KEY POINTS:
When I was an advertising creative director in London, running with what my friend's mum snobbishly called "an international set", a colleague discovered I was from a tiny community of 35,000 people on the East Coast of New Zealand. "That," he said, "explains everything about you."
Worldly and well-shod though I was, apparently there was something delightfully small town about me. I was taken aback by his observation, and flattered. I had always been proud of my roots but never thought that they were so endearingly obvious.
Then he tried to kiss me and I realised it was just another pick-up line, albeit a vast improvement on the efforts of New Zealand men: "You look like Chrissie Hinds or Nana Mouskouri", and "You've got hair like weka feathers", spring to mind.
Despite the self-serving motivation, his comment was a perceptive one and it stayed with me. Had he just defined who I really was?
I was living with an English lawyer in a converted schoolhouse in gritty Peckham, and popping across to the Continent as the fancy took me. I'd persuaded my workmates to get naked for a photo shoot that created snickering global headlines, modelled in a European car campaign, and been the only female at an underground Arab gambling den.
Selfridges, the soaring department store on Oxford St, was my spiritual home. But it wasn't my real home.
So over the next few years I gradually shrank the size of the city I lived in _ from London, to Sydney, to Auckland. I met an ad-man from Harare who wanted to be a cook and thought Wainui Beach was heaven on Earth. I quit my job in advertising. Finally, just over a year ago, I moved back to Gisborne.
When I'd left at the age of 15, I took with me an asymmetrical haircut, a drop-waisted pinafore made by my mother, and the secret knowledge that Smiley Maka had reached my bra strap on two thrilling occasions.
More than 20 years later I returned with a tastefully highlighted bob and suitcases stuffed with Marc Jacobs, about to get married for the second time. Thankfully, Gisborne hadn't changed quite as much as I had.
Aucklander Nick Ferneyhough, a 38-year-old musician and antiques dealer, has been making the trek to Gisborne every summer since he was a kid. These days he hangs out with Clint Eastwood's kids in LA, works with (muso) Jamie Cullum in London, and renovates his chateau in France. And yet, each year, he and French partner Chrystelle find the time to visit Gisborne.
"It's hardly changed at all. There's always been somewhere to have a nice meal and a bottle of wine. Now there are more. But it hasn't become overdeveloped like Tauranga, and that's what we love about it."
Of course, stagnation can kill a town. Once, it looked like Gisborne might fade away in the sunlight, becoming just another provincial outpost populated with pensioners and locals unable to escape.
Today, there are still the same old problems. Everyone knows everyone else's business. The unemployment rate remains higher than the national average and the median income is lower. Drink-driving is rampant. A fair bit of husband-stealing goes on in the 45-plus age bracket.
But the positive things have stayed the same too. It's a place of culture, with historical significance for Maori and Pakeha alike. It's naturally gorgeous, winning New Zealand's Most Beautiful Town (20,000+ inhabitants) in 2005 and last year. And my goodness, it's friendly.
When I first lived in London, I would stop when strangers called out to me, which was a mistake, because they usually tried to mug me, rub up against me, or share their spittle-embellished religious convictions.
In Gisborne, they just want to say hi. "I love how welcoming the people are," says Sarah Cleave, who recently launched a new online guide to local arts and events, tairawhitiarts.net. "You walk down the street and everyone greets you."
Sarah grew up in Whangarei, studied in Auckland and spent 10 years travelling, culminating in a year-long road trip around New Zealand.
"I was looking for somewhere to put down roots, a place with a sense of community, where I could really get involved." She found Gisborne. "It's more than great beaches and wine," she says. "There are so many new, exciting things going on, although with a slightly cruisier approach than you'll find in other parts of New Zealand."
And, perhaps because it's a small town but not the one she grew up in, she feels she can be braver there.
Setting up a high-end art gallery in a conservative backwater three hours from anywhere, with shows that have included Wall of 100 Cocks, seems more foolhardy than brave. But that's exactly what local boy Matt Nache Clarke and Hawke's Bay native Gene Paul have done.
The Pencil Gallery specialises in contemporary art, with a focus on Maori art. Walking into its vast space is like stepping out of Gisborne and into somewhere resolutely sophisticated and urban, like New York. How can it exist here, opposite the Pumpkin Patch outlet store?
"In Auckland and Wellington, major artists tend to be exclusive to one gallery. And, obviously, there are the overheads. In Gisborne, we don't have to conform to the commercial market in the same way," says Gene. "We have the freedom to show who we like, with famous names alongside East Coast artists." And for Matt, he adds, there's the added bonus of being able to raise his family here.
My generation left Gisborne to find jobs and many of them never came back. In the 80s, people moved from the provinces to the big towns. Downsizing and lifestyle were not the middle-class dream, and everywhere was perfectly fine to raise kids.
Now the 20- and 30-somethings are moving back to Gisborne in droves, bringing their education and children with them.
After going away to study, fashion designer Chelsea Thorpe returned to establish her eponymous label. Andrew Witters was at uni when he and his mates hit on the concept for music festival Rhythm and Vines.
Sally Shanks lived overseas and was a farmer's wife driving the school bus before coming back to launch Staple, which stocks her own furniture designs made by Gisborne craftspeople.
They all speak glowingly of the supportive community, the depth of homegrown talent, and how locals have embraced their ideas.
My husband and I bought a cafe. Previously, our only experience in the hospitality industry had been spending ad agency expense accounts in various fine-dining establishments across several continents.
I've gone from forking out hundreds for a pair of Miu Miu heels to worrying about the price of bagels. And I've learned that you have to keep a straight face no matter what, even when someone orders the big breakfast with double eggs, double sausage, double bacon, double hash browns, double toast... and a trim flat white.
We finish at three in the afternoon, prepare a dinner of hapuka or paua caught that morning, finish with some organic local fruit, have a glass or two of wine from Millton or KEW, then roll down to the beach to walk our dogs.
We've become those smug aspirational lifestylers you see on Sky's Living channel, lacking only chickens and an Italian gardener.
Meanwhile, back in our previous lives, our former colleagues are working too hard and drinking too much, sleeping with their secretaries and worrying about their job security and their mortgage.
There is something incredibly liberating about living in a place like this. It may be isolated, but that protects its special charm. You can hide away and be alone, or involve yourself and never be lonely. And did I mention how nice the people are?
The day after the earthquake in December, customers arrived at the cafe to see if it was okay and whether there was anything they could do to help. The father of our kitchenhand turned up on our doorstep with a sheep (it was dead, and he's a farmer, so it was a lovely gesture). Neighbours checked on neighbours.
But adventurous kids will always leave. Lisa Owen, 22, is a chef at our cafe. Next week she's off to London on a one-way ticket. It will be her first time in another country. Her reason is the same as everyone's: to see the world. Then maybe, when she's seen everything there is to see, she'll come home to Gisborne.
