Christmas Part II: Cocktails and Dreams

Boxing day and those that followed were just as relaxing and mostly spent sea swimming and sunbathing. My mother and brother took a helicopter tour of the island, we all spent the day snorkeling with turtles on a catamaran and I spent my time catching up with friends who’d just made it across the Atlantic on their yacht in a neighboring bay.

It wasn’t the most active of vacations but I did manage to keep up with my training for the new years eve run and even gathered the energy for polo lessons. I’d been wanting to try my hand at the sport for a while but a hectic schedule every time I’d returned to the UK had allowed little time for riding, let alone learning to ride with one hand, standing up and swinging a mallet whilst cantering across a field populated by numerous other riders all doing the same in close proximity.

Having befriended several Argentine polo players the last time I was on the island who’d all been keen for me to ride with them but never having had time to take them up on their offer I decided that this would be the perfect opportunity to get back in the saddle. Very early one morning I headed up to Apes Hill Polo Club where life-long polo devotee Nick met me with a selection of polo ponies. (The Caribbean climate and the pace at which the horses move about the field require that each is replaced after twenty minutes.)

The first thing you have to learn is how to ride for polo. It’s at odds with much of what you’re usually taught when riding. Two sets of reigns sit in your left hand leaving your right free to carry the mallet. In order to position the horse alongside the ball and manouver as quickly as possible about the field the ponies are incredibly responsive and swerve left and right quicker than a drunk driver on a dual carriageway.

To get your eye on the ball and swing your mallet with enough gusto to hit the ball up the pitch you ride almost constantly stood up in the saddle and rely on the tops of your thighs to hold on as your lower legs are used to assist with steering and in your right hand a wooden mallet measuring approx 53” is carried. As you may have seen the idea of Polo is to ride along side the ball and whack it either forward or backward towards your teams goal. It sounds simple enough couple this with racing around the pitch at a frighteningly fast, (many polo ponies are ex track horses) canter and it's a whole different ball game.

It’s impossibly hard, frustrating as buggery to learn, scary as shit but absolutely awesome all at the same time. When the stars aline and you and your horse are weaving your way up the pitch at a rate of knots whacking the ball as you go it’s one of the best feelings in the world.

Polo was just one of many highlights of what has to be one of my all time great Christmas’ and the trip has inspired me to make several new resolutions/ambitions/dreams to follow:

1) Never to spend another Christmas in the UK – faffing around in Tescos at 6am on Christmas eve and trawling the west-end for slippers in the run-up to the big day really takes the holiday out of the ‘Holiday’. (Easily done.)

2) Investigate a transatlantic trip by boat. An inspirational Catamaran captain has assured me I’d make a great first mate and it’s a step in the right direction toward a lifelong ambition to row an ocean. (Apparently I just need to hang out in Harry’s bar in Antigua mid March, or the south of France mid May to get a crew gig so hardly a chore.)

3) Get my polo playing up to an ability where I can at least take part in a friendly match, (Nick’s able to accommodate a week or lessons when I return to the island and I have another spare week in Brazil post Carnival so could always head to Argentina for a little practice there).

Plenty of plans to make and lots to look forward to in the new year, but there’s still a little left of 2008 and one last flight to make up to NYC. So while it hasn’t been the best, any time you wake up and play polo in Barbados before breakfast and fall into bed after manhattans on Manhattan can’t be all that bad.

A Break From Tradition

After a rather unhappy Christmas ’07 and a difficult 2008 including the loss of both of my remaining Grandparents, my family and I resolved that December 25th 2008 would mark a change in tradition and departure from the norm. Following some extensive research and several location visits I persuaded my Mother and Brother that the Caribbean was the only place to spend the festive season. We booked our flights and ten days in a beach house in St Lawrence Gap, Barbados.

It’s my eighth visit to the island and every time I leave I want to come back as soon as possible, (so much so that I’ve already booked a return flight for March). It has everything you could want; great food, friendly locals, beautiful views, glorious sunshine pretty much all year round and above all it’s fun. Not just any kind of fun but the non-stop dancing, Champagne quaffing, midnight skinny dipping, sleep all day in the sunshine, aspiring lower middle kind of fun that makes Barbados to me what Hawaii was to Flanagan.

There’s no doubting the island’s capability as a great vacation destination but never having experienced anything other than a very traditional English Christmas the jury was still out on whether it would make a great ‘holiday’ location. Would Christmas eve really be Christmas eve if it were spent crunking to the beats of a steel band, rather than staring in awe at the fat bird downing Stellas on the fruttie at my parent’s local? Could the Caribbean sun really compete with the fun, frolics, car accidents, revelations of infidelity, domestic arguments and trips to casualty of Christmas’ gone by? We endeavored to find out.

Sadly the journey to this island paradise wasn’t quite the utopian voyage one might have hoped for. We spent a sleepless night in an overpriced Best Western that was playing host to its local bus company’s office party. The BA club queue at Gatwick was as rowdy as Walmart on black Friday and getting through security was a cluster fuck of New Look beachwear and knock off ‘Luis Vitton’ luggage on a scale only previously only seen the last time the Sun newspaper ran its ‘take your family on holiday for a fiver’ promotion.

Discontent and disheveled we headed straight to the gate where a lovely lady let us pre-board on account of my Mother having broken her toe on her suitcase as we rushed to escape the Western that morning.

A surprisingly short eight hours later we landed, picked up the car and headed straight to the beach house - a beautiful place and the only private residence with access to its stretch of sand. We settled in and hung out our stockings in readiness for the big day itself.

Christmas eve was a rum-fuelled, fun-filled evening at popular night spot the ‘Reggae Lounge’ so much so that the following morning saw my brother and I crawling onto the terrace of our beach house - stockings in tow.

Bikini clad and donning the size of sun glasses usually the reserve of those with a white stick and golden retriever we basked in the sunshine and over breakfast and champagne we raced our way through the mountains of wrapping paper. Several pairs of socks, a Smythson passport holder and numerous paperbacks later we all went for a mid morning dip in the sea, still trying to stave off a hideous hangover my brother and I, Champagne bottles and chocolate money in tow.

It was blissful and set the laid back tone for the rest of the day, we slumbered on the terrace before dressing for a late lunch and one of my favourite restaurants on the island, paddled before pudding then sated and a little sun kissed wandered back to the beach house.

Cake Loving Asian Twins Required

As much fun as Whistler was, as hot and dreamy as Barbados is, London ensures you never forget it’s a city where anything can happen and usually does. Where else in the world can your evening start with karaoke, full nudity, (in a public space and not on my part I should add), more wigs than a cancer care unit and a tambourine and end on an even more interesting/exciting, (and unpublishable) note. I love it.

It was great to be back home - seven whirlwind days of booze, good food, (loving Quo Vadis/disappointed by an overpriced Sophie’s in Covent Garden) fabulous shoes, (I need never watch another episode of Trisha now I have my Lanvins to excite me) and fabulous company. Despite the hectic social calendar in between Moscow mules and Pisco sours I managed to finalise a few more of the practicalities of the next few months, including the commission of my bespoke costume for the Samba parade in Rio.

Now while I’m not exactly sure what the name is in English I appear to be some sort of glittery, bikini-clad water-nymph, (think slightly slutty, transvestite, Ariel The Little Mermaid and you’re in the right kettle of fish). I’ve also obtained my Chinese visa for Shaolin, paid an unsavoury visit to the Job Centre and scored myself a few little freelance gigs. Largely to avoid a second visit to the Job Centre and in a vague attempt to keep the bank manager happy, (or from topping himself with a letter opener at the office Christmas party as may be the case). And so, equipping myself with all the latest high tech gadgetory, (Imac, Iphone, that one application only sunscreen stuff) I’ve set up office on the veranda of our villa, (see pic 1).

Of these projects the one that’s occupying much of my tanning time over the festive period is organising a 40th birthday party for a dear old friend of mine. Simple enough you might think - pub, booze, food, cake, midnight visit to Rhinos, however this friend puts on parties for a living so expectations are considerably higher than a few sausages on sticks in the back room at the Bethnal Green Social Club.

The upside of the commission is having free reign with a sizeable budget and full use of the Aston/Range Rover/Chopper as required, the downside is actually organising the thing. So if anyone knows where I can find a snow making machine, 250 trilbys at cost and a set of Asian twins happy to spend half an evening inside a cake do please get in touch.

"Keep On Keepin' On"

Il Nuovo Anno

At long last the snow has arrived! Not in any record breaking amounts but enough to get both mountains open and me up to the peak and down from it doing the 9-5 with Dolly. And I’m as happy as a bulimic with a bad case of food poisoning. No amount of afternoon visits to Milton Keynes can ever compete with just how good being out on the slopes can be for the soul.

The only downside is that with getting my daily runs in and plenty going on in town time is racing by making Whistler something of a whirlwind. I’m loving the job, the slopes, and I’m well and truly settling into the Village scene with all my limbs, my liver and my good reputation remaining intact. The gondola launch is only ten days away and the press gangs start to arrive early next week. I’ve been banging out releases like they’re going out of fashion and have even managed to incorporate the phrase ‘twin peaks of panties’ into a recent corporate announcement.

However despite my daily homage to the mountain gods, fresh snow remains sparse but ‘a large dump’ is forecast for Friday which will hopefully make for plenty of powder fun over the weekend and finally give me the opportunity to shred the sick gnar with the kids. Officially the weekend starts tomorrow with the launch party for the Whistler Film Festival and my weekly meet with a local kick boxing trainer before jetting down to Vancouver for the Radical Christmas party, back to the mountain for Saturday night après fun and here’s the piste de resistance of the entire trip... the Cuban Brothers at the GLC on Sunday night.

Those of you lucky enough to have attended the sayonara Sierra party in Palma this spring will remember the homoerotic hip-hop break-dancing beat troop and their near naked stage show. Sadly their reputation hasn’t preceded them on Canadian shores but as Sunday is officially the new Saturday for those working the slopes I’m throwing an impromptu fish and wigs pre performance party. Set to be a great evening incorporating two guaranteed accessories for a great night - sushi and silly hair.

In other news there’s been some movement on the freelance front and I’m being choppered in for a chat with some folks about a little work in the US of A and an old acquaintance has pitched me in as part of an upcoming book. Admittedly being in a book isn’t anywhere near as high stakes as those friends of mine who’ve recently become published authors themselves, (even if it is in small letters on the inside cover) but I don’t know that any of them have been flown anywhere for dinner and a chat with the CEO.

The new year plans are coming along nicely and I’ve signed up for a 6k ‘charradee’ stateside run on New Years Eve. Sadly none of my travelling companions are prepared to take part but have agreed to watch me from a bar with a view of the course. My training has started in full force with a 6k jaunt each morning before a few hours in the office and hitting the slopes for the afternoon. The après may be hindering my times somewhat but hey what’s a day on the slopes without a late lunch and several glasses of red after it?

A fun run may seem like a rather unusual way to kick of a night of overeating and heavy boozing but as the year comes to an end given the absolute bitch that 2008 has been I’m quite happy to run out of it and into 2009. Viva il nuovo anno!

4700 miles, 6 Borders, 3 Car Accidents, 2 Police Evasions and 1 Russian Hooker

I think it’s safe to say the chances of my making it as a professional blogger are slim to none, I’ve been making notes for the duration of my trips, (for the book of course) but life just seems to have been too busy to edit and upload.

Since I last wrote I have:

- Become accomplished in Italian - should you ever need directions to the train station or wish to by a small blue sweater I‘m your lady.

- Discovered the best gelato in Florence - a scoop of amaretto and a scoop of dark chocolate with chilli at Coronas on Via dei Caizaoli. (I'd recommend at least two of these a day.)

- Eaten one of the best meals of my life and become great friends with Italy’s answer to Gordon Ramsay at Cibreo - highlights included goat offal, rolled kid, tripe and a cheeky smile.

- Had fun with, danced like a loon with, cooked with and drank far too much with some awesome new friends - although for much of this I only have the word of those accompanying me.

- Booked a month in Mexico City to check out the wrestling scene con mi amigos - a mask is being especially commissioned for me as I write.

- Taken the best culinary road trip of my life - breakfast in Italy, lunch in Switzerland, dinner in Germany and Champers in France.

- Escaped the patio foundations of a very odd B&B owner on the Champagne trail with the quick get-a-way driving skills of dear Kate.

- Enjoyed one of the funniest nights of my life with a great mate, a fat cat and a Russian hooker in a hotel in south west Germany.

- Covered 4700 miles, crossed 6 borders, been driven into 3 times and escaped the cops - twice.

- Moved back to the UK, turned 32, cooked 9 tiers of wedding cakes, acquired several cases of astonishingly fine wines, had a very unfortunate incident with a tube of super glue, done a week’s work and made it half way across the globe to Whistler in Canada.

Needless to say it's been a hectic few weeks but it’s nice to be settled again.

I’ve been in ‘The Village’ for several days now, I’m staying with a fantastic lady called Adie whom I was introduced to by a friend in the UK. And once again it looks as though I’ve landed on my feet as I’ve been plunged into the heart of the mountain’s social scene.

Rather fortuitously, the weekend I arrived was BC’s biggest wine festival so the several nights of ridiculously expensive booze, posh frocks and high society shame will come as no surprise to any of you. It seems that even though it isn’t technically ‘after’ yet everyone still makes the most of the Après.

I have installed myself, (part time) in the press office of Whistler Blackcomb and I’m thoroughly enjoying it. If I’m honest I’d no idea how I’d fair, especially given that unlike every game I’ve worked on the mountain doesn’t have a developer, (well not one available to interview anyway), can’t be sent out for review and doesn’t have a launch date.

The only downside of the Canada trip so far is that for the next week or so there’s unlikely to be any snow at the bottom of the mountain which has cut down on boarding time somewhat. To ensure neither my trip or snow skills are spoiled I’ve decided to add in a couple diversions on my travels and will head to Hawaii to wait until the snow arrives and then make my way to a cabin in Vermont for a week after new year.

Sorry it's been so long coming. Next up hot news from Honolulu…

The Days Are Just Packed

There’s only one thing worse than stumbling out of a nightclub at dawn, wearing last nights frock and doing the walk of shame home. And that’s falling out of a nightclub, wearing last nights frock, into a nun and doing the walk of shame home. Such is the curse of living in a city with more convents than it has ice cream shops.

School is good but six hours of Italian is proving gruelling and Franceso who takes me for individual tuition remained ominously silent when I asked if I was one of the slowest students he’d ever taught. I can’t help feeling I’ve regressed twenty years and should be somewhere else with the ‘special’ kids.

Alberto, the personal trainer, being rather more expensive and far less attractive than his website would lead you to believe has been replaced by Federico - a rather handsome young chap who enjoys kick boxing, horse riding and humiliating me in the gym. He’s a hard task master but a pair of deep brown eyes, a beautiful thick mane and being able to ogle the kind of body that most gay men would die for are a small price to pay for enjoying the relentless Italian diet of gelato, pizza and pasta.

I’ve acquainted myself with a thoroughly delightful group of friends, made great use of the terrace for out of hours drinking, had a minor run in with the Carabinieri, (although thankfully it wasn’t me slumped in a shop doorway being carried home) and the car and I have fallen foul of numerous homicidal drivers about the city. Needless to say I’ve established myself on the Florentine scene. And I’m loving it.

As I found in Rio, time is passing all too quickly and there’ve been many great moments already, the majority of them involving fantastic food or wine to excess. This weekend I took the car and Nicole and Anna, (two Kiwi students in my class) to Montepulciano and Assisi, (the home of St Francis). After a minor prang with what I can only assume was a completely blind/psychopathic truck driver we headed out of the city high into the hills, revelling in the sunshine with the roof down and singing along to 80’s pop hits. We’d gone in search of one of the finest wines in all Italy - Brunello Di Montepuliciano. It’s not called a super Tuscan for nothing and we enjoyed several glasses over a fantastic lunch of toast cooked in Bacon fat, (I know, I know but I’m working out five days a week), ravioli slathered in sage butter and Torta de Nonna. I also picked up a bottle to add to the growing collection of fine wines that are being set aside for either my next big birthday, my divorce or in fact, my wedding depending on which comes first and requires more booze to get through.

Lunch and a wander through the cobbled streets of the old town under our ever loosening belts we headed on to Assisi where we ducked in to check out the beautiful frescos before catching the sunset over the Monastery high on the hill top. It was utterly, utterly beautiful.

Back in the city way after dark we called it a night which left me feeling fresh faced enough on Sunday for a run across the Ponte Vecchio. I was out early enough to avoid the hoards of tourists clamouring to buy tacky over priced jewellery that normally renders the place unbearable. Feeling virtuous, I met with Gwen a young artist on a scholarship from Edinburgh, (who also hosted a flash dance off in a launderette last week) and drank far too much Prosecco than is probably decent on the Sabeth. We chewed the cud, bitched about men and got burnt by the freakishly hot sunshine on Piazza de Senoria.

Dull as it may be to comment upon the weather, it has been amazing. But so too have the people, the night life, the food, the men and the overall quality of life. The Italians really have their priorities right and I believe Firenze is better than anywhere I’ve ever lived before. Despite the horrendous expense, the mosquitoes and the inevitable expansion of ones waistline I’m starting to think this could well be my final resting place at the end of the grand tour.

Jaq of Hearts

I've no idea why but I'm clearly something of a hit with the gents at the moment. I can’t remember the last time an entire bar full of men cheered when I took my jumper off. I can only put this down to one of two reasons: my never having pursued a career as a pub stripper or (and I fear this is more likely) it’s never happened before.

I’ve just finished the mammoth road trip from Somerset to Florence, all 1400 miles of it. Sadly Donal cried off with a bad case of man-flu so I made the journey with a bag of mint imperials, half a packet of crisps, two teach yourself Italian CDs and a can of Red Bull riding shot gun with me. None of which proved to be great conversation or navigators but all of which were more than happy for me to talk about myself for eighteen and a half hours.

The bar in question is in a small French village called Auxonne, about 25k outside Dijon. After fourteen hours in the car I’d decided to call it a night and pulled up the nearest lodgings on the sat nav. I paid the very reasonable sum of 35 Euros and checked into my small but clean room. I headed downstairs to find a restaurant but my hopes of rustic French cuisine were quickly dashed as I was informed everywhere would be closed. Clearly a woman in need of several glasses of red wine, the chap behind the desk took pity on me and invited me next door to the bar where he and some friends were having a lock in. It’s at this point I should probably clarify who the jeering crowd was; Maxwell - 68, Alex 72, Jean-Christophe 84 and a very overweight Labrador - Jaq, (77 in doggie years). All of whom had definitely eaten their and probably everyone else’ fair share or fois gras.

They were a fantastic crowd who took great interest in my journey and tried their hardest to persuade me that I should remain in France and nothing good, (least of all the men) was to be found in Italy. The wine, conversation, pate and cheese flowed long into the night and Alex took great hilarity in regaling the story of how Catherine the Great met her demise whilst making love to a horse. Oh how the guys laughed.

Feeling more than a little guilty at embarrassing my namesake in front of the gang Alex asked if I had an interest in fine wine. I responded with an emphatic “Yes!” and he scurried off returning several minutes later with two fantastic looking bottles of Chablis Premier Cru from his vineyard . He placed his palms together and to the side of his face gesturing that they should be left to sleep for at least fours years before drinking.

It was shortly after this that my school French failed me, the barman, (a youngster in his sixties) pulled from under the counter a selection of fancy women’s underwear and pointed them in my direction. I’ve no idea what he was saying but fearing some sort of OAP Anne Summers was about to commence I necked the last of my wine, said good night and left.

The following morning I drove to Verese just outside Milan via the Mont Blanc tunnel. Coughing and spluttering for all 11,8 k I eventually emerged looking like a sooty-faced extra from Oliver, (N:B: anyone with a convertible car should not attempt this journey with the roof down). With France and Switzerland behind me I had arrived in Italy.

The land of fine wine, fine food and f**king insane drivers. I say this as a woman who’s more than happy tearing her way around the streets of London but even for me, when a car appears from nowhere and starts flashing you to move over at 120 and it isn’t a copper you know you‘re not in Camden any more.

I’d arranged to meet with my old colleagues from the Vivendi Italy office, we dined and lunched on fantastic Tuscan cuisine, (mountains of anti pasti and a great mozzarella like cheese called Burrata) until I thought I’d rendered myself immobile, (too much food rather than Grappa I swear). Waving them goodbye, I embarked on the last stretch of the journey to my new home in Firenze.

So here I am, writing from the terrace of the apartment I’d always hoped I’d find myself in. The kind with huge wooden doors from the street, great stone steps, wrought iron railings, shuttered windows and a brass plaque with the owners name on it. Just moments from the Duomo and I can hear the early morning choir, their singing only interrupted by Italians chit chatting over cappuccinos and the polizei speeding around the city.

This afternoon I begin my classes with the professor at the Instituto Italiano after which I’ve arranged to meet Alberto a rather hot looking personal trainer who, according to his website will enable me to eat all the pasta and panna cotta I want for the next month and still keep my bikini boot camp body.

“When I’m not fighting, I make cakes.”

So there I am gaily dancing around the floor of my nearest, (and possibly shittiest nightclub). Drunk on booze, I head to the bar to order another round of cheap tequila and even cheaper white wine and the dude behind the counter starts chatting me up…

“So what do you do?“
“I travel around the world fighting men.”
“So what are you doing now? You out of a job?“
“No, when I’m not fighting I make cakes.”

It was then it suddenly dawned on me that rather than being a great quip, what I’d said was in fact true. This is my life. I necked the tequila and wine, then gagged and crunked a little longer.

Quite how I had time for a job I don’t know. Even though I’ve only been back in London moments I seem to have packed in an awful lot - quite literally. In addition to making seven of the eight tiers of wedding cakes for two sets of upcoming nuptials, attending one of West London’s least leading Drum and Bass nights, picking up and avoiding Italian bar men, an eleven hour lunch, a laughably failed mission on a hen night, meeting various blokes to talk about fighting, I’ve also finalised my departure from Ealing Green. There is now officially no longer a chez Channon and all my worldy belongings have been crated up and entrusted to some very nice men from Pickfords.

It’s official I’m now NFA. I am homeless in addition to jobless and manless. And in all honesty I can’t imagine feeling any better about being the epitome of a failure at all the things I should have achieved at least one of at 31 years of age.

Next up is the road trip that will lead me to Florence and my first non-fighting related endeavour. I’m going to attempt to learn Italian and study fine art. Contrived as it might sound it’s one of those things on the list of stuff I meant to do one day. And, rather than leave it any longer, next Monday will be the day. Donal and I are driving down there, (I still have use of the company convertible for a few more months). Donal is an Irish carpenter made good. He looks like Robinson Crusoe but with a slightly smaller beard and an Aston Martin, who leads a far more interesting life than Robo did on innumerable tax free islands. He’s a man that I lived with in Amsterdam for a while and somehow, unbeknownst to him or I, he perpetually attracts adventure making him a shed load of fun and the perfect ’road trip’ companion.

While I’m there I shall attempt to write up some of the fantastic interviews I conducted in Brazil with various fighters, (there’s been complaints from the boys about the absence of fighting news on the blog - sorry about that). Highlights include a common theme of fearing Muay Thai boxers, the history of Capoeira, the evolution of animal styles and a run in with some dodgy chaps in jim jams.

Prior to that I’ve got to finish the cakes so expect recipes in addition to a step by step, picture by picture, sponge/butter cream/marzipan and fondant run through.

Hot Wax

I’m on my last few days in Brazil (for now anyway). Shortly, I shall head back to London for my friend Andrea’s wedding preparations. Specifically the making her wedding cake - a three tier lemon sponge creation she’s picked from a magazine. Thankfully it’s not too complicated. (I have a habit, when confronted with the joyous news that one of my best friends has reached the holy grail of true love, of immediately opening another bottle in celebration and then offering to make the cake for the big day.)

Before I leave Rio I had hoped to seek out a boxing school for a few final rounds of training and a chance to try wrestling without a Gi. Specifically at a place called Luta Pela Pez, (Fight For Peace) situated in a favela and set up to channel the energies of young people living in the slum into a more productive outlet. Their website bares the saddening statistics that violence, primarily associated with firearms, is responsible for 59% of deaths of young people between the ages of 14 and 19 in Rio de Janeiro. In 2000, across the state of Rio, 6,218 people aged under 25 were killed by firearms. What’s even more tragic is that of these 609 were aged just 7 or less. Luta Pela Pez endeavours to alter these statistics by investing in young people and providing training.

Sadly, it seems that time is against me and this time around I won’t be able to make it there. However, with this and my samba school still on the ‘must do in Rio list’ I may make another stop here on my way to or from the Caribbean at Christmas.

There are many things for which Brazil is famous. With little interest in football I’ve been able to experience some of those less well known as well as the popular tourist traps. The highlights have to include the breathtaking scenery of Paraty and the city of Rio, the kindness and friendly approach of the locals in Tabares Bostos, the skill and agility of the Capoeira and Ju Jitsu fighters I’ve encountered, the hidden gems - both people and places and the fantastic food. Needless to say to try and take in even a fraction of Rio in just three weeks simply isn’t possible and I’m incredibly glad I have a return flight booked already.

So in the absence of any manly activity before leaving I decided to participate in one of the country’s most famous feminine exports. I could go into more detail here but I think today’s subject matter says enough and were I permanently based in a country where the smallest swim wear was de riguer the thorough, (yet mercifully swift) approach of the lady at the beauty salon might not have seemed quite so unfamiliar or in fact, invasive. But, needless to say now I can tick another Brazilian booty treatment off the list.

Slumming It

I must have done something very right in a previous life.

I’ve no idea what it was (being burnt as a witch if the old crone who once read my past life cards is to be believed). Whatever it was it would seem that, for me at least, this life is destined to be a high one.

Having returned to Rio noticeably slimmer and more toned than when I left, Leila (a fellow bikini booter) and I were dining at the Copacabana Palace. Here we toyed over the idea of whether heading into one of the favelas (slums) for the night was:
a) completely insane
b) a bit of an adventure
c) fantastic fodder for the blog
d) downright dangerous

Having weighed up the pros and cons and decided that it was probably a combination of all four, I plumped to give it a bash. On the back of a tip off from Paddy in Paraty I headed to a place called Maze, and a B&B of sorts run by Bob - the rather eccentric BBC Brazilian correspondent of ten years past. His house was located in the Tabares Bostos favela to the north of Copacabana.

To say the favelas have a bad reputation in Rio is like saying the Whore of Babylon was a woman of easy virtue. The setting for Fernando Meirelles’ City of God, they’re home to an estimated 20% of the city’s population and the majority of its drug and gun related crime.

With this in mind, when I asked the hotel concierge to book me a cab to take me there I was met with a mixture of disbelief and disdain. Ignoring my solicitation he continued to pore over the extensive room service bill of the fat American and his hooker to my right. Reiterating my request in a slightly more assertive tone I was assured that I couldn’t go into the favela alone and that if a local were to accompany me there they would need permission to enter from the gang leaders running the place.

Still keen to check it out but not wanting to take any unnecessary risks I called Bob who happily agreed to meet me and a cabbie on the edge of the favela and walk me in the rest of the way.

Twenty minutes later I was in a minicab heading up a winding cobbled road toward the slum, the closer we approached the more hap hazard the buildings became until we reached, quite literally, the end of the road. Towering up in front of us were story upon story of precarious self build shoeboxes and some of the dodgiest looking electrics you could possibly imagine.

I called Bob. He met me with a broad smile and a paternal arm around the shoulder then led through the ever decreasing alleyways of the slum towards his place, (pics 3-5). On arriving at Casa de Bob we entered through a wrought iron gate in a secluded doorway which led to a narrow stone staircase. I climbed the steps and couldn’t believe what greeted me at the top…

Imagine you've never seen Dr Who and you walked into a police phone box and saw the control deck of the Tardis behind it. The amazement and disbelief would be on a par with how I felt. To say Bob’s stunning place was unexpected is an understatement of monumental proportions. If you’d told me I was in an art gallery on the lower East side or somewhere off Hoxton square I’d have believed you. In the heart of Rio’s slums? Never. Open mouthed, Bob led me towards the back of the living area revealing a beautiful terrace and one of the best views in Rio (including the one from the Cour Corcovado). “Can I interest you in a glass of bubbly?”

It was surreal. Totally surreal. Champers in hand, I was introduced to a delightful group of ex pats and fellow travelers who’d also managed to make it to Casa de Bob and my timing, it seemed, was fantastic.

While the food in Brazil is amazing the one thing they lack is a decent ruby. Thankfully, using a selection of curried comestibles bought over from home, one of the locals cooked up an entire Indian banquet. Chicken tikka, lamb rogan josh, pilau rice, flat breads, mango chuntey - the whole shebang and the perfect antidote to a week of vegetarian fasting at Body and Soul. The food was fantastic and the company even better. Bob was a colourful character with some of the most interesting, emotive, harrowing and hilarious stories of his days in Beirut, Belfast, Brazil and Crouch End. As the wine and conversation continued to flow the sun set slowly over Sugar Loaf in the distance.

And there I was. In the heart of Rio’s slums listening to the sound of corks popping, flutes chinking and feasting on one of the best Indian curries you could ever hope to find this far west of Brick Lane.

Yes indeed, I really must have done something right somewhere along the way.

Bikini Booty

Goood Mooorrrning Pararty. Welcome to Body and Soul. Those of you wanting to look anywhere near socially acceptable in swimwear this year should rise and shine. It’s six am, the sun isn’t shining and you’ve got a full day of grueling exercise ahead of you.

Yep, you guessed it folks. I’ve reached boot camp. Bikini boot camp to be precise. Today we hiked for seven hours through the Brazilian jungle. Ross fell and twisted his knee, Louise has been bitten all over, Rodringo is fitter than your average iron man and I, after just four days off the fags, decided I’d run for a couple K just for the fun of it. Check. Me. Out.

Last Sunday morning saw my bikini body seeking campadres and I leave the mania and Mojitos of Rio behind us and make the three hour drive south to Paraty - a beautiful sixteenth century, Portuguese colonial town. A rag-tag bunch of fun-loving, city-slicking, divorced/single, meat-eating, booze-drinking folks all in search of a little good living of a different kind. And four days in it’s looking like we’ve found it.

Originally set up years back by a far more strict regime, the focus here at the camp used to be solely on loosing weight - at any cost. Now, while the results might have been radical in the short term, the number of overweight entertainment wannabes dropping like fat fighting flies half way through the trails and passing out over their paddles became too much (it’s rumoured that this is where Jade Goody’s agent sent her post BB2). Since then things have changed for the better:

06:00 Wake up call (without the booze or late nights it‘s really not so bad)

06:30 Yoga, (I am sure I’m getting less flexible by the day)

08:00 Breakfast, (lots of fruit, yoghurt and a sprinkling of granola. Carbs are kept to a minimum and acai - an Amazonian fruit which, according to Singaporean lawyer Leila, is currently all the rage in NYC. It’s often served frozen and has the look of Nuttella and taste of Hubba Bubba about it)

09:00 Six and eight hours of hiking or kayaking, (Friday it’s a combination of both)

18:00 Yoga, (we’ve yet to have an evening session where at least one of us hasn’t fallen asleep)19:30 Massage, (aside from the eating the best part of the day)

20:30 Dinner, (all food is vegetarian and, it goes without saying, booze is definitely off the menu)

While the schedule doesn’t leave a lot of time for loitering and the level of activity is pretty constant, the emphasis is very much on doing things at your own pace and making the most of seeing the sights as well as feeling the burn. The fighting fit amongst us usually speed on ahead with Rodrigo the local guide, a handsome chap who’s currently in training for a 700k mile triathlon, while those wishing to take a more leisurely approach can loiter at the back with Paddy, an amiable ex Pat who’s more than happy to hold on while you faff with your camera and stop for a restorative raisin or five.

Evenings are devoted to hot showers, massages, yoga, talk of mosquito bites and dinner. Meals are strictly vegetarian, accompanied by ginger tea and, I have to say, are very satisfying indeed, (although I still wistfully look to the kitchen each day in the hope of pudding when the plates are cleared).

The combination of fresh air, plenty of exercise, good food and a little time for the soul is a wonderful thing and the perfect antidote to the PR merry-go-round of fags, booze, super rich food and a phone that never stops ringing.

I’m almost half way through and while there are parts of the day that really push your physical and mental stamina, I’m absolutely loving it. I’m not sure that I’m actually getting any thinner but I’m certainly getting fitter and if the guns were good before I left, yesterday’s five hour kayak across choppy seas followed by a mountain of greens for lunch will see me popping spinach cans with my bare hands in no time.

Gi Whizz

I can only see out of my left eye. My right cheek and eyelid are so swollen they've closed over each other. As such, this morning's trip to the Ju Jitsu school saw the women on reception look at this little gringo fighter with a whole new level of respect.

Now, while I'd love to say that this was as a result of several rounds with Georges St Pierre, (a UFC fighter who’s also at the school right now) I'm afraid I can not - although the Gracie's are in a round about way responsible.

The elation of my first night at Gracie Camp soon came to an abrupt end at around 4am when my attic room became infested with mosquitoes - the camp is situated on the banks of a slow running canal. Said mozzies decided to have breakfast, lunch, dinner, elevenses, afternoon tea and bedtime snack on the right hand side of my face. While this was unpleasant enough, the effects of the allergic reaction were far, far worse, (see picture 1). Despite the discomfort and looking like the inbred half sister of the elephant man I braved the morning lesson at the Gracie school and I’m very glad that I did.

In the few short hours of my Ju Jitsu training so far I feel as though I’ve gained an insight into a fighting style that - contrary to my preconceptions - is creative, complex and, (this will sound obvious to anyone who knows anything about Ju Jitsu), bugger all to do with brute strength. There are certain grapples that I am now party to that - should I ever find myself victim of a mugger of any size who just so happens to be wearing Gi - I can easily employ to choke hold the assailant to death (assuming he has no fighting skills of his own, of course).

Casting aside the obvious aesthetic pleasure which any hot blooded woman could have found in the scene at the gym, the way in which the two fighters move, contort and tie themselves - their gis and their belts - into each other really is a work of art. Not in a Caravaggion/Brokeback sort of sense, but as if they were some kind of human mathematical puzzle. In my training I had been told on several occasions to refrain from exerting too much energy, Ju Jitsu truly isn’t about the physical force but the mental ability to unravel this complex creature conundrum to a point of domination.

I’m not quite sure what I had expected from this trip or my stay at the camp. Initially if I’m honest, much of it was based on the fact that when asked what I intended to do with my redundancy saying “I’m heading to Rio baby” sounded as cool as fuck. Saying, “I’m headed to Rio baby to fight” sounded way cooler. But I’m beginning to think that, a mere five days in, this trip I’ve planned will teach me far more about myself, the worldwide location of hot and fit men and why and how men fight than I had ever anticipated.

Camp? This place couldn't be any more hetero.

Today saw the beginning of both my martial arts training and quest to become a femme fatale of international renown.

I arrived at the Gracie Camp (http://www.graciecamp.com/) mid morning, bleary eyed after the discovery that Caipirinha's and I are unlikely to ever be friends. My inability to speak Portugese is also going to be an ongoing problem. Despite the hangover and language barrier, we, (myself, Jussy and the glamorous sister of Mr Royce Gracie himself) managed to communicate that I possess no fighting skills whatsoever. In return we gleaned that I can look forward to a breakfast of toast and fruit - the absence of both bacon and eggs having been highlighted to me at great length.

Feeding formalities out of the way, I was checked into the camp, my bags bundled upstairs into a sparse attic room (think Anne Frank's house meets Edwards Scissor Hand's lofty abode) and Jussy waved me off. He wore a look of pity I've not seen since my Mother left me at the gates of boarding school.

Left to my own devices before the evening's schooling, I discovered the following things:
1) All Brazilian men wear Speedos at the beach - no bad thing given point 2
2) There are an awful lot of very hot men in Brazil
3) One should never go rummaging in the cupboards at any sort of martial arts camp - you never know who's jock strap you might stumble across
4) If you're going running ensure the bottled water you're drinking is sans gas, con gas on top of all that jiggling proves rather unpleasant
5) Some folks really are living the high life in Rio - the local petrol station stocks not one but three different brands of foie gras and Veuve by the magnum

Back from my jaunt with my training was due to start at 6 o'clock. By five to I still had no idea what to wear. This wasn't so much a fashion conundrum, more a practical one as I'd been reliably informed by the other occupants of the camp that I wouldn't be able to fight with a gi, (pronounced ghee - a judo suit to the ill informed). Thankfully Murillo, (one of the chaps who works at the camp) agreed to lend me his, saving me both the embarrassment of being underdressed and around $300.

The rest of the boys at the camp were having a night off, which left me heading to the school alone. I arrived and proceeded straight to the fourth floor of the Gracie School of Ju Jitsu. On climbing the final flight of stairs a ridiculous grin grew across my sunburnt cheeks. In part this was a nervous reaction to how ridiculous I must have looked - the only gringo in town, dressed in a suit clearly meant for a man more than twice my size. However, and I'd like to draw your attention to point 2 on the list of things I learnt today, I was the only woman surrounded by an awful lot of very fit, partially clothed men currently all wrestling with each other. If this wasn't enough to get the pulse racing, the realisation that for the next two hours I was going to be in 'heavy contact' with them all was.

Needless to say 120 minutes of thigh clenching, chest pressing, straddling, rough and tumble later I've found a love for studying Brazilian Ju Jitsu I never imagined possible. Roll on tomorrow morning's class...

Baby It's Hot Outside

After thirteen and a half tedious hours, five repeats of Sex In The City: The Movie and four hot air stewards stranded in economy, (it's where you go if you turn right) I've finally arrived in Rio De Janeiro. And my word is it warm this close to the equator.

I've installed myself in a beautiful condo for the night, care of chez family Wilson, and I have to say it's all very civilised. So far I've managed to avoid any troublesome encounters in the Favelas (slums), and Jussy located a lovely restaurant around the corner that serves delicious Argentinian carpaccio and a refreshingly light Sauvignon Blanc for lunch. It's a far cry from the rough and ready start I had feared while downing numerous glasses of medicinal Chablis at Terminal 4 last night.

An early evening trawl through google maps has led me to locate the Gracie Camp just around the corner near the beach at Barra - about twenty minutes from the centre of Rio. This is where I'll head tomorrow for the first of my Ju Jitsu lessons before trekking south to Parati where my 'bikini boot camp' kicks off.

Just heading out to dinner at Porcao for traditional Brazillian fare – which, according to the ex pat ladies who lunch, will consist of plenty of meat. It’s here where my quest to find the best Caipirinha's in Brazil will also begin...