The man who ate Lincoln Rd approached Lincoln Rd this week with a heavy heart and a face like thunder. I was away for nine days on a family holiday in Rarotonga and I wasn't best pleased to be back. It's so beautiful over there! God almighty! The warm lagoons, the blue weather - in comparison, bro, we live in a dump.
And so I trudged once more to that high, flat ridge out west, that ratrace with its daily conveyor belt of 46,000 cars and its barns stuffed with merchandise and junkfood.
Lincoln Rd is a metaphor for Auckland, a rowdy quintessence. My mission to eat at each of the 53 food joints along its four kilometre banks in 2016 has marked an attempt to experience Auckland as it really is - a seething ratrace with meal breaks at fastfood franchises.
It's been an arduous journey and I felt close to despair on Tuesday as I made my way towards the 45th food joint. The thing about franchises is that that you go there to eat something at somewhere which looks the same someplace else, so you could be anywhere and it feels like nowhere. McDonald's and KFC and Burger King and all the rest represent the end of geography. They have no context, they exist unto themselves. They're duplicates, replicants, a zone of clones.