Auckland City, New Zealand.

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. 

Another building on the waterfront... 
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.