Dialogue: London calling to faraway towns

LONDON - This has got to be one of the most vibrant, beautiful and energising cities I've ever had the pleasure to visit. With a population just under 8 million and startlingly picturesque qualities, it's been one non-stop social whirl.

My travel plans have been suspended three times already because I just can't bear to leave and it will be with quite a sense of sadness that I depart tomorrow despite the excitement of heading to Spain via Brussels in a van with one of my new sets of friends.

I always thought I would hate it here. I expected it to be all mushy peas and nasal pollution. I've never called England mother and wouldn't have come if it weren't for having to visit a dear friend who shows no sign of coming home.

I've always baulked at the idea of heading lemming-like for London, to live with other Kiwis in Earls Court, drinking in The Walkabout and nannying some strangers' brats in exchange for a few pounds and the run of the family car. But you can do that if you want to because, actually, I get it now.

This place is fabulous and filled with possibilities; a gateway to destinations I had only ever dreamed about and friendly beyond my wildest expectations.

And I know it's summer, and perhaps it's not always this good, but right now the place is buzzing and feels like paradise.

And the thrill I get from cycling, which has got to be my favourite way to get around. When two-wheeling through W1 through W9, I feel like a local as I navigate my way in search of sights.

The freedom I feel with the wind in my hair as I race past scenes from postcards and placemats. On several days I've done nothing but bike and bike and bike, stopping at points of interest, but only ever briefly before getting back in the saddle, grinning like an idiot and playing happy with the traffic.

Zig-zagging back and forth across the Thames, its beautiful bridges and putrid water, one eye on the road and the other peeled for action.

Living in Brixton, too, has been a treat. When I got here I wondered whether people would insist on selling me crack. Would there be riots, nail bombs and gangland slayings? Maybe, but not when I've been about.

Brixton's bark is a lot worse than its bite and I'll gladly exchange a little danger for being able to rock down to Electric Ave, one of the first streets in the world to get electric light.

And the thing of moving into a huge and bustling house where strangers have become family in a matter of days.

The social life is unbelievable. So much for Londoners not being outgoing - there are so many people with whom I've shared a joke, even danced with in the street.

And the mine of useless information I'm collecting, like why everyone laughs at Peckham and its inhabitants.

I like it so much that every day I wonder if it's possible for me to get permission to work here. My father was born in New Zealand but was taken to England when he was three months old, his mother finding life in 1920s Pongakawa a little too slow for her liking.

It wasn't until the 1950s that Dad found himself back in Godzone as the ship's surgeon aboard the Rangitata. He meant only to be passing through, but when he arrived he found a father and said he felt like he had come home. Well, me too, Dad, only this time it's the other way around.

It's because although I completely consider myself to be a New Zealander, there is sometimes a sense of not quite belonging there. To say, "ko Ngati Pakeha taku iwi" doesn't quite cut the mustard as far as rights go.

Here, I'm more aware of actually having a heritage, here is where more of my ancestors' bones lie and while I wasn't born here, I feel an affinity that has surprised me with its depth.

I fit in and would seriously consider staying if only it weren't for the fact that I can't afford another $12 sandwich and also, I must get some sleep.

* Contact Elizabeth Easther on her travels at imabroad@chickmail.com