69. Caribbean Paradise

7th March 2014, Now Larimar, Punta Cana, Dominican Republic

After being greeted with champagne upon our arrival at the very gorgeous hotel in Punta Cana I knew we would get on just fine there.  Never mind that the ‘champagne’ was reduced alcohol cava from Spain....

 

The deal we got when booking our trip to the Dominican Republic seemed way too good to be true so I entered the hotel with a great portion of suspicion and expected to find myself in a hot and humid version of Fawlty Towers.

 

Imagine my surprise when we enter an amazing and massive room with one of the comfiest queen size beds I have ever slept in (or jumped on). Fully stocked free mini bar, huge balcony perfect for wine and gossip and our very own Jacuzzi in the bathroom.

 

At first, the rose petals on the bed raises very little suspicion – maybe it was just Caribbean custom or I guess Hell’s Bells and I could technically be honeymooning… In separate beds. Plus I may have told them we were engaged so I would get myself some freebies. No, I have no real morals and single people are suffering discrimination every day not getting any romance related free gifts.

 

The bottle of champagne, fruit and chocolates, however – seemed a bit over the top perhaps. Then we realised that neither of us are called Natalia and neither of us turned 40 that day. But we were hungry and thirsty. Sorry Natalia. Later on in the week we also ate Anna's birthday cake. Sorry Anna.

 

(I'm not really that sorry)

 

Heading down to the beach for a late night stroll, the excitement at finally being in the Caribbean took over from the jet lag just a little bit, with Hell’s Bells dancing around the beach like the mad woman I already knew she is.

-Can you believe we are actually in THE CARIBBEAN??

-Yes, Hell’s Bells, we just spent 12 hours on a plane.

-But can you believe it?? We’re in, like, THE CARIBBEAN!

-Yes. Again – I was on the same flight.

-Shut up and be excited bitch.

 

In spite of nearly dying from the jet lag, we managed to make it to dinner. Seated on the patio, being served wine, fresh seafood and a mountain of little cakes, we were getting more and more convinced that we had arrived in Paradise.

The following morning as we wake up to glorious sunshine and the sound of the ocean, we get the final confirmation that this is actually Paradise. The breakfast buffet has an actual Bloody Mary and Mimosa station.

You have to jump on the hotel bed. It's the law.

Yep. Happy Birthday Natalia.

Standard wine and barbeque lunch.

A pretty decent breakfast view.

Hell's Bells at one of many amazing dinners.

Don't you give me those eyes Hell's Bells.

The beautiful Dominican Republic seen from the kayak that didn't tip over.

 

68. Tripping it with Hell's Bells

7th March 2014, Across the Atlantic, Earth, Universe

Hell’s Bells has grown to be my main partner in crime since her move to London 4 years ago.

Whether it’s having wine in our chimpanzee pyjamas from Primark whilst watching Bridget Jones, having highly inappropriate conversations about our men of the month at fancy brunch venue, scaring the posh people at the next table or partying to the sound of the 85 year old reggae DJ at Barrio East (whilst it was still cool) – we always have a blast together and there are few people that can make me laugh that hard at the most ridiculous things.

After 13 years of friendship, we have never been on a proper trip together. Not counting the school trips to Athens and Berlin aged 16 and 17 (all we recall is an old lady shouting Agamemnon at us midst Ouzo hangovers), the road trip to our friend’s birthday party in the small town three hours away from our small town or the long weekend to Mallorca (the posh end, not Magaluf). So on a mojito fuelled night out in the cold boring London winter of 2013, it was decided; we were going to Jamaica!

Actually, Cuba would do too. The Maldives? The Seychelles?

We ended up going with Dominican Republic, booking a lovely hotel where we could tan, eat, drink and be merry for a wonderful week away from gloomy London.

Not getting off to the best start, I was two hours late meeting Helen at London Bridge to take the train to good old Gatwick. It obviously didn’t help that her phone didn’t work and the last location I managed to get out of her was a friend messaging me saying that Helen is waiting for you at ‘the Narrow’. Like the pub the Narrow? Is Gordon Ramsay now also represented at London Bridge train station? After running around, trying to find the Narrow at London Bridge I find Hell’s Bells outside of Nero. So, no, Gordon Ramsay is not represented at London Bridge.

After a night at Sofitel Gatwick (where I fell asleep with wine glass in one hand and a cheese pretzel in the other like the classy lady I am), we were ready to start our holiday.

Being very tired we kept ourselves entertained by performing a duet of Macklemore’s Thrift Shop. Fellow passengers, not as entertained. Now I will leave it unsaid if this was due to our lack of talent or the fact that our version went something like ‘I’m gonna pop some… jazz? Only got 20 dollars in my pocket, la la la la-la, la la la la-la, this is fucking AWESOME’. Rest assure, we will not be applying for the X Factor this year either.

I have a long history of landing myself in the most screwed up travelling situations there has ever been. We’re talking me having to get my knee stitched up passing through security after having cut it right open, fires on the plane, various psychotic travel companions and US Marshalls arresting the guy next to me right before take-off. This time someone died.
I should probably stop travelling altogether. I realise that this isn’t funny. But seriously – why is it always my flights?

Clearly not off to the best start, we finally got on the plane, 90 minutes late and we could finally get going. Being exhausted beyond reason and having copious amounts of red wine at 11 AM promises one hell of an entertaining flight. Again, more for me and Hell’s Bells than our fellow passengers… Although I think the man next to me grew to like my impersonation of Sheldon from the Big Bang theory.

During a very speedy stop over at Antigua I and Hell’s Bells decided to get out on Antiguan soil to tick it off our bucket list as well. Apparently when the staff tells you to stay in your seat as they are literally just letting new passengers on the plane they actually mean that literally. They also have very little tolerance to ‘the air is free’ jokes.

Finally arriving in Punta Cana, we are greeted by a reggae band at what is the second smallest airport I have ever seen and ushered to the transfer area where we have to try and recall what little Spanish we did learn in high school. Somehow we felt that ordering strawberry ice cream and correctly identifying the colour of our grandfather’s bicycle wasn’t going to cut it.

Once in the car, we could only hope that we had managed to get the driver the correct address and also that he wasn’t going to kill us and sell us for spares. Driving through a jungle with oddly shaped fires on the ground did not put us at ease. In fact, by the time we arrived at the hotel I was convinced we’d be part of a ritual killing and that someone would be having my recently manicured foot for dinner. Maybe this is why people accuse me of being judgemental.

So, after 11 hours on a plane, no ritual killings and only the one death – this show was finally on the road!

Getting close!

 

First steps at Dominican Republic and first glance at a Caribbean sunset.

67. The Suitcase and The Nutcase

5th March 2014, John Lewis, Canary Wharf, London

My parents got me this wonderful gigantic pink Titan suitcase for my 20^th birthday. I was 25 when I broke it and my packing technique has since been… Well let’s just say interesting.

For the last two years or so, I have travelled around with a Norwegian trekking style back pack wherever I’ve gone. And whilst it worked when walking through the Himalayas, it has not quite fit the picture when checking into 5 star hotels.

It was time. I needed a suit case fit for the grown up people expect me to be. Preferably a leopard printed one with tassels.

I had to settle for a practical sturdy one. At least it is pink.

Following an incident with the pink Titan suitcase I have learned the hard way to always mark up your suit case. Let’s just say, the assumption that no one else will have the same suit case can lead to coming back to your parents’ house and find the suitcase you brought with you from the airport filled with salami. Plus a pair of giant sized man pants and a half drunk bottle of beer with a screw cap.

 

Unfortunately, the only thing available in my house to mark up the suit case were Waitrose stickers from my last shop. They don’t exactly say ‘cool’. I’m sorry for shaming you bag.

 

Any bets at how long the new suit case will survive?

66. Into the Wild

2nd March 2014, Natural History Museum, Kensington, London

Again, I am not the most cultural of people.

But whilst my understanding for paintings and statues is lacking on oh so many levels, I can actually really appreciate some good photography.

Having wanted to go to the Wildlife Photographer of the Year exhibition since moving to London all those years ago but not getting around to it, I was thrilled when my favourite Yummy Mummy called me up to ask if I wanted to go hang with her and the Little Man at the Natural History Museum. Never mind having to trek to West London and hang out the crowded tourist hell that is South Kensington on a Sunday.

In the end, it was two Yummy Mummies, two toddlers and a 28 year old kinder gardener who rocked up at the museum one very cold Sunday afternoon. Seriously, why won’t grownups get how fantastic those dinosaurs are?! They’re like real life actual dinosaurs. Only kind of dead. Like space creatures who once walked this planet and who were here first. Show some respect.

After my excitement at seeing the skeleton of a Little Foot dinosaur and having had to explain who the hell Little Foot is I was ushered to the main event and the most fantastic photographs I have probably ever seen. How people can capture these beautiful things through a lens is beyond me.

The most amazing section of all was without a doubt the Young Photographer one. How can anyone be that God damn talented aged 11? The photographs were astounding and so creatively shot I just stood there staring for ages in awe of their work. Amazing photos of crocodile mothers caring for their babies, the destruction of the Amazons and flying squirrels caught playing mid-air. When I was 11 I still used colouring books. Well, strictly speaking I haven’t stopped using them, but you get the point.

 

Continuing through the exhibition I was more and more amazed by all the close ups of mountain lions having dinner in Russia, polar bears breaking through the ice from underneath it and thousands of birds painting the sky black.

 

Now this is wildlife I could get on board with.

Yep, that's the queue.

65. Farewell to the Higginssons

1st March 2014, The Water Poet, Shoreditch, London

I wish I could say that I have been really supportive when it comes to the Higginssons’ decision to move to Oz.

Only I have really not been. Oz is stupid. Moving to Oz is stupid. All it is is Koala beers, getting eaten alive by giant spiders and murderous crocodiles, drinking Fosters which is like the worst of beers and hanging out on Bondi Beach every freaking day. News flash people – Koalas really aren’t all that cute plus I hear they’re perverted. And I have been to Bondi Beach and it kind of smelled. Koalas are stupid. Bondi is stupid.

My campaign on Keeping The Higginssons In The UK started just after their September wedding. Let’s face it, they’re lucky my bride’s maid speech wasn’t a protest rally rather than a poem.

Since September there’s been a constant flow of subtle hints at the stupidity of all that is Oz and the greatness of the UK. This has not worked.

There’s also been the less subtle evil stares at Mr Higginsson  (yes I blame him for all this nonsense) at the very mentioning of the land down under. Also not worked.

And occasionally, there’s been the completely unsubtle attacks on Mr Higginsson for being born Australian and for basically kidnapping one of the best friends in the world and taking her away to the other side of the planet to where the savages live. She’s tiny, he should know she won’t be able to fight off the savages all by herself. Sharing this information, also did not work. Plus Mr Higginson now thinks I’m kind of a racist.

Eventually a girls has to admit defeat. Or so they tell me. So I reluctantly made it to their leaving drinks and at the last minute also decided to leave the banners and the t-shirts at home and accept the fall down of the Swafia* and the loss of the lovely Higginssons.

Drinks were at the Water Poe. This was very appropriate considering all the fun and sometimes crazy times we’ve had there over the years. It’s our re occurring venue for boozy Sunday roasts with the team, lazy Saturdays in the sunny garden when the UK decides to acknowledge this thing called summer and epic Eurovision nights cheering Sweden on no matter how crap the song. Seriously, the Swafia* theme tune is to this day Euphoria by Loreen.

I didn’t cry. Well let’s face it, I’m the Ice Queen, but even I struggled to keep the tears away on several occasions this evening. And this was in spite of knowing I get to keep Mrs Higginsson for another month whilst Mr Higginsson was heading off the next day already.

It was one of those great epic nights that only this team can pull together. Spending the whole night in the garden having wine, spilling wine, laughing at all the bad jokes other people most likely would never get (sexual tyrannosaurus anyone?) and all sorts of trips down a very long and amazing memory lane.

Spending the hour after the Water Poet closing looking for bars without a ridiculous queue to wait in and without a guest list is not completely untypical for our group. Winding up at a random, somewhat dodgy club on one of the backstreets of Shoreditch is also not untypical. There were ping pong tables and drag queens. That’s all I have to say.

The night continued in the spirit of laughing and crazy dancing definitely not fit for any of the reality shows. But man did we have fun.

Until it was time to say our goodbyes. And the Swafia* is now officially broken with one half of my very favourite couple leaving us on a jet plane with the other half soon to follow him, embarking on their big Oz adventure.

This is the end of an era folks. And, Oz is stupid.

The traitors themselves.

Sad Face 1

Sad Face 2

Sad Face 3 & 4

Sad Face 5

Sad Face 6

Sad Face 7

Las group shot. Ever.

*Swafia = the Swedish Mafia, my London team consisting of 50% Swedes and 50% people who live their lives eating crayfish with the Swedes, watching the Swedish Chef clips whilst having champagne and dancing around the midsummer pole.

64. Little Food, Big Wines

26th February 2014, L'Autre Pied, Marylebone, London

51 Michelin star restaurants in this town - what are the odds two of them are called something with 'feet'?

Taking my friend Scotty (not the goose) out to a fancy dinner for his birthday did not come off to the best start with both of us heading to the other restaurant called something 'feet' in French and having to rush over to the right set of feet.

We got there in the end. Starting the evening off with a classy discussion on appropriate attire for sugar daddies, causing a few nasty stares from the woman next to us with a £5,000.00 hand bag, we were not doing the whole being posh thing so well. But at least we ordered champagne. Well, I did. I was after all the sugar daddy that evening.

So, 7 courses to go and as many glasses of wine. With those teeny tiny bits of food, you might expect the glasses of wine to compliment them to be tiny as well. We soon learned that this was not the case. We were OK with that.

I am not going to go through the dishes in excruciating detail. Primarily because there were 7 courses and a lot of ingredients in all of them, but also because I was on information overload and can't actually say what was in most of them, other than yumminess (and some type of avocado foam). But we do have pictures.

Other than me finally getting to eat at a Michelin starred restaurant, I also enjoyed getting to confuse Scott's inner gentleman by picking up the bill at the end of it and resisting the urge at slipping him 100 quid and tell him to go buy himself something pretty.

Only next time I may not want to end the evening with forgetting to compliment the food and going on about how amazing the bread basket was....

The very fancy and very long menu

Amuse bouche

Radish salad

Mackerel

Cod

Not Cod (Scotty doesn't do fish)

Hogget (like a hog piglet?)

Not mackerel (see not cod)

Pre dessert (because god forbid there's just the one dessert)

Dessert

Post dessert

Happy camper at the fancy French feet place!

About to inhale dessert

63. Cocktails at the Safari

26th February 2014, Mr Foggs, Mayfair, London


Having heard about Mr Fogg's as one of the best cocktail bars in London, I have always wanted to go. I clearly had no idea what I was getting myself into.
Not knowing much about the place, I just kept hearing of the amazing cocktails and uber posh clientele, I was rather surprised when I found myself walking down a dark alley way in Mayfair seemingly leading to nowhere. Other than potentially to me getting killed, raped and kidnapped. Probably not in that order.

Stumbling into three young and rather dashing men in full on 1920's style safari gear did not ease my confusion at all. After about 5 minutes of even more confusing conversation, I finally figured out that the trio was not part of some odd safari themed club out to kill innocent (oh, well...) Swedish girls who just happened to be a bit thirsty.

The most wonderful bouncers I have ever met assured me that I was not going to get sold to a trafficking league and let me through the door they were guarding.

As soon as I walked through the door, I was met by the most surreal surroundings of my life and I was at a loss for words. And for those who know me - and that hasn't happened since the launch of Outnet.com.

Bird cages for lamps, stuffed crocodiles and Jim Dale reading Around The World In 80 Days in the bathroom. I'm still amazed.

And the cocktails... Oh man, the cocktails really were fantastic. Once I had that first Trans Siberian Railway in my hand it was well worth the 12 minutes it took for the beautiful man in khakis to mix it up.

Next I spotted Chloe Green. My Made In Chelsea loving heart skipped a beat and enormous amounts of self control was required for me to not approach her and tell her I basically want to be her. Or maybe even her PA. Or maid. I'm not fussy.

I normally am quite opposed to live performances in bars and restaurants - it usually just gets quite silly and a bit too much Disney World for my liking. But when Phileas Fogg himself shows up with Jean Passepartout in tow telling tales of elephant hunts and treasures found in Calcutta, before kicking off an insect eating contest, I actually find myself absolutely loving it. Plus Mr Fogg himself popped over to give me a glass of elephant gin.

This place is splendid, just splendid. Plus I now need to read Jules Verne.

 

20 minutes in the making, 3 minutes to finish. Just my kind of drink.