk down this alley way in Auckland city, I imagine the concrete walls to be Venetian with a shroud green mildew. Casablanca yellow, rouge red and turquoise blue colors like neapolitan ice cream encased below clear glass, beyond the eye of an enquiring individual as they so hopelessly tried to choose what flavors they would request. I know that those parked motorcycles really aren’t Italian vespas, but I like to imagine that they are. The shadows on the street are like shadows from a Naples café, shadows where Italian models hide from the sunlight, stamping expensive ashtrays on tables, mahogany-brown hair and Barbados cigarettes. 

Many memorable walks, many tasteful dinners and lunches, so many meaningful conversations, and many photographs, so I think to my self about this weekend that we had in Auckland city. I reminisce of our dinner by the seaside in a restaurant called the Water Front Café…

The Mexican Enchiladas were memorable, as was the moment where we ate whilst staring into the eyes of each other. The Water Front Café was enjoyable and the sheer ambience and warmth alone was something for the two of us to grasp. The waitress captured my attention and I somewhat analyzed my self with her flickering motion and her precise, almost militaristic head counting. I looked at her and questioned, wondering to my self, and then she carefully plated the tables like an eccentric artist would paint a picture. 

 
I envisage Elyse Sewell making an international phone call to Hong Kong from these two, liquid blue phone boxes. Parlez-vous français? She says on the other end of the line. My favorite aspect of the waterfront are the buildings, the evening lights, the white yaht boats and the ocean breeze that you can feel on a summer evening. I like the City Center because you are never too far from the ocean. It is purely a spontaneous evening canvas for a photographer. I smell Jean Paul Gautier, a little singe of Coco Channel and the scent of Bvlgari perfume, it sweeps from my lovers neck like willow branches taken by the motion of the wind. 

The sound of this language is cosmopolitan, I hear Japanese, I hear Korean, I hear a few whispers of Chinese, perhaps a sentence of Arabic, the sound of French, Italian, Greek and a little bit of Thai, whilst my linguist notions are embedded within me, within who I am. I stand by the nearest stop sign like a New Yorker latching for a yellow taxi, thinking to my self,  I bet we’re talking about the same thing on this evening street in Auckland City.