Long weekends give us a chance to step outside our own routines, writes Lifang Chen. Photo / 123rf
“Bye, Bella,” my daughter said, waving as we reversed out of the driveway.
Bella stood by the window, watching us leave.
Blizz was nowhere to be seen, probably asleep somewhere out of sight, unaware that we were going.
Over the Easter long weekend, we drove to Auckland.
By the time we reached Tīrau, the opposite lane had already turned into a long, unmoving line of cars. It stretched so far that, even after we had driven on for quite some distance, it still had not cleared.
We were heading north. Others were heading south.
The same road, just different directions.
It is something we rarely stop to think about, this pull to go somewhere else.
For a moment, I thought of Fortress Besieged. Those inside want to leave. Those outside want to get in.
That restlessness does not belong only to roads or holidays. It sits quietly in how we think about where we live.
Some people love Rotorua. They value how easy everything is, how quickly you can get from one place to another.
Others speak of it more carefully, mentioning the sulphur smell, the slower pace, the sense that things do not change very much.
Auckland carries its own version of that same contrast.
It offers scale and energy, but it also demands time, patience, and hours shaped around traffic.
Nothing comes without trade-offs.
There is no perfect place, only what we are willing to live with.
During our two days in Auckland, my daughter wanted to visit the recently opened Ikea store.
Finding a parking space during the holiday was already difficult. Inside, it was even busier.
Shoppers moved through the aisles with full carts, their voices blending into a steady hum.
She looked around and said, half-amused, that compared to shopping malls in China, this was still manageable.
Perhaps she was right.
In bigger cities, there is always something pulling people outward.
And looking at the crowd, it was hard not to notice that even rising fuel prices had done little to hold people back.
Prices go up. People still go.
Later, we went to another shopping mall. I followed her from one store to another, starting to feel that shopping might be more exhausting than running.
She moved quickly, curious about everything, as if there was always something just ahead worth seeing.
I used to be like that, too.
Now, I find myself choosing less.
On Sunday afternoon, as we drove back, traffic slowed near a damaged vehicle on the side of the highway. Three police cars were already there, their lights flashing. People slowed as they passed, glanced over, and then kept moving.
Long weekends bring movement.
Sometimes, they bring risk with it.
By the time we reached Tīrau again, the pattern had reversed. The opposite lane had filled with another long line of cars, stretching into the distance.
This time, it was Aucklanders heading home, while we were returning to Rotorua.
The same journey, just seen from the other side.
Long weekends give us a chance to step outside our own routines. To see something different, even if only for a while.
But somewhere along the way, a quieter realisation settles in.
We are moving through places that are not ours.
Their streets, their rhythms, and their sense of belonging belong to the people who live there.
We can pass through, enjoy them, even admire them, but we remain, in some way, visitors.
And that may be why the return matters.
When we got home, Bella was already at the door, tail wagging, as if nothing else mattered more than our arrival.
Blizz appeared a moment later, weaving between our feet with soft, insistent meows, as if we had only just stepped out for a short while.
After all the roads, the traffic, and the movement, it was this small, familiar space that finally settled everything.
Not because it was better.
Simply that it was ours.
And someone was waiting at the door.