Ibiza

Every summer vacation, after spending two weeks at the family bach, coming home was always something of a suprise. My room always looked bigger, cleaner. My bed comfier. Life seemed better. A mark of a good holiday that, when you come back feeling better than when you left.

After six months of travelling and exploring each new destination to the point of exhaustion, Ibiza was a welcome reprieve. A week of nothing but eating, sleeping, drinking and swimming in the crystal clear waters of the Medditerranean.

Armed to the teeth with water, sunscreen, umbrella, ipod, camera and reading material, Melissa and I only budged from our sunny spots on the sand to cool off in the warm water, or to indulge our bottomless stomachs with three course dinners and jugs of Sangria.

Back in London now, rain and storm out my window, it would be easy to fall victim to post-holiday depression. However, I still feel so god-damned relaxed that nothing could trouble me at this point.

Thank you Spain, I will be back.

That time we missed our flight to Spain

The first trip I took Far Away was three years ago. I was so excited I made mum take me to the airport four hours ahead of departure. I was also slightly panicky about some last minute hitch and I figured four hours was plenty of time to forget and re-remember something, to take care of any last minute failures (I once dreamt of getting to the airport and realising I didn't have a passport).


Somehow though my punctuality and organisational skills have tapered off , leaving much to be desired. This latest trip was no exception. Despite the fact that Melissa and I were planning a birthday trip (to Ibiza no less), the thought of planning, researching and booking made me feel like taking a big nap. So Mel took care of the major details like booking flights and accommodation. Me? I took it upon myself to book airport transfers. It seemed like an easy enough task with little room for failure.


Boy was I wrong.


My first niggling feeling that I'd Fucked Up Big Time was when I told my boss that I'd booked an EasyJet bus to leave Baker Street at 3pm, to arrive at Stansted Airport at 4.20pm. (Ticket counter opened at 4pm, flight left at six.)


"You realise it's going to be a rainy Friday afternoon right? There'll be lots of traffic on the motorway," he said.


I looked at him indignantly. This was the man, who only weeks before, had missed a flight to Holland because he though it was fine to rock up to the check-in desk a mere 40 minutes before take-off.


"Yeah, they're also doing roadworks along that route," chimed in another colleague.


With this information in mind I decided we'd catch a different EasyJet bus- one that left 15 minutes earlier, and should get us to the airport at 4pm on the dot. That way, even if we were late, we should still be there by 4.30pm. Problem solved, I figured.


Well, we missed the bus. It seemed like 100 other panicky travellers had the same idea and so the earlier bus was packed before we'd even had a chance to queue. As Mel and I stood in the rain I cursed myself for not booking an earlier bus. As I had had work that morning booking anything earlier wasn't really an option. I cursed myself again for deciding to work right before a flight. Mel seemed nonchalant about the situation, reassuring me that EasyJet wouldn't have posted a 4.20pm ETA if the odds were completely against it. "We'll be fine," she said, over and over.


Our 3pm bus arrived early (thank god) but the driver seemed agitated. Something about traffic and accidents on the motorway. We all clambered aboard and buckled our seatbelts quickly, eager to get moving. Not long after we did , a middle aged Italian man in the front seat chided the bus driver. "Why are you taking this route? It would have been faster to go the other way. You know I took this exact same bus last week and I missed my flight because of you."


Mel and I gasped at this last sentence. It was akin to saying "bomb" on a plane.


The driver, even more agitated, explained that all routes were going to be slow at this time of day (bad) that this route while slow (bad), was the most direct and that if we had all allowed ourselves three hours before the flight he could guarantee we would get there on time (worse.)


The more traffic we encountered along the way (practically standstill) the more Mel and I tried to calculate exactly how late we would be and Plan B. We decided it was too late to get off the bus and get on a train. We calculated that once we got on the motorway it would probably take another 40 minutes (and the motorway was still another 40 minutes away). The latest we could arrive would be about 4.55pm and even then we would have to sprint for the check-in desk which was due to close at 5pm. The slower the traffic became and the harder the rain poured the more grim our Plan B became. We'll take another flight we decided, even if it doesn't leave until the next day. We began to laugh about our predicament as I mentally totalled up how much a last minute flight to Barcelona might cost.


4pm came and went and we weren't on the motorway. The Italian man scowled, shook his head impatiently, sighed loudly. Kate phoned. "There's a crazy man on the bus saying we're all going to miss our flights," I whispered into the phone as the crazy man in question eyed me suspiciously. "Oh yeah I heard the traffic was pretty bad," Kate said cheerfully.


The bus driver took to overtaking traffic in bus lanes (we weren't technically a bus, making the manouvre slightly illegal.) I couldn't decide if I should feel glad that the driver was pulling out all the stops to get us to the aiport as quickly as possible, or if I should be panicked that he felt the need.


"We'll laugh about this in Barcelona tonight," Mel said as we tightened our buckles.


4.30pm and the airport was nearly in our sights except we couldn't figure out if the signs were in miles or kilometres. One would be detrimental to our calculations.


4.45pm and we were in airport territory but we were tailing a Very Slow Driver who seemed oblivious to our plight.


4.50pm and we discussed tactics. We agreed as soon as the bus stopped we would run for our lives. First out the door, first to the luggage and run, run, run. "Don't stop running, even if you can't hear me behind you, just go," I encouraged, stopping short of dramatically saying, "Save yourself."


At 4.52 we unbuckled our seatbelts as we careened through a roundabout, sitting on the edge of our seats, ready to bolt out the door.


4.55pm and we were out of our seats before the bus had stopped.


"Excuse me, we're running late," we shouted haphazardly as we threw everybody's luggage out of the boot and onto the ground as we searched desperately for our bags. Mel found hers first.


"Run! Run! I'm right behind you!" I screeched like a mad woman as I threw little jazzy to the ground and snapped up the handle.


Embarassingly we ran in a complete circle screaming while onlookers stared because we couldn't find the gate out of the carpark.


Once we did, we were off. As I had anticipated Mel was a much faster runner than I, even though she had a 20 kilo backpack attached to her, making her sprint resemble that of a sumo wrestler (and still a faster runner than I.)


On we forged, me overcome with giggles at Mel's gait and at one point apologising to a woman whose foot I ran over with jazzy. (Okay that's a lie, I didn't have time to apologise.)


At the top of the escalator (which I ran up with jazzy lifted over my shoulders) I realised for a frightening second that I had lost Mel despite my encouragement of her to run on. I stopped, looking around in circles for Mel and her giant backpack bobbing furiously. No sign. I couldn't see a departures board either to direct me towards the check-in desk.


Game over, I realised sadly, panting for breath.


Then I spotted her, Melissa waving furiously from a queue slightly to my left. The EasyJet check-in desk. We had made it. We high-fived. And we laughed about it in Barcelona that night too.

Hey you...

Yes, you. It's me, Kelly. Yes, I know I look a little different. I'm about seven kilos heavier, with long, dark hair (a year ago you would have cried at the thought of this). The complexion is probably a little paler, but ultimately much clearer. The clothes are different, the accessories are better. Your accent is sounding ridiculously British.

It's definitely still you underneath though. On the occasional night that you cook it's always pasta, because that's all you can really succesfully do. You still swear like a trucker and you will watch Sex and the City when you're sad. Taste in men is still crap- taste in best friends is still particularly excellent. Sleeping patterns are still shite and you love nothing more than being in bed- eating, reading, sleeping, whatever. Bed is where it's at. Speaking of which, your room is obviously different. Yet strangely, it looks and feels like you've been there forever. The duvets are white and purple, there are photos all over the walls. There are aromatherapy oils and candles for relaxation and a huge stack of Vanity Fair and Marie Claire. There's a massive window which catches the sun and you still don't put your clothes away, despite having tonnes of space for which to put them. Yep, I would say you very succesfully managed to transfer your childhood bedroom into your London home.

So, we are introduced.

I can almost imagine what it felt like to be in your shoes a year ago. As a matter of fact, I've just re-read your first blog post. I can smell the excitement- get.me.out.of.here. There are whiffs of defiance and determination. The whole thing screams Classic Kelly - Fuck you, I am going to do this, and I am going to do it well.

Well kiddo, you did it, and you did it well. In fact, you are still doing it. Without giving the game away too much , there were some words that were ringing in your ears for weeks before you left and indeed the entire time you've been gone.

"You'll learn a few things.." said rather ominiously during a meeting with a notoriously accurate psychic. It wasn't a sweet, generic statement. It was said with a slight sigh and a shake of the head. The underlying currents of "your rough times aren't over yet sweetheart" was emphatically heard.

Well dear, this is what you have learnt.

That the grass isn't always greener. That life's problems (no money, shit working week, boredom, sickness, insomnia) will follow you wherever you go and nothing will ever change except your ability to deal with whatever life throws up.

Life will throw up. Time and time again. Your wallet will get stolen, you will get sick while you are on holiday, your landlord will put your rent up, the guy you are seeing has a girlfriend, your work hours will be long, your to-do list longer and your weight is at an all time high. Shit gets overwhelming but in the grand scheme of things it 'aint all that bad.

Friends and family are, and will always be, more important than boyfriends. And believe it or not, the social circle that you formed in high school will not always be your social circle. In fact, it probably shouldn't be.

Life works in mysterious ways. Lots of luck and coincidence is always at play but sometimes things work out so perfectly that it's hard to deny the fact that you're probably meant to be exactly where you are. Which for you is a strange thought because up until this point you have spent most of your time whiling away the hours, daydreaming about where you would much rather be.

Lastly, but most importantly, you have learnt your passport number off by heart. No longer do you rummage through your bag looking for these elusive details as a year's worth of travel has permanantely engrained the number in your brain.

Nothing was more fun learning than this.

West Hampstead

The first time I clapped eyes on West Hampstead, I was smitten. Love at first sight. Within minutes of clopping down the leafy streets in my tired heels (job interview that day), I had decided that I didn't care what the room looked like, I wanted to live in West Hampstead.

After finding a 'Bombay Bicycle' on the main street (the name of my hometown) and realising the name of the street I would be potentially living on was the same as my best friend's home in New Zealand, I decided these 'signs' were gently nudging me along.

We've been deliriously happy ever since.

Located in North West London , serviced by one underground and two overground links, West Hampstead lies more modestly adjacent to the commonly known area of Hampstead. The high street, West End Lane, conjoins with the famous Abbey Road (of Beatles fame) and is dotted with a variety of eateries, boutiques and coffee shops. The town's sole library was erected in 1940 and at the very top of West End Lane is West End Green, West Hampstead's own patch of grass, aside from neighbouring Kilburn Grange and Hampstead Heath parks.

Dusty Springfield was born here, The Rolling Stones recorded here, and Emma Thompson, Stephen Fry, Bill Nighy and various Peep Show stars still live here. The earliest streets were paved in the 1800s, consequently meaning the roads are notoriously tiny with vehicles having to pull to one side to let each other through. Dotting the streets are rows of beautiful Victorian homes. During the winter the trees that line the small streets become bare and glisten with snow, when Spring arrives so do the flowers and the area has a pleasant jasmine scent that lingers well into the night.

West Hampstead's history dates back to medieval times. During the reign of Henry VIII the area measured 18 acres and 40 houses large. One of it's earliest mentions, in 1665, notes, rather bizaarely, that nobody there died of the Great Plague that was sweeping London and killing hundreds in neighboring villages.

"It was so peaceful that the striking of Big Ben could be heard and, indeed, the owners of West End Hall were sure that in 1815 they had heard the sounds of the cannon at Waterloo,"(The Streets of West Hampstead, 1992).

Christopher Wade sums up rather nostalgically, "You can find sunflowers in Sumatra Road, ferns in Mazenod, dragons in Inglewood and Woodchurch. As for the street names, they range romantically from Gascony to Parsifal, from Agamemnon to Narcissus and, suprisingly, from Skardu to Weech."

Life and death

Friday we celebrated a wedding. Kate and William got married and four of us dutifully rose at 5am to claim a spot in Hyde Park. Even if you're not a fan of the monarchy, or weddings, the mass hysteria was hard not to get caught up in. By 8am we were drinking Pimms from paper cups and by the time the ceremony started the bubbles were flowing. There were 'a-ha' moments. The realisation that life is never going to be this amazing again.

Saturday came news of a death.

Peter Moss came into the cafe everyday. A skinny cappuccino, a good book and a laugh with the waitress. He would show me photos of his volunteer stints in Africa and I would constantly kick myself for not asking how his life was so effortlessly cool.

He was in a cafe in Marrakesh when the bomb went off.

It's moments like these when you realise the world is a scary place and that New Zealand is a long, long way away. I want to go home, was my first thought.

A few weeks ago Peter told me he would rather die on a mountain at 50, than in a nursing home at 80.

The irony was not lost on me and his candle burned in the cafe for a week after.

Marseille

Ahhh, I forgot how completely self-indulgent blogging feels.

So, mid January Melissa and I set off for the idyllic Provence- a highly anticipated trip, the first of (hopefully) many in 2011.

Me being free spirited and spontaneous (or lazy) , we had no plans for Provence other than to show up at the train station and do a few journeys to the twee little Provencal towns we had heard so much about.

Aix en Provence didn't disappoint.

Cobbled lanes, fromageries, perfumeries and enough cafes to feed a third world country, Mel and I frolicked about like the tourists we love to be. (Secretly, we were both high off the vitamin D overload- sorry London, nothing compares to blue skies and sun.)

Best bit? Taking the train out into the countryside and revelling in the feeling of being in the middle of nowhere.....

Eight months

Nothing scares me as much as a time frame.

It has become glaringly obvious to me that my time in London has gone particularly fast. Tomorrow marks my eight month anniversary away from home, in four months I will be back in New Zealand to visit family and friends, before returning to London to finish out the remaining year of my visa.

It is only in recent weeks that I've begun to marvel how ridiculously comfortable I am in London. I have friends, friends that I feel I have known for years. A job that I have loved more than any other. A life that will never again be so free of responsibility, so much fun, so many prospects.