Naxos.

Awoke to a brutal alarm at the crack of dawn this morning, hopped on the metro and rode it all the way out to Pireaus, the port. Arriving while it was still pitch black out, we jumped aboard, had a catch up power nap and ran to the back of the boat. Moving out of Athens, the sun was rising on the hilltops in the distance, illuminating the city and casting a fiery glow across dozens of haphazard rooftops.

We travelled past islands, hanging off the side railings to get an incredible view, Paros flew past and we were disembarking (or disembarkation, the Greeks like to say. Learnt a new word.)

We were haggled for accommodation the moment we set our feet on the ground in Naxos and we went with our first haggler, a middle aged Greek lady with a friendly demeanour and a interesting choice of footwear. We managed to barter down the price a bit, and are now staying in a beautiful location, near the centre and the beach, with our own room, kitchen and bathroom for 10 euro each. Benefits of off-peak season.

I can't help feeling a little guilty for not helping to bolster up their economy.

We climbed a hill to eat a delicious lunch in front of another amazing view. If only I could show all those miserable Londoners, trudging through the work day under a bleak sky, where I was. We walked along the beach, dipping our toes into surprisingly cold waters.

We headed to 'town' after getting wonderfully lost amidst the enchanting alleyways, all encased by the iconic white buildings, and failing spectacularly at finding the castle. Instead being followed by the large number of cats that roam the island as if its their own. All the scooter hire places were closed (it was 3pm!) so we followed our feet to the Temple of Apollo at the head of another hill, casting a backwards glance to the array of white topped homes lined out behind us and the seemingly endless ocean ahead of us.

The wind picked up to give a much needed cool burst to our sunburnt limbs. Strolls through the centre involve strange Greek shouting and restaurant owners calling us in, competing against everyone else selling the same thing, lacking the abundance of tourists a couple of months will soon bring.

Off for some dinner, the sun still high in the sky and the streets quiet and quaint.

Everywhere is beautiful.

Welcome to paradise.

No filter necessary.

The Home of Zeus!

Stunning day in Athens touring.

Walked a hill to reach a church and a panoramic view of the city. Didn't realise that it's HUGE. Wide and expansive in every direction. Had lunch at one of the best locations I ever have - a pre packaged pita pocket while looking right over the earth of Athens to the sea beyond, the ferries roaming about visible to my contact lensed eye.

Visited an Olympic stadium from 1896 and the marble stadium. Walked through gardens, heat and a lot of weird looks for wearing shorts when it's only 23 degrees.

Trekked up to the Acropolis and roamed the ancient structures that are too old to fathom. History personified.

Headed out at night for a stroll and some delicious yogurt, in my opinion this is when Athens is at it's most beautiful!

Ferry at 7.30am tomorrow morning, off to Naxos! Ready to beach, sun, and hire scooters!!

Still don't understand a word of Greek: spoken or written.

Off to bed. Dead tired. And sunburnt, yay! Means I've seen some Vitamin D!

Destination: Sun.

I woke before the sun.

I left the apartment and pounded the pavement in pitch black darkness, my body shaking in its ill-covered layers, headed to catch the very first tube of the day to Heathrow.

About an hour later, I arrived, we successfully checked in and dropped off our bags, the true value of British Airways appreciated after endless RyanAir travelling. Never ending sagas of bag sizes, numbers, seating and the constant sales pitches the interrupt the in-flight prayers that your flight will actually make it to the next destination.

We meandered about giant Heathrow and watched the sun rising over the waking city as our plane took of thousands of feet into the cloudy air.

Luxuriously, we were served an English breakfast (my first since arriving here!) and we tucked into bacon, eggs, sausage, yogurt, fruit and tea to begin the 3 and a bit hour flight.

The sparkling ocean and lush mountainous ranges swelled below us and the plane started to lower (and at once stage dive, quite drastically) to the inviting new country below. Athens, we have arrived!

The language, people and heat, hit immediately. We hopped on our train and headed into Athens itself, blessed with some spectacular views along the way.

We scouted out our accommodation, a lovely hostel under the Acropolis and changed into some cooler clothes, the sun was shining! We headed out to walk the streets, get our bearings a little bit and see the sights! The first thing we saw, unmissably, was the Acropolis. Perched high atop the central hill, it was the very obvious centre of the historic town.

We decided to walk around the base, gathering a feeling for the place while admiring from below. We ended up walking too far and ended up in perhaps, Athens' ghetto. It was interesting. Let's just say you couldn't pay me to enter the crumbling buildings and Greece's economic crisis remained forefront in my mind.

After managing to navigate ourselves back to a decidedly safer, both cultural and structurally, area of town, we grabbed a Greek yogurt and devoured it in the sun, gazing up at the grand ruins. It was here that I suddenly became abruptly aware I was in a significantly less well-off place in the world. My yogurt seemed significantly less appetising when a man with a GIANT gash in his foot walked past begging. Hat for, I'm still unsure. Maybe a quicker alternative to death? With half his flesh and bone showing through, I can't imagine begging for money would be too worthwhile.

We moved on from him and went down winding, unknown streets crammed with scooters, tourists, Greek children kicking soccer balls and shops spilling out with traditional and tourist goods: leather bags, shoes, slippers and Greek flags everywhere.

Strolling back to our hostel, we relaxed and then grabbed some dinner, choosing an incredible place a block from our accommodation. We both ordered veggie burgers, full of zucchini, eggplant, feta, pepper and tomato -yummy!!

Chilling and planning our next few days, climbing a giant hill tomorrow! Anything is possible when its sunny...

A Day Amongst the Magic.

“No story lives unless someone wants to listen” inscribed onto the wall beckoned us in. This was, Emma Watson informed us, the place where the real world was made magical, and the magical world became real. This was the place that enabled millions of children in every corner of the globe to have happiness bought to them on the big screen.

On this beautiful Sunday we had made it 50 minutes outside of London to a small town called Watford; home to Leavesden studios, where Harry Potter was brought to life.

We arrived at Watford Junction having caught the Overground for the most unbearable 50 minutes of tested patience, passing the while with quizzing questions of Potter life. Scouring every slice of someone else’s imagination, pulling for a fact to rival the next. Arriving at the station we caught the double decker Potter bus, covered on every inch with the enveloping world fronted by Harry, Ron and Hermione; wands at the ready. The in-bus television informed us of Leavesden history as the English countryside rolled on past. The enormous studios were quickly in-sight and that infamously scrawled ‘Harry Potter’ logo dawned large atop the building; a calligraphy synonymous with delight child to adult alike. We bounded off the bus and collected our tickets; the awaiting world awaking the inner child; a land where age loses meaning and Potter holds true.

The doors to this magical kingdom were like Platform 9 and ¾, if ever there was one (which of course there is) and our entrance was equal to Harry’s first trip through. Our wide eyed stares of awe were instantaneous as we walked under the many giant faces of Potter, Granger, Weasley’s, Moody, Dumbledore and Snape. We entered the line amongst fidgety excitement; seeing the cupboard under the stairs, Dursley family portraits and Daniel Radcliffe’s first iconic foray into his 10 year stint as Harry, his first pair of those famous round framed lenses.

As we were led through into the beginning phase of our Potter adventure, we were brought into a large room, filled only with all eight Potter posters in every language, showing the incredible span across the world that these books had created. The ripple of excitement was a tangible energy in the room as we were greeted and given a small history before the doors opened once again and through we went into a fantastic cinema room, complete with amphitheatre seats and a giant screen.

We took our seats and the screen filled with those instantly recognizable faces smiling back. Daniel, Emma and Rupert themselves; larger than life. Beginning our adventure into their world, and what became their life for over a decade, we were treated to a dialogue from those at the centre of the magical world. Then the screen lifted up and they were swept away, replaced like magic by the grand and ominous doors to the Great Hall itself, in all its glory. A rise of voices and gasps galore, we scurried from our seats and into the beautiful hall; home to so much of Harry and The Boy Who Lived, a source of comfort and familiarity against his peculiar life.

Stepping into the hall was being whisked away from reality, as if we had all taken a dose of Floo Powder and been spun in that stomach churning journey to Hogwarts itself. The real stone floor beneath our feet had before been traversed by many magical people themselves time and time again. The long, large tables took up most of the space; images of Harry’s sorting came flooding in, the table of Gryffindor a symbol of aspiration for Harry, while that of Slytherin stood menacing and frightening, only one in the group admitting it was his true house of desire. The table for the teachers centred the room; Dumbledore’s ornate stand luxuriously grand, as if he was moments from making his opening speech for the start of the year. The obligatory glance up to see the magical roof; bewitched to match the sky outside was a mix of metal bars, hanging ropes and film equipment, haphazardly contradicting the magical allure of the hall; the reality of film came crashing back.

Moving on from the hall we were given commentaries by the directors, producers, writers, screenwriters, costume designers and makeup artists among more. The world of Harry Potter was widening before our eyes; the army of those behind the scenes beautifully unveiled. Authenticity was everywhere you looked, with each corner of the room packed high and wide with various Potter memorabilia and excited pointing, careful observation and awe was lacing every turn. Behind the scenes photos and secrets of the trade were our own source of magic, cleverly hidden from every eye in the eight blockbusters. The Gryffindor common room showed the stairs led to nowhere, the boys dormitory in fact next door; though the room was elaborate and real; posters on the wall, jackets draped over chairs and half-drunk cups of tea left on tables.

Every token from every journey was somewhere to be found, like a real life version of the Room of Requirement, every corner filled with something iconic from the Potter world; the philosophers stone, the Triwizard cup, Skele-gro, the Remebral; the visual wonder was endless and brought memories crashing back, as if our own. Every wand was laid out; the dark, sharp lines of Voldermort’s and the Death Eaters contrasted heavily with Harry’s, Hermione’s and the Weasley’s with soft edges and humble tones. The kitchen from the Burrow featured pots being self-stirred, a scarf knitting itself. The Potions classroom (secretly once featured as another teacher’s office) held every potion and vial imaginable; the dark, damp dungeon atmosphere reflective of the abuse from Snape which was all Harry knew in this classroom. Professor Umbridge’s horridly pink office, the Ministry of Magic’s defining statue, the holes for those arriving by Floo powder and the elaborate construction which housed the various ministers office’s was in full view.

There was the option to fly your own broomstick over London and the enchanted flying Ford Anglia from King’s Cross before the tour led outside and right into the giant three storey Knight bus, “all destinations; except underwater”. Butterbeer was offered as if we had walked out into a brisk, cold day at Hogsmeade itself; the deliciously sweet liquid easily sliding down.

Privet Drive is almost mistaken for a set of real houses in its remarkably lifelike form and size, only a short walk from Lily and James’ house itself; crumbling and old after years of neglect following Voldermort’s forced entry the night it all began.

The next section is a vibrant collection of the skills required by the make up artists, bringing to life the goblins, the giants, Hagrid himself, who also required a mechanical head; the 6ft10” English rugby player not big enough as himself. Then we are shown dragons, rats, cats and the array of animals featured before the plans behind the many buildings have their designs and sketches laid bare and breathtakingly, Hogwarts and its grounds are shown on a massive scale.

Taking up almost a whole room and with an expansive 360 walkway; the swooping long shots used the giant sculpture to accurately represent one of the pinnacles of the magical world.

The tour nears its end with a walk through Diagon Alley, the stunning real life creation a reason for absolute awe as the final Potter unveiling. As lifelike as possible, it is almost expected to run into Hagrid buying Harry his first owl; Harry and Draco fighting while collecting their new books, the Weasley’s setting up their new joke shop or the Death Eaters making their way across from Knockturn Alley. Broomsticks, wands, robes and books fill the shop windows; as if waiting for their next visitor; the illusion shattered by the boarded doors and blocked entry.

As the tour ends in the shop selling everything from Mrs Weasley style home made jumpers, Quidditch equipment, Bertie Botts Every Flavour Beans and Chocolate Frogs, not to mention truly authentic wizard robes to match your favourite character, be it Harry, Dumbledore or Snape; as the journey comes to an end. Much like the books and movies themselves; reality catches up eventually and the Muggle world beckons. But as the immortal words of J.K. Rowling gleam right and true as we near the end; “Hogwarts will always be there to welcome you home”.

Mini Miracles.

A story for the bored.

At the moment a friend from New Zealand is staying. Yesterday morning I was in a bit of a rush because that’s what happens when you have a new face to chat to in the morning. There is also a giant double mattress in our lounge which means the assortment of running, jumping, lunging and stretching associated with manoeuvuring round such a beast greatly reduces an already limited morning time frame. I was running late.

I rushed out the door and half ran my way to the tube. When I arrived at the station, placed my hand in my pocket like I do every morning to retrieve my Oyster card, I found nothing. Emptiness. I almost felt my heart sink, lowered into the depths where everything else I had lost or forgotten was now dwelling. I rummaged through every pocket I had. Near emptied the entire contents of my bag surrounded by the rush of morning commuters, but nothing. An unfortunate way to spend the morning is attempting to speed your way to work on a tube. A cruel way to spend your morning is to add the loss of your Oyster card and a £4.50 morning commute. Yes, more than a Tesco meal deal, to travel a distance I could walk if I had 30 minutes more and a penchant for arriving to work sweaty.

I jumped on the tube, now running very late, and with a frown on my face to match every other unhappy, tired, irritated, ‘insert complaint here’, Londoner. I looked hard for the card when I arrived home that evening but the truth was obvious and brutal; it was lost. I mentioned this as resolutely and defiantly as only a long day at work can conjure, and was offered a spare replacement that my flatmate just happened to have lying around. An old friends’one that no longer needed use. It was a definite comfort, but that £4.50 missing from my bank account still rung loud and true in my morning memories.

I woke early next morning, knowing I would have to join the queue to top up my card at the station, thankful that I at least didn’t have to get a new one. I arrived at the station and decided to try and touch in anyway and see if the card had a bit of left over money on it, so placed my card on the reader waiting for the long, piercing beeeeeep, which signals that you are poor, have no money on your card and most likely you are also late, frustrated, hungry and cold. It never came. The light flashed green and that quick, soft, beautiful beep was sounding instead. I couldn’t believe it. Not only was there enough on the card for my morning commute, there was £5 MORE than I had on my previous one.

Instinctively, I smiled. A big, broad, crazy person smile. Some things just come around when you least expect it. Something out there gives you a boost, a wee push along and a reminder that life isn’t always against you. Whether its money on a discarded Oyster card or a mere smile amongst a crowd of glares (another’s morning triumph...), I couldn’t help but put a positive perspective into the day ahead.

To add a new wonder to an already beautifully blossoming day, I decided to go online and see if I had registered my card, thus protecting it from being lost or stolen, that one time I had been playing around with the card settings online. Magically, I had. The lost card I had spent so much of the morning, and day, berating over was still lost, but the money I had put on it just that evening before, was now going to be transferred to my new card which is being placed in the mail to me as we speak, 5 working days. First Class. Free. Of. Charge.

A mini miracle. Time to pass it on.

Easter!

My first egg! An Easter surprise!

I love my job.

Spring?

Running in the snow is a lot harder than it seems. Only a good idea from inside.

Panoramic'in Rome.

Mission Brit.

For a city attracting millions each year, I sure seem to bear witness to a lot of the 'departures' sign board. In the past week alone, I've sent off two of my London based Kiwi friends, heading home to the blue sky and vitamin D of New Zealand, which leaves me with a depleting friend pile. My tank is beginning to look awfully low. With one friend currently thousands of feet in the air (ironically, with seriously limited feet space) and one avidly packing up his life, the time has come to focus on finding friends outside the Marmite coated, Pineapple Lump laden, Whittakers bubble I've been living in. Dare I say, it may be time for, gasp, British friends. Three months on and I can't help but force myself to realise this may be the very necessary next step of truly living in England. Moving to London is one thing, it takes planning, preparation and undoubtedly a fragment of crazy, but making friends here? It's like jumping head first into the Thames and thinking you won't contract more diseases than the house of UK's Celebrity Big Brother.

Working all hours of daylight (plus the rest), rising at dawn in a weary slumber and forcing your eyes wide open when you get to the office, only to have them stubbornly close on departure means little time is left in each day. Weekends are only two days (I know, rude right?) which means between catching up sleep, and catching up on the latest episode of Downton leaves little time for leaving the house, let alone socialising. Luckily, the cheap transport provides a whole-hearted incentive to get out and roam around the city meeting friends (riiiiiight, are you listening Boris?) But to be bashful of expense in London is like complaining of outward displays of romance in Paris; while fun, still entirely pointless (despite letters of complain, Francois still hasn't responded.) If I wanted to live in a city I could happily afford, well, Christchurch is still there. As is Asia, but that's another can of unidentified animal.

The irony of moving to the other side of the world is that other people are also doing it (shockingly yes, even New Zealander's make their way over from the tiny dollops hanging off the globe's underside) and in this age of trains, planes and other transport allowing ease and speed of changing continents, it also means that you are likely to meet someone from your home town while in a land that doesn't speak your language nor look like anything resembling home. This stands especially true from my experience. Upon moving to Paris, I made five new Kiwi friends. This may not seem impressive bar the fact in total my 'new friend count' reached six. Okay, that's not entirely true, I was lucky to meet a wonderful contingent of people from all over the world, but there is no denying that my largest pool of new friends had a predominate nationality as home to all things All Black. I moved to France and lived Kiwi. But nor is this uncommon. 

My initial shift to London saw me move in with a French family I meet through a contact I made in Paris. I was quickly aware how French their British lifestyle was. Sure there was a lack (though not an absence) of baguettes and fine cheese in their lives, but they lived in a predominately French speaking area of London (dubbed the corner of French infestation) and their friends were mostly French. This isn't overly surprising given the close proximity of the two countries, but they told me the same thing happened when they lived in Australia. Australia. That place that all Europeans think is miles away as it involves being on a plane longer than their 'How I Meet Your Mother' episode and involves crossing more than one ocean. Many of their French friends in Paris were introduced to them while in the land Down Under. (This really set my head spinning. Images flooded in of scrawny men with perfectly coiffed hair in barely their board shorts and cigarette toting women clad in heels and tailored dresses on a scorching hot beach, the unpredictable sea lapping dangerously close to their prepared picnics and Hermes display towels.)

So it wasn't a Kiwi phenomenon as I'd previously, naively, thought.  It wasn't a show of New Zealand residents and their inability to acclimatize to new locations and people, something I imagined was to happen as a result of our 'secluded' upbringing. (Or so people seem to think. While conversing with an American once on the comparison of the amount of 'friends' on Facebook, I was told Kiwi's must often run out of people to become friends with. After family, friends from the farm, the milkman, postman and techno-savvy sheep, there must be no one left; or so it was suggested. I prefer to think we're just not 'friend sluts' to the same extent.) But we were both wrong; discovering new friends from your own nation while miles from home was a culturally inclusive, international piggy backing notion and quantities of Facebook friends was irrelevant to chosen child rearing location. I was learning things and I was right. I could get used to this. 

So despite the sadness of waving goodbye to friends heading on a 27 plus hour journey home, it forced me to admit that making the most of an international experience may involve initiating social predicaments with people who had never head of Dan Carter, didn't crave Vogels and were unaware of the meaning of 'nek minut'. People who didn't end every phrase with 'ay' and pepper their sentences with 'like', 'heaps' and 'reckon'.

So began the mission to find a Brit friend. A cockney talking, allergic to the sun, dentist-phobic Pom. Armed with complimentary stereotypes, I was bound to find a British companion.