My trip across the pond to “London” happened by mistake. You know how they say you shouldn’t go grocery shopping while hungry? You probably also shouldn’t call your American parents from the wrong side of the Atlantic while homesick.
“Your brother and I are going to Harry Potter world,” my mom told me over the phone. “Do you want to come with us?”
“Do you mean, do I want to pay to fly across the ocean to visit the fake version of the city I live in?” I asked her.
“Yes,” she said, as if this made sense. I shook my head and rolled my eyes but yes, of course, I was in. How could I pass up a chance to experience “London” as imagined by Florida, after four years of living in the UK? When I agreed, my dad and sister-in-law – who have never read Harry Potter – said they were in, too, completing the transformation from mother-son trip into chaotic family adventure.
So, I booked a non-stop British Airways flight from Gatwick. The flight took about 10 hours and I arrived so late – around 10pm – that “London” had closed for the day once I arrived. Already, it was shaping up to be an authentic experience.
Our journey to “London” the next morning began with a water taxi from the Loews Portofino Bay Hotel. Not because the Italian Riviera had any relevance to our childhood memories of fighting over a shared copy of Harry Potter, but because that was where we found the most sensible hotel package. Also because in Florida, the whole world has been resized to fit within the parameters of Americans’ meager annual leave.
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When we disembarked at Universal Studios Florida – not to be confused with Universal Islands of Adventure, which is next door – we crossed the US in a matter of minutes. We ventured past mini New York skyscrapers and a replica of an American imitation of an Irish pub. We walked until we reached Pier 39 in San Francisco. Instead of the usual sea lions sunning themselves on rocks in the Bay, we found King’s Cross and Leicester Square next door to one another, right across the street. A classic red telephone booth stood out front.
“Pick up the phone,” my mom encouraged my younger brother and his wife, who are both 30, as if we were all eager children again. As the designated arbiter of “authenticity”, I inspected the booth, knocking on the frame and panes of glass while they dialed 6-2-4-4-2 on a rotary payphone to listen to a message from the Ministry of Magic. I announced that I couldn’t tell if it was an original or a facsimile, and Mom was pleased.
I wasn’t sure what to expect when I agreed to all this, but I must admit I was impressed by the attention to detail. We heard bricks grinding against one another as we walked through a wall into Diagon Alley, which I was delighted to find was every bit as chaotic as I had imagined. There were no right angles anywhere – everything was constructed to appear crooked, architecturally implausible, and older than Florida itself.
Magical wares spun, levitated, and smoked in storefront windows. Lopsided boxes of wands defied muggle physics. A food truck outside the station sold jacket potatoes, and Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour sold flavours including clotted cream, which I’ve never seen outside the UK. The departures board at “Kings Cross” changed frequently, showing trains to Finsbury Park, Aberdeen, and beyond, marking just the right amount as “delayed” for extra authenticity. And on the rides, in both Diagon Alley and neighboring Hogsmeade, even the queuing areas were designed to immerse us in Harry’s world. We queued underneath chandeliers at Gringotts, the wizarding bank, before packing into an office where a projection of Bill Weasley welcomed us. It was all so visually delicious, I was forced to drop my air of skepticism. I was charmed.
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My parents have yet to visit England, and so my favourite part was taking them to the Leaky Cauldron as if it were my local. Its cathedral ceiling was much higher than that of your typical British pub, but its aged decor worked overtime to make it feel historic. My mother beamed when I told her, over a mug of hot Butterbeer, that I had momentarily forgotten we were playing pretend in Florida rather than visiting a “real” pub. The scotch eggs – which I’ve yet to find at any other restaurant in my home country – were so good I ordered them two days in a row. Perhaps it was my jetlag speaking, but I’d say they rivaled Fortnum and Mason’s.
But perhaps the best part of it all was how such an imaginative place allowed us all to slip into our traditional family roles immediately upon reuniting. My brother and sister-in-law live an hour’s drive from my parents, and it’s been many years since we’ve all spent several days together. I delighted in the opportunity to see us all at our most quintessential.
Mom, trip coordinator, explored every possible avenue to find the best hotel deal, scoring a package that included meals and express passes; queue-jumping is not a crime in America, as long as you’ve paid for the privilege. She consulted the park’s app to make a handwritten checklist of every roller coaster so we could be sure we didn’t miss any.
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Dad calculated the most strategic route from the breakfast room to the water taxi, minimising time outside in the Floridian humidity. My sister-in-law declined to rush, operating at her own pace as she has always done, and it all worked out fine, just as it always has. My brother conspired to sleep as late as possible and then sprint into the park to beat the queues. Later, as predicted, he infected us with his bad travel luck, which resulted in a significant delay on our flight home to Rhode Island from Orlando. Thankfully, because I know him so well, I had insured our trip against disruptions, and we profited off the inconvenience.
As for my role? I’m the crocodile hunter of the family, my sister-in-law declared, like the voice in a nature documentary. I didn’t grasp what she meant until I realised I was taking notes as she said it, cataloging everyone’s movements and commentating on their commentary.
It may have been the least logical trip I have ever taken, but somehow, it was also one of the best.
How to do it
The Wizarding World of Harry Potter consists of Hogsmeade, Diagon Alley, and the Hogwarts Express, spread across Universal Studios Florida and Universal Islands of Adventure. A third section, the Ministry of Magic, will open at the brand-new Universal Epic Universe park in May 2025. Adult tickets start at $174 (£137) per person, per day; multi-day passes are more economical. Season pass holders (including my mother) receive discounts on hotel stays and other purchases.
We stayed at the Loews Portofino Bay Hotel, which was discounted due to ongoing renovation at the time of our visit. The hotel includes early park admission for guests and free express passes, which can cost over $300 each during peak season when purchased separately. Queues for top rides can often take an hour or more, but we usually skated through in minutes. Portofino Bay also has two pools, a spa with a sauna and steam room, and a “club lounge” offering unlimited snacks, meals, and drinks for an additional fee.
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Unless you have your own broom or flying car, engage a muggle airline to transport you safely to “London”. British Airways and Norse operate nonstop flights from Gatwick, and Delta and Virgin Atlantic fly direct from Heathrow. Flight time is around 10 hours.
Kassondra was the guest of Universal Studios Florida.
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