A Comprehensive Guide to Camping in the Wimbledon Queue [2016]

Wimbledon, England, UK • July 2016 • Length of Read: 12 Minutes

My friend and I camped over the middle-weekend of the 2016 Wimbledon Championships, in the hope of getting Centre Court tickets on Monday 4th July, when both men’s and women’s fourth round matches were taking place. For each day’s play, 500 tickets are available for Centre Court; Court 1; and Court 2, on a first-come, first-serve, basis. Due to outrageous demand however, in order to get these places in the queue, you have to camp for two nights prior to the day on which you actually wish to attend The Championships. Don’t think of it as camping though. Rather, think of it as a two-day-long pre-party.

Doug and I were coming from Scotland and, staying at a friend’s house on the Friday night in the upper-class postcode of SW20, arrived at Wimbledon Park, where the queue begins, at 9am on the Saturday morning. Our host had fed us with a delightful breakfast of poached eggs and asparagus on toast in anticipation of a hungry 48 hours ahead, and as we chowed down she busied herself by packing a cooler bag to take to the Henley Regatta, which was also occurring that sunny weekend.

“What exactly is the Henley Regatta?” I asked Doug during our taxi journey from the leafy suburb towards the grounds; eyeing up a leggy, tanned, Eastern European girl strolling swiftly along the pavement; tennis bag bouncing off her back as the stylish dress she wore fluttered gently in the breeze.

“I think it’s just an excuse for rich people to get super drunk during the day,” he mused, “with a little bit of rowing in the background.”

We had similar sized bags to this competitor ourselves, adhering strictly to ‘The Official Guide to Queueing’ published on the Wimbledon website, which stated: ‘There is a bag size restriction of 60cm x 45cm x 25cm (aircraft cabin size). We will not be able to accept bags larger than this recommended size. Also, due to space constraints, overnight queuers should use tents which accommodate a maximum of two persons.’ Joining the queue behind a father and son; two middle-aged Dutch men wearing blue jeans and pristine white blazers; and an English lad who looked like a cross between Gareth Bale and Tim Henman, it turned out that this rule is complete and utter bollocks. The first tent I saw was more comparable in size to the Sydney Opera House than that of what people slept in at festivals.

[QUEUE TIP #1 – Don’t worry about space. Bring as much shit as you want]

Because we had arrived on a Saturday, we were initially given queue cards for the Saturday play, and looking up from my bit of paper with #9745 on it, I couldn’t help but notice that there were more inflatables than in the swimming pool of a childrens’ holiday camp. People had brought blow-up mattresses; blow-up sofas; blow-up tables - I wouldn’t have been surprised if there were even a few blow-up dolls kicking about. As my 6’7” companion unfolded our barely-two-man tent, I looked over at the Dutch guys, each popping up their own individual home.

“I bet you the price of a ticket to Centre Court that you can’t keep that blazer white for the next 48 hours,” I challenged Pinot, the taller man of the pair.

“Why do you think we have two tents?” he chuckled. “One of them is acting as a closet to store our luggage and hang up our jackets in.”

Unfolding my camp chair, I took a seat beside them and cracked a beer. It may have only been 9:30am, but the sun was beginning to peek out from behind the clouds and, as Martin, Pinot’s partner in crime, so poignantly put it: “We’re on our holiday – where there’s no etiquette for drinking.”

[QUEUE TIP #2 – The Official Guide to Queueing states that you are only allowed to bring in two beers, or one bottle of wine, per person. This is a lie. If one reversed an 18-wheeler haulage truck into the grounds and started rolling kegs off the back, nobody would bat an eyelid. Stock up for the weekend]

We spent the morning talking complete nonsense, until a guy setting up his tent opposite got out a mallet and started hammering the ground like he were Thor from The Avengers. Unable to hear one another over the racket, the Dutch guys decided to head into Wimbledon Village for lunch whilst Will, the real name for the man who looked like Henman’s double, Doug, and myself, crowded around the radio to hear the remarkable news that Djokovic had been knocked out by Sam Querrey. Cheers erupted from all four corners of the park.

[QUEUE TIP #3 – If you’re a Novak fan, keep it to yourself]

Mid-afternoon, the Honorary Stewards wound their way down the lines of tents, which had grown to about 5 rows of 100, to replace the Saturday cards we held with queue cards for the Monday. We were given #290 and #291, comfortably falling within the first 500 needed to get the option for Centre Court. The line opposite had been getting nervous however, it being unclear as to where the final ticket would actually be falling. An Italian couple about five tents down from us on this opposing row dropped to their knees in delight when they were handed their equivalent of Willy Wonka’s Golden Ticket.

“#490,” the man screamed at the top of his lungs. “YES!” I ran across and gave him a hug as Martin started chanting.

“Are you excited for the Italy game tonight?” I asked him, his national team scheduled to play against Germany in the quarter finals of Euro 2016 that evening.

“What game?” he replied, looking slightly confused.

“The football game,” I laughed.

“Alas, Federer is the only one for me,” he responded, emotionally.

I turned to look at his girlfriend, a sense of disappointment spreading across her face, and wondered how much longer it would be until she would be requesting: ‘new balls please’.

[QUEUE TIP #4 – To be in the first 500 persons, and get tickets for Centre Court, arrive by 12pm at the latest, two days before]

Once the Dutch guys had returned from a three hour lunch, we spent the rest of the afternoon playing card games and drinking further beers. Getting peckish, we decided to get some dinner. Phoning the local takeaway, we placed an order, told them our location, and simply waited. You read that right. At Wimbledon, you can get fast food delivered to the campsite. Unbelievable.

[QUEUE TIP #5 – You can get takeaway food delivered to your tent]

Just in time for dessert, as we polished off our pizzas a kid came round selling cupcakes; the expression on her face one of: ‘my parents have forced me to do this in order to complete the requirements for a Girl Guide Badge’.

“Would anyone like to buy a gluten free treat?” the fourteen year-old asked, meekly.

“Do they come with weed in them?” I joked.

“Oh sorry, are you celiac?” she responded, concerned. “Because they do have wheat in them unfortunately.”

As Pinot burst into hysterics, tears rushing down his face, she looked at us with a blank waxwork-like demeanour.

Eventually composing ourselves, we only managed to squeeze in one further game of cards before yet another kid came round; this time a little boy selling chocolate bars to help raise funds for a school trip.

“Are you off to build mud huts in Kenya, or something like that?” I queried, handing over some coins and gesturing for him to keep the change.

“No, we’re going skiing in Courchevel.”

Great, I’d just given a rich kid further funding towards having a jolly in the Alps. We polished off the beers, and as people started tucking in for the night on their luxurious inflatable beds, I curled up in my sleeping bag next to Doug, tossing and turning on the cold, hard, ground; my sunburn flaming up.

[QUEUE TIP #6 – Regardless of the weather forecast, bring sun cream and an umbrella. This is the UK we’re talking about after all]

I awoke extremely early the next morning with a dead shoulder blade, bruised hip, and wet jumper. As I unzipped the awning to reveal another baking July sun, I noticed Martin was already up, and shuffling around outside.

“How was the pub?” I asked. Shortly after we’d been conned into buying chocolate off the kid, Martin and Pinot had headed to the Auld Fields for dinner and to watch the game. This pub is only a five minute walk from the campsite and its food is absolutely ace.

“Great,” he beamed. “We met a gorgeous Swiss girl who is staying in tent 102 with her father.” By this point, everyone outside our little group had started being referred to as their ticket number.

“What was you opening line?”

“Can I use the charge socket by your chair?”

“And did it work?”

“Well I’ve now got full battery on my phone if that’s what you mean,” he giggled, before picking up a towel and wandering off to the nearby Boat Club, where there were showers available for £5 between the hours of 5am-8am.

[QUEUE TIP #9 – It is heavily warned that, if you leave your tent for more than 45 minutes at a time, the Honorary Stewards will remove it and your ticket will be confiscated. In reality however, they are also there to have a good time, and unless you take the piss by going to stay in a hotel for the night, they won’t really care. Loads of people went out for the whole afternoon, and some even went night-clubbing on the Saturday. None got kicked out]

I followed Martin twenty minutes later into the dilapidated building at the perimeter of the park, hanging up my clothes in a locker room which seemed to have maintained the same décor and amenities since The Championships began in 1877. He was still there in the communal showers when I arrived, and only after I’d washed, got changed, returned to my tent, and had breakfast, did he then eventually appear back.

“Where the hell have you been?” I asked, genuinely puzzled as to what took him so long.

“Getting my money’s worth,” he winked. “Plus, there are some areas of your body that are just simply inappropriate to wash when others are present.”

“Lovely.”

[QUEUE TIP #10 – Pay the £5 for the communal shower. You don’t want to be that person on Centre Court sweating out three-day-old body odour, especially when most others around you are dressed like they’ve just stepped off a private yacht]

The rest of our Sunday followed similar suit to its predecessor; by which I mean we sat around in the sun, drank more beer, and talked more gibberish. In the words of Ron Livingston from the classic comedy Office Space: “I did nothing. I did absolutely nothing, and it was everything that I thought it could be.” Will was camping on his own, having made friends in the queue in previous years, and we were already planning our visit to The 2017 Championships. I was initially skeptical about spending 48 hours stuck in a queue in a field, however at that moment I would happily have spent 72 hours, and we hadn’t even reached the reason for us all being there yet.

[QUEUE TIP #9 – Make sure you go to the bathroom before entering the main queue on the day of play. There are minimal opportunities to go again until you're actually in the grounds. Don’t bother bringing toilet roll, as the latrines are kept well-stocked, however I’d advise you pack some hand sanitiser]

On the day you wish to enter the grounds, you are woken up at 5am by the Honorary Stewards. Campers are given an hour to get their shit together, deflate there inflatables, put their tents into luggage storage, and line-up back in numerical ticket order. Then begins the long, meandering, journey out the park and along the edge of Wimbledon Golf Course; passing entertainment-lit stands; welcome signs; and overly-buoyant employees, until your ticket is exchanged for a wristband at the security gate: The golden lettering of ‘Centre Court’ glistened off the solid blue background as I fastened it on tightly. It was 7am at this point, and we had to wait until 8:45am until the metal detectors were turned on. After what felt like only minutes however, we were sneaking in our cans of Pimm’s which had been purchased from the local supermarket; not willing to pay the £8.30 per glass they were charging inside.

At the turnstiles, we lined up at those offering tickets for Centre Court whilst hordes of fans looked on in jealousy. Handing over £104 each, we then entered the hallowed grounds and immediately looked up at the giant yellow board which showed the order of play for Monday 4th July 2016. First up on Centre Court was Roger Federer; followed by Serena Williams; followed by our compatriot, Andy Murray. What a time to be alive.

10 Countries That Don't Exist

Glasgow, Scotland, UK • June 2016 • Length of Read: 7 Minutes

A lot of people dream of visiting every country in the world. Phrases such as ‘50+ countries and counting…’ or, ‘On a mission to cross off the world’, appear on globetrotters’ blogs and social media accounts like they are badges of honour; albeit badges of honour that nobody else really gives a shit about, like the Cub Scout badge for ‘nut culture’ (Look it up, it’s actually a thing).

I’m personally not too bothered about ticking off every country on Earth. I’ll never stop adventuring to its four corners and seeking out new adventures and experiences, but there are some places I’m just not that fussed about visiting. Have you ever been to Andorra? Probably not. Well I have. And let me tell you. The most interesting thing I found to do there was order vodka jelly shots from a moderately attractive Irish blonde whilst a Japanese-fronted cover band played early noughties pop-punk tracks. If I recall correctly there were also some mountains. Tour over.

For those of you that do still dream of setting foot on all 193 United Nations member states however, let me up the ante. Like a bonus level on a video-game, I’m going to add ten more ‘countries’ to that list. Ten countries that aren’t, correctly speaking, actually countries.

They are instead referred to as Micro-Nations; pieces of land that claim to be independent or sovereign nations, but are not recognized by world governments. In order to be defined as a country you need to have and meet the following three criteria: a permanent population; a clearly defined territory; and a government capable of interacting with other states. The following ten Micro-Nations all stake independence as a result of these criteria, however have not yet gained United Nations recognition. The following ten Micro-Nations are therefore countries which don’t exist:

1) The Principality of Sealand

Probably the most famous Micro-Nation, Sealand is a wartime fortress situated 12km off the East coast of England that has claimed ‘country’ status since 1975. Built during World War II as a defense post, it was never demolished upon being decommissioned. It therefore stood unused until 1967 when one Roy Bates took over the platform as a base for his pirate radio station. After a few drinks with a lawyer friend of his, he then had the genius idea of establishing the fort as a nation state, despite it only covering a total area equivalent to two tennis courts. Now run by Roy’s son, Prince Michael, Sealand has a population of 27; publishes its own passports; prints its own stamps; and has even minted its own coins.

2) Freetown Christiania

Right in the heart of Copenhagen sits a former military barracks that lets off a heavy whiff of marijuana. Taken over by hippie-squatters in 1971 as an anti-governmental social experiment, Christiania became a self-governing collective operating under its own rules and principles. Following a dark era involving hard drugs and murder this Micro-Nation has now cleaned-up, and its 850 residents are currently deliberating an offer from the Danish government to outright purchase the 34 hectares of land they live on. I’ve personally visited the area and it’s a must-see attraction if you ever visit the Danish Capital.

3) Mayotte

Far out into the Indian Ocean lies Comoros, an archipelago of four islands which became fully independent from France in 1975… well, almost. Three of these islands voted overwhelmingly to form an independent African state, but the fourth, Mayotte, wished to remain under French rule. When The United Nations granted Comoros new country membership however, it did so for the whole archipelago so as to avoid any decolonization chaos. Mayotte therefore sits in the middle of a stalemate, being a French ruled member of the European Union on one side, and a geographically recognised part of Comoros on the other.

4) The Principality of Seborga

Hidden on the Italian border with Monaco and France is a ‘legal twilight zone’ known as Seborga. Originally a principality of the 10th Century Holy Roman Empire, Seborga was thought to have been sold to the House of Savoy in 1729; however no documentation or evidence of this was ever registered. This meant that when the Italian peninsula was unified into the Kingdom of Italy in the 19th Century, Seborga was never mentioned. The local florist now goes by the title of His Serene Highness and presides over the mountain village (population: 300) with a court of white-robed knights.

5) The Sovereign State of Forvik

When a solitary sailor crashed his vessel in the Shetland Islands during a failed attempt to circumnavigate the British Isles, he decided to just settle there. Dubbed ‘Captain Calamity’ by the Media, Stuart Hill became the sole resident of a tiny island that he named Forvik, and claimed its independence under the basis that the 0.01km2 still remained part of the old Norse Empire. The Micro-Nation’s official website states that Forvik now ‘wishes to enter into negotiations with companies with the ability to carry out oil exploration work in its waters’, however warns that ‘only those with a proven track record need apply’.

 6) Rapa Nui

The most remote place on planet Earth, Easter Island is known the world over for the giant Moai sculptures which litter its sparse landscape. Situated 3,800km off the west coast of South America, possession of this island was taken from the Rapa Nui people by the Chilean government in 1888. These Polynesian inhabitants are the subjects of the book Collapse: How Societies Choose to Fail or Survive by Jared Diamond. The author illustrates how over-cultivation of the island’s environment, in a desire to build some 887 Moai headed statues, has led to this annexed territory being permanently drained of its resources to the point that the indigenous people now struggle to survive on the island at the end of the world. Despite this however, Rapa Nui activists still fight for their right of self-determination and ownership of the island, which has resulted in violent protests with the Chilean police.

7) Principality of Hutt River

500km north of Perth, in the Western Australian outback, is Hutt River, an enclave which was claimed independent by Leonard Casley in 1970 following a dispute with the Australian government over grain quotas. Hutt River then declared war on Australia after the national tax office failed to stop demanding the payment of taxes. In response, Prince Leonard and his wife were deemed to be non-residents of the country, and the postal service refused to handle any mail sent from, or addressed to, this Micro-Nation. As a result, any incoming or outgoing post now has to be re-directed through Canada.

8) Pontinha

This will sound crazy, but Pontinha is effectively a Knights’ Templar fort that was hacked from a rock situated 700km off the west coast of Africa in the 1400s. The Micro-Nation’s case for independence is currently being analyzed by the United Nations, with Prince Barros, one of the fort’s four ‘residents’ and a schoolmaster by day, confident that Pontinha will be the Brazilian government’s door of entry to Europe when it is eventually recognised.

 9) Republic of Minerva

When the Lithuanian real estate millionaire Michael Oliver came up with the idea of forming a libertarian society, a pair of atolls in the Pacific Ocean to the south of Fiji and Tonga were identified as potential ground on which such a nation could be built. The submerging reefs were artificially constructed using concrete and coral blocks, with the more southern island being shaped into an infinity symbol. This displeased the Tongan government however, who had been using Minerva as fishing area before it declared independence in 1972. They sent out a ship to reclaim the atoll as their own, mounting a flag on the north island and declaring it part of Tonga just months after. The now-submerged Minerva is said to have some of the clearest waters and best diving in the world.

 10) The Kingdom of Lovely

As part of the BBC TV series ‘How to Start Your Own Country’, humourist Danny Wallace (of Yes Man fame) ended up turning his London flat into a Micro-Nation called Lovely. Taking the advice of eccentric leaders, including Prince Michael of Sealand, King Danny first tried to invade an island and purchase a castle before setting up an online community of residents that grew to 60,000 people. Not content on creating a currency (the I.O.U); a motto (Have A Nice Day); and a national flag (pixelated Union Jack), Danny went as far as entering his self-penned song, Stop the Muggin’, Start the Huggin’, into the Eurovision song contest in an attempt to gain legitimacy. Unfortunately the organizers didn’t quite like his sound, despite the enthusiasm.

So there you go; 10 Micro-Nations that claim statehood but don't quite exist. Who knows what will happen in the future however, with borders constantly shifting. After all, they are just imaginary concepts;  lines drawn in the sand with a stick. The real question is: Which one of the above will you attempt to visit first?

7 Reasons Why Times Square Sucks (Bucket List #139)

New York, New York, USA • May 2016 • Length of Read: 6 Minutes

At the heart of Manhattan Island lies Times Square; colloquially named the Crossroads of the World. Having its name changed from Longacre Square when the New York Times newspaper moved its headquarters to this location in 1904, Times Square acts as the hub of the Broadway theatre district; is the location for the country’s iconic New Year’s Eve countdown; and is one of the busiest pedestrian thoroughfares in the world.

For these reasons, and more, it was therefore highlighted as one of my 'must-do' things during a recent trip to New York. I’d had reservations as to whether it would actually be as mesmerising as I’d been told (I mean, it’s just a square right?), however I never quite imagined how much of a let-down the entire area would be. Here are my 7 reasons as to why I think Times Square is a little bit shit:

1) It’s Not Even a Square

If you’re going to name something, then at least have it make sense. Not only is Times Square not even a square, it doesn’t really resemble any geometric shape at all. Among other absurd suggestions, its general area has been described as a rough-polygon; two inverted triangles; a sand-timer; and, a bow-tie shape. OK, perhaps I should have done a little more research prior to my visit, but I was busy. This leads nicely on to my second reason...

2) The Selfie-Stick Wielding Tourists

Ever wondered what it’s like to be crushed in a mosh pit at a death metal concert but don’t like the music enough to buy a ticket? You’re in luck. Times Polygon is the perfect place to experience the displeasure of strangers’ sweaty bodies rubbing aggressively against you without the accompanying screaming angst. It being pointless to try and swerve around the stereotype, Chinese tourists, with their 6 ft long selfie sticks and 15-person group photos, were largely to blame for the congestion during my unfortunate visit. Dark lyrics aside however, noise pollution is still prevalent, and that’s primarily due to...

3) The Construction

Never have I set foot on an island with as much construction taking place as Manhattan. There are more than 100,000 people employed as labourers in NYC, and I don’t think a single one of them had called in sick or taken a holiday during the week of my visit. The pneumatic drill seemed to be the weapon of choice for these hard-hat wearing, slang talking, workers; closely followed by the wonky-wheelbarrow. Nobody could debate their hard work, but with Times Polygon seemingly going through more repairs that a recently bombed middle-Eastern state, they didn’t exactly have time to dilly-dally; Na’ mean? At least most of this construction could just be covered up by all of…

4) The Billboards

This is a health warning: If you suffer from latent epilepsy then please keep your distance from Times Polygon. The annual electricity bill for this small block of streets must be higher than that of Belgium. Hundreds of electronic billboards cover every square inch of the leering skyscrapers that border it, advertising the latest movies; beauty products; fashion trends; [insert consumer product here]. I’d imagine you’d be hard pressed to find a room overlooking Times Polygon that actually has a functioning window. If you are a cautious driver then I’d also heed maximum caution when navigating around these streets. As well as the large number of roadworks; blacked-out Chevrolet Escalades; and suicidal businessmen, there are also a large number of…

5) Street Performers

OK, I’ll admit that the Naked Cowboy is pretty cool. Almost all of the other street performers who brace Times Polygon however are, at best, mildly irritating. Take the fat man dressed as a giant baby who does nothing but wail for hours on end, for example. Or, how about the entire cast of frozen who, because they are wearing the costumes of loved Disney characters, feel that this gives them the right to be your best friend. At least they don’t invade your personal space as much as…

6) The Leafleting and Flyering

If I'd collected and bound every single leaflet and flyer that was shoved in my face, I swear the resulting book would have been thicker than Harry Potter and the Order of The Phoenix. Hello? I'm in New-fucking-York, there's already quite a few things going on. Even if I'd been visiting York, United Kingdom, however, I doubt I'd ever get to such a loose end that a three hour one-man re-enactment of the 'life and times of so-and-so' would sound like a good way to pass the evening. If you did find yourself being involuntarily dragged to such a performance however, one way of getting out of it would to eat some of...

 7) The Food

I'm now going to address a second cultural stereotype in this short post; that being the one about Americans having shit diets and eating too much. The food choice available in-and-around Times Polygon is comparable to that of a state penitentiary, with the hygiene standards being on a par with those found a zoo. There is also an obsession with rushing diners through their three courses as quickly as possible. One evening I ate at the Bubba Gump Shrimp Company and before my brother had even finished his starter they threw his main course on our table like it were a smelly turd. It also tasted a bit like a smelly turd. Not that I'd know what a smelly turd tastes like...

This goes to show that not all things on my bucket list will turn out to be'call home and ring your friends to tell them how good of an experience you had' awesome. And I never expected it to be. The bucket list is more an expression of: 'Hey, these are the really cool things that I’d like to experience and undertake at some point in my life, and regardless of whether they turn out to be enjoyable or not I'll still be happy to have done them'.

Thankfully the rest of my visit to New York turned out to be a roaring success.

Top of the Rock

New York, New York, USA • May 2016 • Length of Read: 4 Minutes

Having spent the majority of my 25th birthday wandering around Downtown Manhattan under a baking late-spring sun, it was suggested that we head skyward come nightfall to get a different perspective of New York City. Riding the elevator to the 70th floor of the Rockefeller Center’s highest building, one can walk out onto an observation deck that stands 850ft above terra firma and get a remarkable vista that truly encompasses why the world’s second largest metropolitan area has been dubbed ‘The City That Never Sleeps’.

Making our way across Tribeca (triangle below Canal Street), and up through SoHo (south of Houston Street), we reached the entrance at 50th and 6th slap bang on our ticket time of 9pm. The observation deck is such a popular tourist attraction that you get given an allotted half-hour time slot. Miss it and tough luck. We joined the queue at the metal detectors, and after going through the rigmarole of taking off our belts and emptying our pockets of any change we then found ourselves joining an even longer queue at the lifts. Here we were treated to the type of free show that could only be broadcast in The Big Apple.

“You’re dressed so sloppily, that you look like the type of person who sells shoe laces for a living,” hollered one of the black security guards at his colleague scanning our tickets. The fact that they both had on the same uniform didn’t seem to make this put-down any less credible in his mind.

“Oh, yeah? Well you look like the type of person who sells pillowcases but not pillows,” retorted his co-worker.

I turned to my brother. Were we just about to witness a battle rap?

“Oh, yeah? Well you look like the type of person who sells used batteries.”

This was getting creative.

“Oh, yeah? Well you look like the type of person who sells dirty linen.”

 “Oh, yeah? Well you look like the type of person who sells Capri Suns without the straws.”

“Oh, yeah? Well you look like the type of person who washes car windows whilst they’re stopped at traffic lights.”

Not only were my brother and I in stitches at this point, but, much to the disgust of the Chinese family behind us, the two friends were also creasing themselves with laughter at every new insult. Never mind that their job roles involved the serious matter of preventing terrorist threats, they were having way too much fun battering childhood insults off one another.

“Oh, yeah? Well you look like the type of person who sells things for which you need multiple parts, but you only have one part.”

A smile stayed on my face the whole elevator journey up to the Top of the Rock; remaining there as we stepped out towards a truly remarkable view. The whole skyline was lit up in front of us, neon beams jutting into the sky light light-sabers from the Empire State Building, Bank of America Tower, and One World Trade Center. Time seemed to stand still.

The Rockafeller Center is home to a number of late-night talk shows, so following our descent we wandered through the NBC studios where Jimmy Fallon was playing host to Blake Shelton and Kit Harrington for the evening. Unfortunately I didn't manage to meet the man who is one of my country music heroes, but I did manage to press the button of Blake's replica judges' chair from The Voice.

When I told my friend Carly I was going to New York, she said that there was one thing I had to do. More than anything else, including going to a Broadway show or visiting the Statue of Liberty, I needed to get some street-vendor falafel. I'd initially frowned back at the beaming face on the other end of my Skype conversation, but she remained so steadfast that by the time I'd landed the seed had been firmly planted.

Back in the hotel lobby my brother called for the lift whist I stuffed my face with the vegetarian delight. It might not have quite matched our view from the Top of the Rock, but it was sure damn tasty. Almost as tasty as the woman who followed us into the lift once it arrived.

"What floor are you going to?" my brother asked the short, tanned, 30 year old, beauty squeezed in beside us.

"34 please," she replied with a pearly-white smile. "Where are you guys from? Your accent is so cool."

"Scotland," said my brother. "What about yourself?"

"L.A. Can you understand me OK? Because I can only just make out what you guys are saying."

"Yeah we can, but from experience most people from L.A. aren't worth listening to anyway," I joked.

"I'm not even going to try and defend myself," she giggled. "My city is full of air-heads."

The lift made a *bing* as we reached Floor 12.

"Well this is our stop," I smirked. "It was nice meeting you."

"Enjoy the rest of your trip!" she winked.

As the elevator doors shut behind us I stood on the landing and sighed. It was love at first sight.

Reykjavik - Rambling Around the Icelandic Capital with a Beautiful Local

Reykjavik, Iceland • May 2016 • Length of Read: 5 Minutes

The Icelandic capital was quiet and quaint as I wandered along the pedestrianized main street; the unpronounceable street signs on each corner making navigation potentially very difficult were it not for the fact that one can circumnavigate the whole city centre in less than 20 minutes. Out for a little exploration, I took joy in trying to pronounce and enunciate the foreign alphabet under my breath, chuckling when I passed the Post Office and saw that it was named Posturinn (pronounced Post Urine). Reykjavik may well be one of the cleanest and safest cities in the world according to statistics, but this made it seem that its supposedly hygienic residents were pissing in parcels and then sending them to one another by tracked next-day delivery mail.

Speaking of cleanliness, did you know that if you turn on a hot tap anywhere in Reykjavik you're greeted with the pungent smell of rotten eggs? Whereas the country’s cold water comes directly from underground springs and is very refreshing to drink, the hot water comes from deep geothermal boreholes and has a natural smell of sulphur. Turning on the shower in the morning made the bathroom in my hotel smell like the bowel movements suffered by someone the day after a chili eating contest.

I spotted a little arcade across the street which, to my nostalgic childhood delight, had two walls lined with retro video games such as Donkey Kong and Mortal Kombat. I went up to the counter and asked the guy behind the till if he could break a note into loose change. Looking around, the only other person in the place was a cute local girl,  button bashing aggressively on Super Mario Bros; the pixelated character jumping about the screen like it were having an epileptic fit as a result. I went over and introduced myself.

“Bet you can’t get further in the game than I just did,” she toyed. Mario had just lost his last life and as the screen faded to black the phrase [insert coin] flashed up.

"Challenge accepted."

Sliding 100 Krona into the coin slot I guided Mario through one, two, three levels; using my dozens of hours of practice from the Game Boy version to help me.

“In your face,” I beamed as the character bounded over one of the Goomba mushroom men and into unknown territory for our Icelandic female.

“Beginners’ luck,” she jokingly huffed, punching me playfully on the arm. “How about we go and get some tea?”

“Let’s. A tour guide is just what I’m after.”

I was led along the street, down a short flight of stairs, and into a quirky little artisan café. Live piano music played as groups of sophisticated people sat huddled in deep conversation around wooden tables. Ordering two cups of green tea we got chatting about all things film and travel related before I posed some questions about Reykjavik itself. More specifically, what did the city's younger residents do to pass the time? For all its breathtaking beauty, there are only so many glaciers and volcanoes a person can look at before their head starts to steam like a geyser. A small army of teenagers had commandeered the main square and transformed it into a skate park, but in terms of nightlife things appeared to be a bit thin on the ground.

"Us Icelanders live quite a chilled out existence," she stated, confirming my hunch, "but you've come during exam time so it's especially quiet at the moment. Most of the students are at home studying for their finals."

"That's such a shame. I'm flying out to New York tomorrow morning and was looking forward to seeing what this city has to offer once the sun goes down." It was 10pm at this point and the daylight showed no sign of fading.

"One of the main things Reykjavik has to offer is the spectacular sunset itself."

"Well I don't want to keep you up too late, but how about we grab a beer then head down to the harbour to watch it? I may not be here in the correct season for the Auroa Borealis, but I imagine you get a pretty good light show all year round anyway."

"We sure do..."

Following a refreshing pint of Viking pale ale, we strolled hand-in-hand down to the elaborate Concert Hall that stands jutting out into a vast sea of blue; an icy breeze coming down from the staggering snow-capped mountains blowing right across the harbour and chilling our faces. As the sun began to slowly disappear behind these towering giants of nature we looked each other in the eyes and basked in the awe and tranquility of the moment. It was sheer bliss.