Tourists in our own past lives

Dunedin, near the bottom of the world, is a place where people come and then they go again, writes Clare Fraser.

Prepare to pine as you make friends then lose them.

But Dunedin also seems to be a place where people form fond memories then come back to relive them. This puts the long-hauler in the pleasant position of being frequent host and a frequent flyer at local tourist attractions.

I think I might have discovered a new one.

An old flatmate was recently in town for the first time in 36 years. What a buzz it was to see each other, the years meaning nothing except deteriorated eyesight that allowed us to flatter each other and ourselves that we look exactly the same.

First on the agenda was a visit to our old student flat and a leisurely, nostalgic walk around the neighbourhood, or "hood": we were as self-conscious as tourists trying to blend in on the streets of the Bronx. And wouldn’t you know it, it was Saturday night, at the tail end of exams.

Our middle-aged posse of four shuffled towards Castle St, new kids at school joining halfway through the year. Hey, we’re cool, one of us is wearing a leather jacket! But all of us were old enough to remember the surly 1980s when the generations definitely did not mix.

Across the road was a sunlit evening party in its festive but mellow early hours.

Another time I’d approached the same partying flat with an unwanted sun lounger, hoping it might be put to good use. They’d loved it and absorbed it as one, passing it one to the other almost like a collective of ants. Before anyone judges, you cannot burn aluminium. I call it town-gown relations. Reduce, reuse, recycle.

Today, as tour guide, I pointed out the scene. As we broke character and openly oogled, the locals got wind. We jumped in quickly with the reunited flatmate story and it was a hit. Yeeeeaaah!

It seemed to help kick the party off so well that one guy lifted his top to neck height to reveal his chest. All you can do to that is give a supportive thumbs up, kind but very, very quick, so you don’t come across as a big hungry cat prowling the wilds of America.

After a bit of chat, we took photos and they hospitably obliged.

Buoyed, we walked towards the Dunedin Botanic Garden so my friend, Gabby, could relive her student appreciation of the place. Wouldn’t you know it though — there was another party to pass.

This one also warned early-evening cognisance but in our new-found gutsiness we crossed the road anyway to giggle our way towards them. A smile goes a long way and, once again, we were warmly received along with our story.

Funnily enough, this party was all women and the previous one had been all guys. We told this party about the opposite-sexed one out of eyesight and one of the women looked at us as if we were morally loose. The stuff you hear in these swipe-for-it days, that’s sort of refreshing and a bit of a relief.

We posed for more tourist snaps, wished everyone well, party-style, and continued to the gardens.

On the return journey we deliberately but gingerly passed by the women’s party again. Someone shouted out, "Our friends are back!" An advance pair of emissaries nabbed us.

"Hey what would you tell someone our age for advice? I’ve seen those posts where old people talk about their life regrets!"

Numbed, we were like passing pedestrians interviewed for TV news.

We looked at each other, Gabby and I in our warm, comfortable clothes (OK, "sensible"), them in their chesty tops with faces still attached to their skulls. Their gleaming shininess throbbed at us, so our first answer was pretty un-PC, "Enjoy your beauty". What young woman realises how stunning she actually is?

Later we wished we’d followed up with a more feminist reassurance that time brings better benefits. But we didn’t.

Our next wisdom was "Don’t worry so much, ’cos none of it really matters". This hit the jackpot. Our new friend shouted it down the line but no-one was really listening.

But it was too exciting an opportunity to miss, like the first meeting with a tribe that’s lived cut off from civilisation. So this time I asked what advice they would give to their future self, 36 years down the track. After some thought, one said: "Stay in touch with your friends!"

How wise.

In the flush of their young adults’ open-hearted, loving friendships our long-lost story had maybe seemed a bit sad.

Later in the evening we jaded ones reflected how kind young people seemed these days. There’s no way we would have received people our parents’ age so openly and maturely in the grungy, snide ’80s. Something’s happened for the good. And they’re a lot less shy about visits than the yellow-eyed penguins.