The Rugby World Cup has come to New Zealand! They've been talking about it for years, and now they're talking about nothing else.
On Friday it was the opening ceremony. I left work at 1 pm to beat the crowds. It was a good thing I did; two stops after mine, the train was standing-room-only and I saw hundreds, maybe even a thousand, of disappointed fans being turned away from boarding our train at the stations, as there was simply no more room aboard.
The Viaduct and the Wharves (Prince's and Queen's) were Party Central. (This is not my appelation; this is the official name.) Fifty thousand people ended up packing themselves into a space designed for 12,000. Luckily the organisers had thought ahead and had arranged for plenty of port-a-potties. And, cleverly, they'd deployed a fleet of kayakers whose job was to patrol the perimeters of the wharves and fish out the inevitable partiers who toppled into the water. Word was that the nimble little boats successfully rescued thirty-some people who'd been overly intoxicated or else overly squashed in the crush of people.
We took a little walk through the craziness outside our front door early in the day before it got too-too busy. We ventured out again briefly later in the night to watch the fireworks from our sidewalk, but headed right straight back inside due to the non-family-friendly atmosphere. I wouldn't take the kids outside at Mardi Gras, either. Noise ordinances were lifted for the night and we were treated to all manner of hoopla until the wee hours. We woke up to find our neighbourhood in shambles. Nothing really broken or wrecked, just a really proper mess. Barricades shifted all around. Litter everywhere. And vomit puddles. Oh yeah. That's how you know everyone's had a good time.
And of course, the All Blacks won their match against Tonga that evening.
The next night, we were treated to the quietest night in the Viaduct that we've ever seen in all our time in this apartment. I guess everyone had already had their fun; no reason to return two nights in a row.
On Friday it was the opening ceremony. I left work at 1 pm to beat the crowds. It was a good thing I did; two stops after mine, the train was standing-room-only and I saw hundreds, maybe even a thousand, of disappointed fans being turned away from boarding our train at the stations, as there was simply no more room aboard.
The Viaduct and the Wharves (Prince's and Queen's) were Party Central. (This is not my appelation; this is the official name.) Fifty thousand people ended up packing themselves into a space designed for 12,000. Luckily the organisers had thought ahead and had arranged for plenty of port-a-potties. And, cleverly, they'd deployed a fleet of kayakers whose job was to patrol the perimeters of the wharves and fish out the inevitable partiers who toppled into the water. Word was that the nimble little boats successfully rescued thirty-some people who'd been overly intoxicated or else overly squashed in the crush of people.
We took a little walk through the craziness outside our front door early in the day before it got too-too busy. We ventured out again briefly later in the night to watch the fireworks from our sidewalk, but headed right straight back inside due to the non-family-friendly atmosphere. I wouldn't take the kids outside at Mardi Gras, either. Noise ordinances were lifted for the night and we were treated to all manner of hoopla until the wee hours. We woke up to find our neighbourhood in shambles. Nothing really broken or wrecked, just a really proper mess. Barricades shifted all around. Litter everywhere. And vomit puddles. Oh yeah. That's how you know everyone's had a good time.
And of course, the All Blacks won their match against Tonga that evening.
The next night, we were treated to the quietest night in the Viaduct that we've ever seen in all our time in this apartment. I guess everyone had already had their fun; no reason to return two nights in a row.
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