Had a supremely rad weekend. I have officially decided that Borough Market is full of an addictive chemical. Every Saturday morning Ian and I sit on the couch watching E4 Music and one of us invariably decides that we may as well head to Borough because.. well, it’s awesome. Truly high five worthy. This weeks adventure got me some fresh tomato sauce, made with 1,000 fresh tomatoes (I may have made that statistic up), some bree, and a packet of blueberries for £1 that will hopefully eventually be a smoothie of epic proportions.

Following this, we headed to Camden Town to have a few sly Saturday bevvies at Proud. Proud is this lovely enormous gallery space that is host to bands, art and a very fancy bar. It is located within Camden Market and attracts a mixed crowd of young and old - especially with Camden’s eclectic mix of fans. We kept buying bottles of white wine and eventually everything was wonderful. Each section of the bar is broken up into stables (it was originally a horse hospital that has been converted for a host of uses, most recently, Proud) that can seat up to twenty people. It gives the huge space a very personal feel, especially as one can plug an iPod into the wall in each stable, giving a group its own selection of tunes. Mostly we listened to Vampire Weekend, which is Victoria’s favourite band, and consisted of us bopping up and down for a good couple of hours.

Throughout last week I kept joking about the Last Orders On The Underground, which is a fairly well documented end to drinking on public transport in London. A number of groups started on both Facebook and private websites encouraging people to come and celebrate the ban (which, coincidentally, would come into effect at midnight) by having one last drink on the Circle line. The Circle line runs, simply, in a circle, and connects many of London’s biggest stations, namely Liverpool Street. So, headed home, we figured we might as well give it a shot, and headed to where it would all start, at said Liverpool Street from nine.

Meet Vic! We met at Chris Garneau concert, and she is high fives.

We are classy people. Me and Vic and Andrew and beer. And joy!

We made friends with locals! In suits!

We met a colourful set of characters, groups in vintage suits, a couple drinking wine and eating bree, and a tourist couple that had probably just landed and wondered how long London had been completely mad for. It was at its core a celebration of the community of London, a group of like-minded individuals looking to toast the last opportunity to have a drink on the tube with both fanfare and cheese. Sadly some individuals who were not representative of the spirit of Last Drinks chose to get aggressive, casting a shadow over the event, but then overall vibe of the event was great, with respect and dancing.

Me and Vic drinking Leffe from the bottle way too quickly.

This kind gentleman was drinking wine from a glass. He’s my hero. And he was really friendly.

Wow. I can apparently drink a bit quickly!

Eight thousand people had RSVP’d yes to one Facebook group of the event, so there was clearly too many people to fit in one carriage, even if the energy was infectious. It was then, at 8:45pm, I think we realised it would soon get out of hand, and jumped off the tube so we could get home.

Vic and Andrew and me looking fancy on the bridge.

Rosco is awesome. And a dork!

Near my place, which is near a statue, which is near Tower Bridge.

Today was spent being lazy, doing dishes and Skyping friends. I found a bunch of photos from earlier trips on Ian’s camera, so on to pictorial evidence of past awesomeness!

When I was in Iceland we kept taking these photos of me jumping off a two meter cliff in an attempt to make me look like I was flying. By the end of it I was in so much pain I wanted to cry, but this is maybe my favourite photo of all time. Iceland, you are lovely. I miss you.

During the festival we attended in Mons (near Brussels, in Belgium), we were invited to our friend Tanya’s friend’s boss’s house. Where, clearly, we drank Leffe. Leffe is awesome.

And London is awesome. Had a big bout of homesickness about a fortnight ago, but now I feel so much more comfortable. Plus I worked out how to save Family Guy episodes to Sky+, which is like Foxtel IQ, so now I have no reason to feel crummy!

English grass is so long it’s like a bed. People, YOU COULD SLEEP ON THIS STUFF. We ran around with our shoes off, and then remembered we are living in London, so we put the shoes back on. Quickly. But it’s the loveliest park.

At some point Georgia took on the role of spiritual guide for the group, which mostly consisted of this pose, and not a whole lot of enlightenment. But it was nice.

Frisbee!

Leonie looks supremely classy in this photo, until you notice the beer and cigarette. But again, the grass is long! And pretty! And oh wow, we all just fell asleep eventually.

Obviously.

Saw Chris Garneau again at the Barfly in Camden Town, and realised my relationship with him may have moved somewhere towards stalking. Eventually my lovely friend Victoria will finish a review of the gig and I will link to it and everyone will feel like I’m a better blogger. Which, let’s face it, wouldn’t go astray.

And yes, he really is that short.

Yay for gigs in London. They’re awesome.

This weekend was spent in Belgium. I’ve been in a mad flurry to see every city, town, village and bike track of Europe, because it’s just so easy to in London. Everything is only a couple of hours away, and usually costs around £30 - £100 in travel. It’s so crazy, being able to finish work on a Friday and decide, ‘hey, I don’t have a lot on this weekend… why not head to another country?!’ It’s something I’m still getting used to, and every time I do it, it’s like getting a high five from a stranger - it’s just rad.

So, Saturday morning. I woke up at 5am for a 7am Eurostar to the sunny capital of Brussels (Bruxelles, if you’re feeling fancy) and was, as per usual, running late. What is it with waking up at 5am that makes you think, hey, I should GO BACK TO BED BECAUSE IT’S A SATURDAY MORNING. Regardless, country road bag in tow, I made it to the tube on time.

The Eurostar we took went under the English Channel, which is the little piece of river that separates England from France. It’s sort of like a bullet train I suppose, and goes up to 500km per hour at the height of the journey. Call me naive, I sort of expected the underground part of the trip to include windows, so as to allow an enthusiastic traveler to point out fish and sea creatures from the depths of the sea. Firstly, it does not. Secondly, I was informed, politely, that if it did have windows one would mostly see mud and corpses. Classy!

Brussels itself houses about a million people, and the main language is French. I attempted to revive a few of my year seven and eight French lessons upon arrival, but was reminded by Ian of his friend who attempted a similar feat and got the response ‘Please, do not butcher my language.’ I made the decision that perhaps it would be in my best interests to stick to the common ‘HELLO. I AM FROM AUSTRALIA. PLEASE DO NOT JUDGE ME. ALSO, A WAFFLE WOULD BE LOVELY.’

We didn’t realise heading in that it was the gay pride festival in Brussels, and were, once we hit the city center, confronted with a great deal of men with assless chaps. It was awesome. The whole city was alive, with music, beer, and a parade that was surrounded by thousands of cheering fans.

It was a party beyond my expectations, people throwing confetti into the streets, kids dancing on floats, cars with feather boas hooning past with glitter and make up and drag queens and just general fabulousness. Really rad to see the city come alive like that, and kind of unexpected. When we first got into the city we went to this really dodgy looking cafe, that served authentico Belgium waffles. We ordered some, and I got a coffee that sort of looked like engine grease. I spent the next fourty minutes crouching down on street corners trying not to cry and cursing my decision not to get travel insurance. So, really, to go from that to dancing with a drag queens on busy city streets was hilarious.

The next day we headed out to Mons, which is the sixth largest village in Brussels (I take all these facts from my friends, so if they are wrong I am truly, truly sorry) and had the annual Ducasse de Mons, or Doudou. And yes, that did get a few giggles. Basically, it’s this big festival that happens on Trinity Sunday, which is fifty seven days after Easter. The highlight of the festival is a big party in the main square, which happens on the Sunday. From what we could discern (Tanya, our Australian translator, who is fluent in French, looked as confused about this as we were) men go into the square and rip one another’s shirts off. Seriously. It’s like the sexiest festival you’ve ever heard of. Then the whole village pushes a cart up a hill, aided by horses and the population. The two times they haven’t been able to push it up have (apparently) been the years of world wars, so they take it pretty seriously. European traditions are so hilariously rad, they completely blow me away.

Once the festivities were over (which we missed the majority of, due to a much needed sleep in) we headed to a BBQ at Tanya’s friend Francois’ boss’ house. He explained to us that a part of the festival is opening the doors to visitors, making a haven for travelers to the town. We attempted to thank said hospitality with as much beer as we could fit into a bag at the local supermarket, and sat around chatting. When asked where we were from, we said Australia. To which the host replied ‘Oooooh. That’s far away.’ Which, I suppose, it is.

After as many “au revoir’s” and “merci’s” as we could handle, we got back on the train, and back on the Eurostar, and back to London. Which is, clearly, the center of the universe.

Partially this is because it is 60% (I swear I’m not making up these statistics) uninhabitable. Which makes it a rad place to hire a car. Which we did. It made it supremely easy to get out of Reykavik and see the country. Iceland is called the ‘land of fire and ice’ as it’s surrounded by volcanoes and snow. This makes the land largely populated by hot springs, where geothermic heated water comes up from the ground below - sometimes up to boiling point. While we were on a tour the guide told us not to touch this water. So we touched the water.

It was boiling hot.

For the rest of the trip we lazed about in a spa. Iceland is well known for its swimming pools (which you had to, by custom, shower naked at - which was uncomfortable but informative!) and they are all heated from the geothermal water that somehow magically makes it way to the pools, and it’s a pretty bizarre experience. A lot of sulfur, and a lot of nearly falling asleep in the amazing water. The main one, or at least the best known, is the Blue Lagoon.

And funnily enough, it really was like that. The pools are surrounded by mountainous volcanic rock, that makes it all feel quite surreal. The minerals make the water light blue, and the mud is white. It was a pretty rad experience. In fact, all of Iceland was. It was a place I’ve wanted to visit since I was little, and it didn’t let me down. It was indie chic, well-dressed, super nordic, volcanic, beautiful, desolate and extreme, but also comforting. It was unlike any place I’ve been before, and the pictures don’t really do it justice.

Getting a hire car was the bestest decision ever. We just started driving, using a GPS thingy, and generally lost ourselves in the countryside. So now I have way too many photos of the car off in the distance. The landscape was so barren, and expansive, and neverending. The moss is all soft, and springy, and you could technically sleep on it, even though the winds were so hard here my face nearly froze. It reminded me of the Australian outback in that way, barren but beautiful.

At one of the stops there was a staircase into a big underground cave. I didn’t see any signs, just a cave. So, obviously, I ran down into it. One minute after this photo was taken my foot sank about a meter into that snow, and I had a panic attack because I’ve clearly seen too many scary movies. It was so much fun to just explore the countryside at our leisure.

Finally, the rift between worlds. Apparently Iceland is being torn in half, two centimetres a year. It’s the point where the tectonic plates of Northern America and Europe meet, and they moving away from one another. Imagine panicking… but really really slowly. So Ian and I spent twenty minutes jumping from one side to the other yelling ‘American!’, ‘European!’, ‘American!’, ‘European!’

It was kind of lame of us.

So, Iceland, an absurdly expensive (about $16AUS for a beer), incredibly pretty, endlessly fascinating and the culmination of five years of listening to Sigur Ros.

Next weekend, Brussels in Belgium! When will the adventures end!? When will my pay come through!? Stay tuned for the thrilling conclusion.

We called him ‘The Little Hire Car That Could’.

It started… enthusiastically. After finishing work I had a beer, an idea that seemed both reasonable and necessary, especially when considering the busy week and my 7am flight from Luton, about fourty minutes south of London. By the time I got home, it was midnight, and I had a little bit of a buzz on. I chose that time to pack, clean the house, do my washing, watch some tv, eat some microwave pizza, and then I woke up. At 5am.

Not only had I missed my 4:30am cab to Victoria station, I’d missed my 5am bus from Victoria station. What followed was almost farcical. Desperate phone calls to cab companies, running from the house, nearly breaking my ankle on the concrete steps, swearing at fences - a classy time.

So, £65 and a fourty minute cab ride later, I got to the airport, and promptly fell asleep on the plane. And when I woke up? Italy! More specifically Cagliari, in Sardinia, which is a little island according to the magic of Wikipedia. The sun was shining, the sand was not yet turned into glass, and there were trees. In short, I wasn’t in London!

I walked over to the nearest ATM to get some money out, and nothing happened. Odd. So I tried it again. Again, nothing. Moments later, I sat down, stumped by the odd conundrum. After two months of attempting to get a bank account, suddenly it wasn’t working? Ridiculous! Then I got a phone call, letting me know that due to fraudulent card use in Italy. As I banged my head against the wall, I explained that the fraudulent card user was, in fact, me, and that I was in Italy. The kind gentleman informed me that my card had already been cancelled, and a new one reissued. I hit my head harder.

So, moneyless, tired, frustrated and damn sexy is how I would describe myself during those first fateful moments on Italian soil. But, Ian came through with both financial aid and high fives, and so I felt somewhat better.

The rest of the trip can pretty much be described in photography.

Oooooh, pretty. And high up. There appears to be no fear of heights in Italy, which made getting drunk a wonderfully fear laced experience. Ground ahoy! But I survived, obviously. Hurrah!

An attempt at highlighting my modeling qualities was hampered when a little Italian woman looked at me like I was a pervert. And now, seeing this photo in the bright light of my Macbook Pro, I can only agree with her. But the city was very beautiful, even if I wasn’t particularly.

If this was Bondi Rescue, Ian would’ve been arrested for taking this photo. We had the entire American cheerleader team (give or take about ten years) listening to Kanye and getting obscenely sunburnt. I’d also like to take this opportunity to explain that I am not, in fact, paper-white, but doused in sunscreen. Literally doused. Ian and Yvette and I constructed a most amazing tent out of a t-shirt AND MY ARMS.

There was an awkward moment early on in the trip when we went for dinner at a traditional Sardinian restaurant. So traditional in fact, that it appeared no one spoke English. So, we sat down, and suddenly wine appeared. Rad! We had half a glass each, and then more wine appeared. It was at this point that I envisioned us getting a £500 bill for wine, but it turned out it was a set menu. Ah, the joys of miscommunication.

Ah, sun and sand and lots of lying down on the beach. And hammocks! And cocktails! And tinsy-tiny windy streets and prettiness and general wonder. And that was Italy.

(The bank reissued my card a week later with a stern warning that I should always inform them of my travels, which kind of makes me feel like my parents are watching my every move through a conglomerate banking corporation. Unless you’re reading this Mum and Dad, in which case, totally ignore this whole paragraph.)