Bad Looks and Bum Washing

You said it

No no no no no

I forgot to mention last time around that the "scrunchie" was back in town. Those things are everywhere. Particularly at American Apparel where they have a different coloured scrunchie for everyday of the year. I first noticed it's prominence the last time I was in Japan. And unfortunately I kind of admired it. The Japanese can make anything look good. But how on earth did it cross the barrier between being fashion vomit and fashion must have? As many of us slightly tragic types remember, it was basically a scrunchie that broke up Carrie and Berger. He may have not dumped her with a post-it that episode, but it was the beginning of the end. We all knew it.

I decided to further investigate. Apparently (it is argued) that good old Hilary Clinton brought it back into the spotlight, and turned it from euggggghhh to oooooohhhh.  Naturally Hilary wasn't being adventurous with her fashion choices.  She would have just discovered one of Chelsea's old ones when she was in her bedroom trying to break the lock on her teenage diary (Chealsea looks like the kind of chick who kept a diary right through). Mum's are allowed to read diaries by the way. It's for the child's own good. Except for mine - she better keep her scraggy hands off glitter pink is all I can say.   Little did Hilly know, but her attempt to smear back those old wilting locks was spotted by Mary Kate Olsen, who was all over that look faster than a former vegetarian at a bacon fry off. Sienna Miller jumped on board, and before the world knew it. The srunch was on round 2. Back in '86, a woman called Rommy Revson was credited for it's discovery (not exactly E = mc2 though is it Rommy?), amidst claims that she named it after her poodle. Indeed she did patent it (and has become extremely wealthy by suing everyone who ripped it off), but apparently it was really invented by Philip E. Meyers for a family bearing the name “ Scrunci” in 1963.....old Phil was just a bit late off the mark....

Making the srunch all hers

She's covered in crap but all I see is boobs and vagines

I'm sickened to admit it, but with images of that Japanese chick adjusting hers around her top knot in the toilets at the train station, I bought 2. One bleached out denim, and one satin pink.. They look like crap. There's a few things that come back around that look just all kinds of fucked up. I find myself kind of hating the 80s/early 90 revival items. Shoulder pads look ridiculous, bubble skirts unflattering, and acid wash still looks in my eyes like it is worn by a chick called Shazza, who works at Coles and drives a dented Datsun.





Maybe the era in which you grew up just offers little redeeming features when recycled. My Mum always hated 70s style revival and my Granny loathed 50s fashion. I wonder what my Great Grandmother would have said to see that 20s fashion was making another claim for attention. In this instance she can point the finger at The Great Gatsby. I haven't seen it yet, but by god I can't wait. I love the book (it's in my top 10 for sure), but that kind of sentiment that reads so beautifully in written form, just doesn't make the same impact on film. Has anyone ever seen the 70s version with Robert Redford and Mia Farrow. It's unwatchable pus.

This just says it all really

This was the only one salvageable

But I do love all things 20s, so maybe the spectacular-ness of it all will be enough. Give a shit or not,  the 20s are once again back. All the copied-from-New-York style speakeasies that have opened in Melbourne hammer this home. I can't wait to go and enter them through bookcases and tap on secret doors (really truly), and order whiskey in a teacup.  Actually I hate whiskey so make that absinthe. I once went to a warehouse party in Brooklyn with my friend Harriet that was a secret "speakeasy" type of set-up her then flatmate had organised. You had to dress in 1920s, and the party itself was extremely difficult to find. But finally we spotted a dude in a hat and long white scarf. He showed us the entrance, and once we pushed aside the red velvet curtain we were transported almost 90 years back in time. There was a 20s band (everyone dancing 20s style), burlesque dancers hanging from ropes, and a fire show. There was a lot of champagne and plenty of absinthe too. The presence of the green fairy herself, explains the fact that we were one of the last to leave, and more than a bit messy - I tripped and fell across some tables while I was trying to thank Harriets flatmate for putting on a great shindig, if I remember rightly. I have no excuse. But let me try...... it was my first time off the breastfeeding leash, having left that world behind when the girls were 8 months old. Convince anybody?  The photos are damning. I'd show you more, but I'm saving them up to blackmail my best friend - of course photo shopping myself out first. I'll give you a hint - she struggled to take her headband off (think of a pushed up nose coupled with a expression of frustration and pain) and I had the camera handy at the time.......

Way, WAY before my retina's became burnt out

I also went to a particularly enjoyable 1920s style 40th birthday up in Byron. Another first - on this occasion, it was the first time ever we had left our 18 month old girls behind for 2 nights, to fly interstate to get messy. Who doesn't love knowing that your little scum bags are separated by Bass Strait? And who doesn't love a dress up (well, Chalky hates them, but what does he matter?). Although, it was a little hard to work out who everyone was in the dark come to think of it. Two memories really stand out here. One, I had a leach stuck in the palm of my hand which was extremely difficult to get out, and slightly freaky considering the circumstances. The second, involved a couple of rather ill timed trips to the toilet. The first time the bathroom was lit up badly by candles and I almost pulled down my pants and sat on some dude hunched over the toilet. I bolted quickly, gave him 10 mins grace, and then burst back in the door. Again with the poorly lit atmosphere (you wouldn't have been wanted to reapply make up). Anyway I was almost to the toilet once more, when I spotted him again......or was it someone else? It was hard to tell - this time whoever it was had one foot was up on the side of the bath and he was actually washing out his arse with the detachable shower head. I was close enough to see the look on his face - incidentally it was one of complete horror mixed with shame. I turned and bolted. From then on I did my wee in the bushes outside - losing a vintage earring in the process. I told a few people people about the candlelit anal wash down. One of my friends replied "Was he trying to make it romantic for himself?" Luckily for him it was dark enough, and I was suitably blurry eyed not to determine who it actually was, despite the eye contact and the look of desperation. I probably didn't know him anyway.......

Not long after - see the squint

Anyway, as you can tell, this is a blog about nothing. Really I am trying to avoiding telling everyone that I am back in the Caribbean, sitting outside and watching the puffy clouds float through skies of purple and pink. We've been here two and a half weeks. I just couldn't bear to tell you all, considering that my mother informed me that it was reading 2 degrees in my homelands the other morning. That's ugly. Oh well, I'll be back there myself before too long bitching with the rest of you. But in the meantime, I want to assure that all my friends and family will still be talking to me. Therefore, I will resisting posting too many photos of me in my bathers holding aloft a pina colada - why do people always hold their drinks up proudly in holiday photos? It's like "Hi everyone look I'm drinking a wine - this time in Greece.....Woooo Hoooo, I'm out an of control international booze hound!!!!". Anyway, rest assured that I am currently being eaten alive by mosquitoes, my sandals are moldy, and I'm about to go and check my rice for weevils before cooking dinner.....somethings never change - especially life in the far east Caribbean.

Forgive me.......

It's Square To Be Hip

And it's cute to be cute

Williamsburg Bridge...I think

We made the transition off the rock of Manhattan to further shores.  Not that much further though.  Basically just over the Williamsburg bridge.  It was our first time to actually stay in Brooklyn.  Although we'd visited Williamsburg before, it wasn't until the first couple of hotels sprung up on Wythe and North 12th, that we had an easy option for staying there.  Incidentally, it is these two hotels that many believe have sounded the death knell for Williamsburg.  Not financially of course - it is only going further up in that regard.  But many people believe that the integrity of the area is now compromised now that the tourist scum have hit town.  Fair call.  Although really, what a load of shit.  Any former residents from the 90s would also claim that the area has been fucked up since the hipsters came to town, and jazzed it all up from it's former seedy roots.

Hangin' out just shootin' the shit with ma bros

But doesn't that happen everywhere?  Everybody always claims places and things were better (and more happening) when they were there years before.  That they did it first, "discovered" it,  and made it cool when all the present day goers were little shits teasing the fat kid from the back of the school bus.  That's life.  Maybe it was better then, maybe it's better now.  Who knows.  Or maybe it's a way for old cunts to still feel relevant when they just aren't anymore.  Move with the times, accept you are middle aged and a has-been.  Look at old photos, drink some shots and talk to other old fucks.  It always feels better when you surrender to it.  Let me promise you something though, you will always look like the "old guy" to all the 20 year olds, and you won't get a head job unless just maybe you've got heaps of cocaine to hand out to the slutty young chicks.  Fine, go ahead.....Just leave before sunrise.  Do yourself that favour.

Like.... OMG is that kale organic?

Williamsburg is currently so fucking hip that it's nauseating.  I don't think I have ever stepped foot in a more happening place in my life.  I feel confident to proclaim it "The Coolest Place on the Planet" right now.  It's pretty much too cool really, like it's going to explode with style and splatter pieces of art student, vintage clothes and kale all over the lower east side of Manhattan.  I felt like a middle-aged Martha Stewart-type.  Thank fuck that cute kids are a "now" accessory or I'm sure I would have been kicked out for crimes against banality.  Every store, every bar, every restaurant  is obscenely brilliant.  The street art is sublime, the outfits inspirational, and it's the head quarters for my favourite magazine/TV show (apart from Game of Thrones) - Vice.  Enough said. It's also very neighbourhoody and has huge parks nearby, a weekend farmers market (where you can fill your bags with enough biodynamic crap to make green power smoothies for all your little film major mates), and a fantastic view of Manhattan over the river.

Basically it's shit hot, and it knows it.

Yeah I'm hot shit too (thinks the dude in the white top)

City Scape

Speaker seat

We were staying a one of the previously mentioned hotels that have arrived to fuck shit up.  Actually, our hotel was all kinds of fucked up itself - but they didn't mention that when we made the booking.  Massive renovations were underway, which meant that you had to enter through the basement, and also that the reception area was inside a hotel room on the 6th floor.  There was no restaurant either.  To have breakfast you sort of awkwardly went into a tiny room next to reception and sat on one of two couches around the wall next to strangers, and hoped that a pittance of the miserable spread they put on was still available for consumption.  I stopped going after the second day.  First order of business was hair.  Got it cut and dyed.  Nothing like long grey roots to give the jig up.  Chalky said my eventual hairstyle looked like it was done by a fat middle-aged woman.  He was right.  She was also Italian. Think Jesrsey-Shore.

Vintage is like.... so now - if you know what I mean

Whipping up pizzas for all

As we were staying in Brooklyn, I decided that the time had come to take the girls to the Brooklyn Children's Museum.  I'd wanted to for several visits, but just hadn't been able to psychologically bring myself to step off Manhattan.  This time I took a cab.  The driver got lost and I ended paying a fortune for the taxi ride.  The museum was worth it though.  What a place.  One side of it was set up like a city street with all different stores.  There was a pizza shop where you make your own pizzas and cook them (out of felt ingredients).  Valli was all over that shit.  Her biggest dream is to be a "restaurant lady".  She gave out menus, made the pizzas, answered the phone and worked the cash register.  The international food supermarket was also a hit.  The goods were realistic and plentiful.  The girls filled their baskets, worked the cash registers, moved their shopping on the conveyor belt and wore green aprons.  Then there was the Caribbean Travel agency, Valli was taking reservations on the phone, while Cordi was out the back designing her own costume for Carnival.  There was also a Mexican bakery, a Chinese bookstore, a train, a river system, a vegetable patch, a toy bonanza and a water world.  It was very hard to drag them out of there.

Cordi favours anchovies alone

takes it to the next level - large, but still with only anchovies

spewing that there's no actual cash inside - she hands me my bill

that plastic turkey was as heavy as the real thing

Takes a reservation

Cordi works on her outfit

Nice job darling

There were no taxis when I left, so I thought I'd walk a few blocks to a street I saw, that I knew ran all the way back to Williamsburg, and flag one down there.  The thing with New York is that neighbourhoods change pretty quickly.  I kind of noticed that I was the only whitey for miles around once I started walking, but as I kept going the area quickly digressed into the kind of dodgy zone you read about on the news.  There were down and outs everywhere, and most seemed to be fucked up on nasty shit.  One guy was laughing hysterically, smelt like poo and was putting handfuls of leaves under people's windscreen wipers.  Another guy was swaying back and forth, blocking the middle of the footpath with his eyes rolled back in his head.  I had to walk under some building scaffolding and the entire way along was filled with dodgy types lurking in the shadows unable to move.  Either in that state, or in a screaming brawl with another of their fellow candidates for Most Fucked Up Person In The World.  People walking by were eying me off with a "Wha da FUCK you doing here Snow White?" look.  Basically it was the kind of place where you imagine that people are packing some heat.  And there were no fucking taxis.  For 20 minutes I dragged my baby girls through an area famous for drive-by shootings (as later discovered),  just internally pleading that somehow I would get out of here.

I hope the love one is for me

I spotted a cab outside a petrol station, only it was empty.  I kind of hung around near the area until I saw it drive out and then I flagged it.  He half stopped and said he wasn't in service.  Naturally I begged.  He took pity.  Sometimes they do.  The god dam relief when I had us all bundled in that yellow cab and pulled out of there was palatable.  I was actually shaking.  But then again, I am a panic merchant, with a penchant for drama.  As we drove down Bedford Street I spotted a religious Jew.  My first thought was "What on earth is he doing here?".  He looked as out of place as Johnny Howard in a 'Welcome to Malawi' ceremony.  And then suddenly the whole area gave way to a veritable city of religious Jewish people.  It was like going to one of those special areas in Jerusalem.  For over 20 blocks it was all Jews, and then just as suddenly I saw a few young people in brogues, rolled up jeans and white framed sunglasses, and the Hipster Zone started up.  I was comfortably out of place again.  Much better than being uncomfortably out of place.

Another world

Momofuku means "lucky peach"

I've mentioned the sheer scope of restaurants in the city.  I honestly don't think I've ever had a bad meal there.  The choice is ridiculous, and you can always find something excellent no matter what your eating style.  I've been to raw food restaurants, sushi restaurants, Brazilian steakhouses, burger joints, late night snack nightclub-restaurants, wine and cheese bars.  Always better than you could even imagine.  Even when you get home delivery it's fantastic.  With home delivery in Australia, you always imagine that it will be shit (like hotel room service).  And it usually is.  But not in New York.  They have special companies that pick up your order from any number of restaurants you may select online.  The food is always, hot, perfectly packed, incredible, and cheap.  I have no idea how they do it.
However, sometimes you go to a restaurant that is cut above everything else.  Momofuku Ko is one of those places.  Established by famous chef David Chang, the restaurant is small (10 seats) and releases 10 days of bookings slots on the internet at a time.  They usually fill up immediately.  Basically it's impossible to get a reservation there.  Chang's name is cursed all over town.  You are not allowed to take pictures inside (although there are actually some out there as I just discovered), and if you fail to show up to your reservation, it will cost you $150 bucks.  They are serious.  By miracle, Chalks thought he would check it out, and there was one slot available on the Saturday night before we left.  I can't explain the slim odds of that happening.  Someone must have cancelled just as Chalks scoped the website. We were in.

Simple yet stylish

Not my favourite course - but it looks good in a photo

We took a cab there and it was a little tricky to find.  But at last we spotted the tiny black door with the faint picture of a peach on it.  Inside the seating was up at a bar in front of the chefs preparing the food. They would explain each dish as they put it in front of you.  As you would imagine the mini mouthfuls were like a work of art.  Typically in these kind of set ups you can go either way - ignore the strangers in your immediate vicinity, or strike up conversation which gets better the more drinks you have.  We got lucky and ended up crapping on to a couple on our right for hours.  They were funny and sweet.  And they had triplets!!! Three girls - the same age as Valli and Cordi.  Unbelievably they'd had another (although I think it was a surprise) and luckily it was only one little boy.  Anyway, as I often state, I'm just not recruiting to the friend stockpile, but they were nice.  We decided to go for a after dinner drink and had a recommendation from our waitress.  However, our new friend had spotted the "Coyote Ugly" bar a few doors down and suggested we check it.  Embarrassingly we'd all seen the movie, and decided that Coyote Ugly beat some swanky lounge bar for sure.

Vodka skulls down best

It's not like I was expecting to see Tyra Banks in there or anything, but the place was an absolute dive.  There were a couple of chicks dancing on the bar (I think they were customers) and one girl in a leather crop top and hot pants belting out some cheesy number.  But the rest of the customers were pretty much intoxicated hicks.  Scrawled on the wall were the words "Bodyshots, Babes and Booze" - they should have added "And Bogans".  There were bras hanging all over the ceiling, punching bag games, and the music was so loud we had to scream in each other's ears.  Old Leather screamed into the microphone "From now on it's shots only, you can only get SHHOOOOOOTTTTSSSS WOOOOOO HOOOOOOO".  I guess a wine spritzer was out of the question.  Chalky got 4 shots of vodka - the non-body type.  I put mine away fast - you need to be drunk in there.
Ok, so it was funny to see, but it's not the kind of place you really want to put in the mega hours and stumble out into the morning hours with a metallic taste in your mouth, and dried vomit on your shoes.  We all left, I dragged myself away from taking that long awaited bar dance I had always dreamed of - followed by a standing shag with a stranger in one of the seedy toilet cubicles - and we then said our goodbyes to our new chums.  We were late for our babysitter.

You hope for this

You get this

Funny bastard

The final day was my last chance to spot Season Three of "Girls" being filmed.  Apparently it is filmed and set around Williamsburg - mainly in Greenpoint - just north of where we were staying.  The actual apartment that Hannah and Marnie "live in" can be tracked down, and you can take pictures of yourself on the stairs outside.  I wasn't quite willing to go there.  Maybe when we go back in July I'll be more sad and desperate.   Anyway, after a trip to the playground, we were cruising around Greenpoint ( I was buying Boo - The Cutest Dog In The World plush toys for V & C's birthday) when I spotted him coming out of store.  It was Ray from "Girls"!!!!!  And it was definitely him, he had the same mushed-up lip.  He was with a girl with a smug look on her face that said "Yep, I'm with Ray from Girls".  He looked like he does on TV.  Evasive gaze, slightly shifty, bored and pissed off - yet inherently likeable.  I was satisfied.  Look he's not my favourite character, if I had a choice it would have been Jessa (Jemima Kirke) who I spotted.  She is my current girl crush.  I think I'm in love with her.  She could turn any woman lesbian.  But Ray was better than nothing.  I am going to get more committed next time around and crash that film set.  Maybe Lena Durham wants me to do a guest spot on the show as a bitter, 40 year old Australian.
She couldn't find a better candidate.

I need to move on and stop googling her

Free Shit is the Best Shit

Teddy Bear Extravaganza

Mmmmmm Sure do

I was amped for another stint in New York.  Who wouldn't be?  I was also amped for a free night at The Peninsula Hotel in Manhattan.  Again, who wouldn't be?  This is a prime example of taking advantage of a situation at all benefit to yourself and none to the the promotion creators.  I'm sure the promotion isn't meant to be used in this way.  But who cares?  We do it all the time.  Occasionally, we get offers from hotels such as "One night is free".  Naturally the hotels draw people in with this, obviously thinking that if people are staying one night, then they will definitely stay at least one more, most likely much more, which is when we will hit them up for top dollar - (insert hand rubbing and evil money loving grin).  We never do.  We stay one night, get a whole lot of free shit, and then piss off to somewhere much cheaper.  In this instance for example, we had the free night, free breakfast, plus $100 free credit to be used on anything in the hotel - room service, spa etc.  Life's good.  Not only this, but there were other bonuses - free teddy bears for the girls, who were wearing mini Peninsula bellhop uniforms, dressing gowns, teddy bear slippers,plus piles and piles of cakes and chocolates awaiting us in the room.  It's a good thing I've been on a junk food binge lately, and also that I'm a bad parent.  Once they'd already spot the cardboard car filled with M&Ms and cookies, to take it away is a shit-fight that a person who's been on a plane all day followed by a two hour wait to get through customs is not in the mood for.  Eat jellybeans for dinner kids, who gives a fuck......and here pass me that white chocolate statue of liberty so I can bite it's head off.....

Exhibit A

Exhibit B

It was enjoyable, that's for sure.  But it would have been less enjoyable if we had had to pay $900 for the privilege.  Sucked in other guests.

Ok, so she wasn't in her underpants

When people say "Something is always happening in New York", it's not just a cliche.  Let me outline my first morning out and about.  I got in the elevator to be greeted with a lick on the hand by a giant blue-eyed husky held on a leash by a giant Russian model.  It's fascinating being up close to unbelievably pretty people.  You can't help staring.  How can anyone look that good in real life?  I tucked in my muffin top.  As self appointed Friend of The World, I kick started a little morning chatski.  "Hey, you can have dogs in this hotel?  Isn't it squashy in the room?"  She replied in  James Bond bad-girl accent, "Well you know, they are so nice to my dog, they bring it mineral water and snacks all the time.  This is why I stay in this hotel".  So it's not for the free cupcakes....interesting.......I replied "Yeah, they gave my children teddy bears".  She wasn't impressed.  She was no Chatty Catty.  Our brief friendship was over.  Who wants a model as a chum anyway?  How could you ever go anywhere with them - you'd be mistaken for a dumpy dwarf.

Another sucker 

Anyway, so I stepped outside, it was raining.  I took an umbrella and started walking down 5th Avenue.  Almost immediately I was accosted by a monk handing me a lucky charm.  I was starting to feel all blessed and special when I noticed him take out a little folder.  He proceeded to show me a tattered photograph of a temple and insisted I write my name down in a book.  Meanwhile he was trying to load a wooden bracelet on my wrist.  This is when noticed the "Monk" had a dirty sweatshirt and acid wash jeans on under his tatty brown robe.  I then noticed the column where I was mean to write down my donated amount to his temple.  The bracelet was off, the charm pushed back in to his hand.  I have been the victim of enough scams to recognise when I'm being conned (I think I once mentioned my donation to the deaf society in Paris one year to a gypsy who started speaking normally to his mates as soon as he had my tenner in his mitt.  I shouldn't have donated so much but I panicked when being begged for cash by someone talking like a deaf mute in my face).  Well the monk got a bit pushy then.  Literally.  He started jostling me for money until I said loudly in my face "I am NOT giving you money, but let me tell you who I am giving money to (I gestured behind me to a homeless guy shaking under a blanket in the rain), that man there.  And wouldn't you agree that he needs it more than you?  Now let go of me.... Your Holiness".  I felt satisfied that my pittance had gone to a more deserving party until Chalky later suggested that the monk and the blanket shaker were probably in cahoots.

This old prick's done well sucking in the tourists - splashes out on a car and a slut

Wearing a hat is the first sign of insanity

Following my brush with the fake religious, I ducked into the giant Uni Qlo - a Japanese clothing brand, typically regarded as cheap shit in Japan, but some how cross-Atlantic translated here in NYC as cool digs.  I couldn't have been in there for more than two minutes when the loudest alarm I've ever heard in my life went off.  This was no fire-alarm jingle but a full blown "my ear drums are going to burst/sound-used-for-weapons-of-war type alarm.  Even with my fingers shoved in my ears it was painful.  The entire shop started stampeding for the door.  Everyone is on a hair trigger in the States after Boston at the moment.  The women in front of me actually turned around and yelled to her friends "It's a Bomb!".  Fucking hell.  Surely it's illegal to shout that.  I bolted down three flights of stairs at world record breaking speed, yet tried to appear casual.  All I could think was "Please don't let me die in fucking Uni-Qlo.  How un-glamorous.  At least make it Prada or something".  Luckily I passed the George Castanza test and didn't trample any children or old ladies to save myself.  I loved that episode of Seinfeld - remember at the kid's birthday party when George disgraced himself and ended up getting in a fight with Bozo the children's party clown after pushing kids aside to get out the door?  Shameless self preservation is my Mum's biggest fear.  She always panics that a situation of life and death will occur and she will abandon all sense of caring and save only herself.....She would have made a shit fire-fighter.

Looks cool - filled with junk

Anyway, once I got out on the street I cleared the building and decided I had to go home and have a shot of whisky.  I was rounding 55th street to go inside, when a bus came hurtling around the corner, skidded on the wet oily streets, and clipped the side of a car that was parked directly opposite the Hotel's entrance.  It could have actually been the Hotel's limo - that was unclear in the resulting chaos.  Naturally the bus didn't stop (who really gives a shit in this city), but the damage only turned out to be the side mirror.  The doormen were all still going nuts.  I hung up my umbrella and slunk back in the building.

The limo and it's side mirror in happier days

It sure was an action filled 15 minutes.  Thank god we were shifting out of Manhattan that day.  I can't take that much excitement on a daily level.....

Time for Santa Teresa.....

Ouch! That last blog ruffled a few feathers.  I would like to warn everyone that remarks on large Brazilians arses are now strictly off limits (See the 2nd comment on my last blog).  Apparently I now have a lifetime ban from the country, enforced by a woman called Viviane.  Next time I visit, I wonder if I will be detained and tortured until I admit that Brazilians are hot.  Ok you're all gorgeous - I take it all back.  And slim, so very very slim.  Yet, strong......and of course confident.  And waxed, extremely devoid of body hair.   Not to mention a diverse mix of amazing people, who do NOT eat cheese bread for breakfast.  Not even a tiny bite.  And I myself, am a shit, ugly, jealous tourist.  And now some final advice from me to make all those hurtful words go away - go and have a wank on the couch while listening to Christina Anguilera's "Beautiful".  There you go, doesn't that feel better.....

Cause you are beautiful, no matter what I say......

Dreamy

Now back to the real world.  We grew tired of the rampant tourist trap that is Copacabana Beach, and decided to leave it behind and go up behind the beach front to the forested hills of Rio - to an area called Santa Teresa.  It was brilliant.  It had that crumbling overgrown feel, broken pavements, heaps of street art, cafes a plenty, art galleries and a youthful Bohemian, yet hip vibe.  The air smelt like gas and garlic, and occasionally garbage.  Santa Teresa is a neighbourhood that sprang up around the Santa Teresa convent in 1750.  In the late 19th and early 20th century it was a hotspot for the wealthy and their giant mansions.  Some are still there, some are burnt out, some are crumbling.  Whatever, the effect is beautiful.  This area, much more than the beach, made me want to spend heaps of time in Rio.  It felt real.  And far less touristy.  Which is always a bonus. As I often declare, I hate my own kind.

Street trinkets

Santa Teresa - surrounded by favelas

Lushness

We stayed in a hotel, which was pretty much the only one in the area.  It was completely gorgeous -  tranquil and relaxing.  Lush greenery, and massive amounts of beautiful wooden furniture and fittings inside.  That is one thing you really notice where ever you go here, all the use of the most incredible wood.  Evicting those pesky Indians from the Amazon in totally worth it when you get to surround yourself in the forest itself.  Keep on clearing and making those wooden chests is all I've got to say.
One thing the hotel brochure forgot to mention was the 3am night raid that happened in July 2011 where 15 hotel guests got held up at gun point and robbed.  Apparently they scaled the walls, cut the wires to the security cameras and remained terrifying guests for an hour and a half.  Comforting.  Of course the poor people from the surrounding favelas were the target of blame, until one of the staff recognised her masked co-worker on the security tapes while he was pocketing some diamonds with a gun in someone's face.  It's always an inside job.

Naughty naughty

Deforestation at it's most attractive - lets face it, it beats toilet paper and chopsticks

Street walkers

All aboard

One of the things we heard a lot about, and looked forward to riding was the famous Santa Teresa Streetcar.  On all the "Things To Do In Rio" sites, we were advised - "Do like a local and jump on board this yellow delight".  Well we saw the tram tracks winding up and down the hills, we even saw the tram immortalised in a street mural.  But where was the  beast itself?  Upon further research I learnt that in August 2011, the tram lost control on a downwards slope and was completely smashed apart after it ploughed into a lamp post.  Jeeze -  winter of 2011 was big year for Santa Teresa, and not in a good way.  In this case though, it was tragically fatal.  Eye witnesses say that the brakes appeared to fail and the streetcar lost it and derailed killing 5 people including the conductor, and injuring 27.  Nasty.  That would explain why it's no longer running.  Although apparently, I heard that they are fixing the brakes and loading it back into circulation sometime in the next couple of years.  And yet.....I'm not convinced.  Apparently Old Yeller was over 50 years old and filled to 60% above it's capacity - I guess safety regulations weren't exactly tight.  Especially considering some French guy plunged to his death when the streetcar crossed a bridge 2 months beforehand.  I think I'll give that one the wide berth next time around.  If there is a next time around that is.....Also I think some websites really need to update their information before encouraging visitors to make like a local and hang off the back of a non functioning death trap.

In happier days

Horrible

Outside the festival gates

A place we had really wanted to check out this trip was the far north east of the country.  Apparently it's incredibly beautiful and has it's own distinct culture.  This was not to be.  There was no way we could drive that far.  It would take days and days.  You don't realise how unbelievably large a country it is until you're trying to explore it.  Almost as big as the States, and it just beats Australia in size.  It's bloody huge.  So we did the next best thing.......or not......We visited the Feira Nordestina - a sort of market for people from the north east of Brazil - showcasing their culture in a giant hall in Rio.  This place promised a taste of the north - but honestly if that's true....well let's put it this way - it got stuck in my throat.  I'm almost to scared to write anything negative again in case Viviane rips me another new arsehole....but here we go.....  This is what I saw.  Crappy goods, manky food, heaps of alcohol spilt all over make-shift bars - i.e. tables,  other dark bars which stunk of vomit and alcohol and a dance floor filled with what looked like prostitutes rubbing up against inebriated men that seemed to be sleep dancing.  It was 11am on a Sunday.  OK so they'd been awake all night and possibly drinking since Friday night.  I get it.  And lets face it, after an all weekend bender, who is looking pretty on a Sunday morning?  I'm sure not, and that's on a full night sleep and piles of foundation.  Maybe I'm just out of touch as to what constitutes a good time (very likely). But..... it wasn't the place to really bring the kids for brunch.  Or ourselves really.  We didn't stay long.  Unmoved.

Just before Chalky electrocuted himself with a toy "shock penis"

I'm sure this guy wasn't the only one here with crabs

Speaking of unmoved

As we watched the last sunset sink below the incredible city of Rio de Janeiro, we tried to mentally prepare ourselves for leaving the actual jungle for the urban jungle of New York City.  It was going to be a rough transition.  It has been just a small sample of what was an incredible three weeks in a stunning country.  I loved it, and cannot wait to get to know it better.









Despite the giant arses in my face day and night..........