Seriously, I love this city: 4 writers pen love letters to their hometowns

What makes a place truly special? We asked four writers to take a trip down memory lane and tell us about the magic of the cities where they grew up.

Auckland  

I love Auckland , or to give it its Māori name, Tāmaki Makaurau. Sometimes I forget how fortunate I am to have lived here for more than 20 years. When that happens, all I have to do is to walk up Mount Eden, or Maungawhau, the highest of the 53 volcanoes in the area. In pre-European times, the volcano was used as a fortified hill pā, and it’s now an archaeologically protected site. At the summit, I stand by the giant grassed-over crater and marvel at what I see.

I’m always struck by my city’s greenness. It’s a city of 1.5 million people, the financial and industrial heart of New Zealand, but from up here it looks like a forest, with trees surrounding the buildings in every direction. My gaze flows past the CBD towards the harbour and its ships and recreational boats, towards Rangitoto, a near-perfectly symmetrical volcanic island in the Hauraki Gulf. Its name means “bloody sky” in English, and it was blasted into existence 600 years ago in an act of impressive natural violence. Now it looks almost comically beautiful and peaceful. You couldn’t design a better feature for our harbour. 

Wandering farther around the crater of Maungawhau to the northwest brings Eden Park, our national stadium, into view. It’s a spectacular fortress in which our national rugby team, the All Blacks, haven’t lost for 30 years. To the west is the Waitākere Ranges, with Mount Albert, Ōwairaka, a 120,000-year-old volcano in view. I find it breathtaking and life-affirming.

There’s no better place to appreciate Auckland City’s beauty than from atop Maungawhau. As a local, it’s a place to reconnect with what we have; for a visitor, it’s the perfect vantage point to get your bearings on our amazing little spot at the bottom of the world.  

Matt Heath is a radio host, sports commentator, producer, writer and musician

Chongqing

Standing on the 76th floor of the World Financial Center, the tallest building in Chongqing's Yuzhong District, you can gaze down on an endlessly captivating nightscape: neon lights and the ceaseless flow of traffic merging with streetlights create silk-like threads. It’s as if you’re finally able to stand outside the world.

To countless film directors, this mountain city is where nature and human creativity form intricate layers that defy conventional urban planning, a tapestry that goes far beyond simple grids.

I love Chongqing, but not just Chongqing. I love the wind of the Jialing River, the clouds of Wushan, the dazzling lights of Hongya Cave and the sunset glow of Nanbin Road. I cherish the beauty of its mountains and waters, as well as the joys and sorrows of its people.

It's a three-dimensional, inclusive city. Outsiders arriving for the first time are stunned by skyscrapers growing along the banks of the Jialing and Yangtze rivers, reaching into the clouds; bridges over rivers and interchanges criss-crossing and spiralling upwards; the light rail at Liziba passing through buildings. At night, Raffles City Chongqing at the confluence of the two rivers shines almost magically.  

Various ways of living find their place here. Comfort and warmth is a cup of coffee on Jiefangbei Street, a bowl of oil tea on the fourth floor of Hongya Cave or hotpot at the entrance of Baixiang Street – regardless of the season, everything is exuberant and unrestrained, like the carefree bloom and song of youth.

Life is not easily confined by a city. But the strength one gains in this city grants us a courage we carry for the rest of our lives.

Chongqing embodies everything I hold dear. This is where I truly belong.  

Liz Shi is a Chongqing-based journalist, travel writer, hotel reviewer, visiting professor of media and the author of books including Dazu Rock Carvings – A World-Class Treasure

Johannesburg

There’s a ritual to entering Johannesburg by road: as soon as Ponte City or Hillbrow towers and the Carlton Centre can be discerned, I pop the album End Beginnings into my CD player and pump out Johannesburg. In the song, the poet Lesego Rampolokeng’s words brood over the music of the Kalahari Surfers, capturing this straining, muscular, constantly jostling, forever hustling city of paradoxes.

His words conjure adrenaline, excitement, curiosity, the promise of engagement with friends, art, music, fashion, politics, ideas and the thrill of walking on the (cutting) edge. Rampolokeng’s words are a provocation to join what he terms the “walk of uncertainty” which so typifies this elusive metropolis.

Johannesburg is where things happen in South Africa. It’s also my favourite city in the world. Nothing beats watching the sun rise persimmon and purple over a coffee from my home in the Ansteys Building. The first parp of a minibus taxi searching out commuters is the urban riposte to the crow of the cockerel, as the smell of amagwinya, the deep-fried dough balls which sustain workers, wafts up from a street stall.

From my balcony, I see the Nelson Mandela Bridge to the northwest, the towers outside the Constitutional Court jutting over Hillbrow to the north, the surrounding skyscrapers, while the urban sprawl towards Soweto unfolds to the south and west: South African history short-handed into one long sweeping pan.

Ansteys houses a community that cuts across race, class and ethnicity. Working-class Black South African families, queer people, an immigrant Senegalese network, artists and lawyers all call her home. In that sense of home, deep friendships emerge – that for me is the most enduring aspect of a city which can nourish with one breast and, paradoxically, suffocate with the other. The friendships she provides.  

Niren Tolsi is an award-winning journalist. His first book, Writing Around the Wicket – Race, Class and History in South African Cricket, was published in 2024

Manila

At first, Manila seems overpopulated, overbuilt, overcrowded, overwhelmingly noisy and unwieldy. It's wet and muddy in the rainy season and dusty and humid in the summer. Traffic and its fumes are a given; so is loud music from jeepneys plying their routes and the scent of humanity tightly packed together in public vehicles.

But in my memory dwells another Manila, where I grew up in the ’50s and ’60s, before the malls, skyscrapers, traffic and light rail transit. As a child, I played tag and rolled marbles on unpaved sidewalks with neighbours and walked to school or church along tree-shaded lanes.

At college, my friends and I ended our day watching the sun set over Manila Bay. On weekends, after parties, we hiked to the nearby park where we kicked off our heels and, in stockinged feet, played tag with our dates, like children, in sheer abandon.

Later, as a reporter on the student beat, I marched alongside determined youths to get my story for the day. With deadlines met, I watched open-air theatre in the ruins of Intramuros, the old walled city, with bohemian friends. In the nearby Malate district were bars and coffee shops where we rubbed elbows with poets and artists. Later, somewhat inebriated, we took to the streets singing Broadway tunes before heading home.

Traffic, dust and fumes continue to bug my city. But the sunset on Manila Bay is as magnificent as ever. And old Manila, the “distinguished and ever loyal city”, the “Pearl of the Orient”, still stands proud. Its monuments, heritage buildings, bridges, centuries-old churches and cobblestone streets give visitors a fascinating window into the past.

The Manila of my youth, of rich history and sweet memory, continues to be an endless source of wonder, pride and joy.  

Paulynn Sicam is a retired reporter and political columnist