The lights are on, but the party’s over – in the time of Covid, we can’t even buy duty-free
Everything seemed just the same when I flew into Wellington this week, which is to say the last 10 minutes were a living hell. Hello turbulence, my old friend. The plane sank like a rock, the wind picked it up again and flung it left, then right; down below, the waters of Cook Street boiled and fumed. But it’s a familiar nightmare. It’s just the way it almost always is when you fly into Wellington.
The truly disorienting part of arriving was walking through Wellington domestic airport.
