Saturday night I went out in London for the very first time, and I instantly felt pulled into almost everyone's favorite children's book: Harry Potter.
We passed through King’s Cross Station although we did not stop to look for platform nine and three quarters. I was told however that people are constantly hovering around the train station, taking pictures as they pretend to smash luggage carts into the wall. No word if any hopelessly Potter obsessed nine year olds have suffered a concussion after actually charging into the wall.
After starting the evening at what I would consider a traditional pub that would fit in comfortably at Hogsmeade, we walked to Ester Square. I was struck by how much ridiculously drunk teenage boys resemble goblins or bumbling mountain trolls who stumble around causing destruction in their wake.
Once we left a club, we waited for a night bus in a gorgeous curved street off Piccadilly Circus. Yes, a real two story red knight bus! I was so excited when it came bustling down the street. When the doors flew open, I wanted to yell “Stan!”
Unfortunately, the bus driver was not the lovely red head from the book.
The ride was only slightly less mad than what is written on the page. I had no idea walking down the steps from the second story to the first could be so difficult when in motion.
We hopped off the bus and walked down the silent streets of a Julia Roberts movie worthly neighborhood. The grandeur of the buildings could not be masked even in darkness. We turned into our little square. Squeezed between the cheerfully yellow and white townhouses and boutique hotels is our own grey Number 12, Grimmauld Place: home.
So far I haven’t had any run-ins with death eaters, and I have yet to receive my first broom-flying lesson. Give it time though. I haven’t started classes yet, and it very much could be that I have Professor Snape or Professor Gilderoy Lockhart as my instructor.
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