Ibiza’s next top hand model

I mean, I love my seeing my friends, showing them around the island, but come on… August? It’s like trying to have a long, lazy brunch with a bride on her wedding morning.

With this most recent batch of wonderful visitors however, I managed to stay calm, relax, chill out and spend some quality time with them… it wasn’t hard when they were staying in a stunning villa in the north of the island, complete with gorgeous pool and mountain views… and the fact the girls had called in a crack team of high-profile Russian nail experts – aka, the all-new Nail It Ibiza team – for poolside manis and pedis! Suddenly it felt easy to push this pressing deadlines back a few more hours…

Of course, I tried to resist, being the boho-no-i-don’t-wear-make-up natural type of girl that i am (even though i clearly put make-up on to look as though i have no make-up on every day), but at the first sign of a foot file, I got toe envy and had to get myself into the hot seat – complete with a glass of cava of course – and experience the Nail It Ibiza treatment for myself.

Let me let you in on a little of my internal dialogue throughout the process…

‘She’s offering me a Brazilian?! What the? In front of all my friends? I know this is Ibiza, but this goes too far…’ Calm down Miss W. A Brazilian is just one of the many manis on offer – no wax in sight, although the nail it team do also offer leg and arm waxing to complement their nail services – where your hands are treated to a moisturising concoction of hamamelis, tea tree oil, allantoin, calcium and keratin and wrapped in plastic gloves to lock in the moisture benefits, leaving your skin velvety smooth and nails strong. ‘Oh, in that case, yes please!

‘Oh my god I have man hands. No wait, I have Sarah Jessica Parker hands. Argh! Actually I have sausage fingers – everyone is going to notice I have sausage fingers! The nail technician is going to judge me! She’s used to manicuring models and celebrities and  – oh! Another glass of cava? Yes please.’

‘Colour? No I don’t wear colour on my nails. Never. No, I’m a neutral, natural kind of girl. Maybe on the toes. Oh look! They have a turquoise that matches my jumpsuit – OK, you can do that on my toes. Fingers definitely stay natural… then again, it would be a shame to waste all those years of professional experience my nail technician has just to get her to paint clear polish on me. OK go on then. A nice, summery colour. You choose…’

‘This girl is like a nail ninja. Seriously. She’s amazing. She’s trimmed my cuticles, filed my nails and painted gel on as a base coat and I have barely even noticed her touching my skin or moving my hands. This has to be the best manicure of all time, not like those cheap little nail bars in New York where they file your skin off and make your nails crooked and oh – more cava? Por que no?’

‘Orange? She wants me to wear orange? Won’t my fingers look like an old grandmother… wait… they do say orange is the new black. Oooh, I likey! Look at that little subtle hint of shimmer. It matches the orange trim on my handbag! Definitely no embellishments though. Classic, simple all the way…’

‘My fingers don’t look like my own! Whose hands are these? With those pretty little sporty shaped orange nails – what if I lose my ability to write and type because I’m distracted by the flash of colour beneath my gaze – what if I am like Samson and I lose the power to type once I’ve been groomed… what’s that? You want to top up my cava? Oh just a little splash!’

‘Ohhhh… look at those pretty jars full of crystals, just sitting there on the table all alone. I guess someone should try it. It would be rude not to. Just one though… oh OK, maybe a little crystal stripe. Alright then, two crystal stripes. Oooh, pretty!’

‘Wow – my hands look really beautiful. Look how lovely my fingernails appear, clasped around this glass of cava. It’s quite sexy actually. I never realised what nice hands I had. Perhaps I should become a hand model… ‘

‘Oh! I just remembered why I don’t wear nail polish. Because it cracks, it peels, my nails break and I’m too lazy to remove it and I end up looking disheveled… Whaaat? This gel lasts AT LEAST two weeks and will help my nails grow? Hallelujah, it’s my dream come true.’

‘Hmmm, maybe I was meant to be a foot model. That deep teal shade makes my toes look really elegant. Wow – if I’d known that, I would have indulged in pedicures much earlier. Ahh, all the wasted youth of my toes… I wonder if toes can ever be too old to be toe models? Does anyone know a hand and foot model agency?’

‘OHH! I have NAIL ENVY! Sofia has stripes! She has a whole bunch of geometric goodness going on over there. Why didn’t I get stripes? I mean, I like my crystal embellishments, but she has a WORK OF ART on her nails… Next time. Wow. I’m impressed. I’m booking Nail It Ibiza to give me a design upgrade, after I’ve had a siesta. Ooh, now I think about it, all this cava in the sunshine is making me a little sleepy…’

POST PAMPERING SESSION

‘Where am I? Has anyone seen my iPad? I have a deadline! Ooooh! Look how nice my nails look when I’m swiping pages of the iPad magazine. See how the vibrant orange is the perfect contrast to the blue of Ibiza’s beaches – it’s like, I was MEANT to do this!’

‘Oh my, what pretty toes I’m slipping into my flip flops. Holy crap! I need to get back to the office! Why didn’t I bring my laptop so I could write about Nail It Ibiza from the comfort of my sun lounger? Step on it… but be careful not to chip the toenail polish in the process! Bye friends!’

‘Don’t my fingers look lovely on the steering wheel of the car… I wonder if all the other drivers on the road can see the bling? I might blind someone with the right ray of sunlight. Oh bling – I want more bling! Diamonds! I bet Paris Hilton has diamonds on her nails! I bet Paris Hilton uses Nail It when she’s here. WHY OH WHY was I so conservative? I want DIAMONDS!’

BACK AT THE OFFICE

‘Hello Nail It Ibiza? I’d like to book in for my next appointment please… ‘

One of those weeks…

It doesn’t matter whether you’re a tourist, a worker, a resident or a born and bred local, occasionally Ibiza throws you one of those weeks that really makes you wonder what you have possibly done to deserve it!

My weird Ibiza week started on Sunday morning. I woke up to discover that Naughty Cat #1 had chewed straight through my internet cable, completely cutting me off from my virtual world for the remainder of the weekend (because of course, there is no such thing as a cable shop open on a Sunday in Ibiza!). Not ideal when you work seven days a week in the summer and have a deadline you are frantically trying to meet. Giving said excuse to your boss sounds a little too much like ‘the dog ate my homework’ to be believed. But it’s true – I swear!

Then on Monday morning, my iPhone decided that it would like to permanently live on silent mode and I missed numerous calls and messages – and of course, they were the very very important ones from clients and contacts, never just a friend trying to catch up.

Then the electrical shop didn’t have the exact cable I needed. My cleaner called in sick. I walked all the way back up the Dalt Vila hill to my house only to realise I’d forgotten to get kitty litter while I was out and it was now siesta.

I had my hair cut with a cool new chunky fringe in preparation for my urgent new passport photos, only to discover a mere two hours later that my fringe is too long to meet the standard passport photo requirements and I had to shove it off my face for the pic, which means for the next 10 years I am going to look hideous and be laughed at when checking in anywhere.

Then to add insult to injury, just as I was about to whip myself up a big bowl of pasta, in true comfort food style, our stove stopped working. Just like that. Thus I skipped dinner, went to a fashion show at Atzaro and when I traipsed all the way through the port, STARVING at 1am to my failsafe sushi solution, it was shut. It was after that when Naughty Cat #2 and I shared a couple of pieces of KFC. It was all that was open, honest!

Tuesday morning began with a little ‘protest’ by Naughty Cat #1, who decided to pee on the bathroom floor. Not my bathroom, but my housemate’s. I love scrubbing other people’s bathroom floors in the morning and smelling like bleach for the remainder of the day, really I do.

Immediately afterwards, the bad weather meant we had to cancel a very important photo shoot (and thus a hair stylist, make-up artist, model, stylist, photographer and venue) for the third time in 2 weeks! That’s OK, I thought, I’ll use the time to do some washing. And wouldn’t you know it, our washing machine packed it in.

I got in the shower, hoping to wash away at least some of the bleachy smell, only to discover nothing but tepid water spurting from the showerhead. Call the handyman – you need a new hot water heater. Today. Seriously.

According to Chief White and also astrology legend Susan Miller (both of whom I trust implicitly), Mercury in retrograde is to blame. Apparently Mercury governs all transportation and communication issues, along with intelligence, education and truth. When it is retrograde, it (like Superman around Kryptonite) it loses its power, and things start to go haywire in the aforementioned departments.

While I’m sometimes skeptical about such things, it does make sense. Susan Miller explains Mercury madness better than me, here. Be forewarned folks!

And to top it all off it’s cold here on the island! I mean come on Mercury, get your act together. Quit retrograding and get back to rising. It’s summer already!

The art of the after party

Here in Ibiza, at this time of year, there is ALWAYS an after party going on! Unfortunately, I am not typing this from said after party – though this is perhaps a skill I could look to perfect next summer via my iPad – even though my favourite DJ (and no, I’m not talking about Luciano or Richie in this instance, I’m talking about the amazing DJ W!ld) is just about to start playing (damn you Facebook for your pesky after party posts appearing in my newsfeed!) but it did get me thinking about the art to throwing a good after party in Ibiza.

Now let me just say this about that. When I say after party, I don’t just mean a bunch of people sitting back in a random hotel room knocking back the contents of the mini bar. Nope. I’m talking about those expertly executed events that include mega-famous DJs on the decks (for free!), free flowing booze, a special wristband, tattoo or password to gain access and usually a pretty spectacular venue, draped in camouflage netting and with boxes of fancy dress gear conveniently in reach. In these cases, this is when a promoter goes above and beyond the regular call of duty, by basically planning two events in one night/day. Your pioneering this season has unofficially helped bring back daytime clubbing, and for this, masters of the after party, we salute you!

1. Luciano. Well, OF COURSE it stands to reason I would nominate my hero for his hard-partying stamina, but I can tell you right now, that this is not favouritism talking. For me, nothing beats seeing Luciano reign over a rapturous after party crowd with a little bit of a gurn on and a whole lotta love behind the booth. I started my season of after-partying on a sunny Monday morning at the first Cadenza Vagabundos after party in the roped-off back section of Ushuaia while Luci, Reboot, Cesar Merveille and co played the happiest of happy music (Good life, good life, good life) and I considered chucking a sick day every Monday for the rest of the season. There’s something about being at Ushuaia in the mornings, minus that big stage and huge production, that feels like you are part of a resistance against the commercialism of the venue (as much as I love it). We revisited those same memories (erm, and good life) this week as they did it again post-Cadenza closing. This time complete with pink balloons in the pool. Heaven…

2. Marco Carola. I am starting to suspect the man is a machine. Really – has anyone actually ever seen him sleeping (photographic evidence on a postcard please)? 2012 has definitely been the year of Carola in after party circles, and La Plage in Playa d’en Bossa has been the place. After his mammoth sets at Amnesia, Carola would hit the beach and play for another five, six, seven, eight, nine hours more… surely until his mum called and told him it was time for bed? This year’s post-Amnesia closing has got to have been some kind of record, when he segued from Amnesia to La Plage, then La Plage to Sankeys for a secret Music On after-party. My advice? Get some sleep this winter Marco, because next year you’re going to have to step up even more!

3. Richie Hawtin. Is there anything the man can’t do? Nope, I thought not. Though most people might imagine Richie and his Enter co-horts keeping the after party action exclusively contained around the Enter.Pool, there were more than a few occasions when bigger venues beckoned. Namely, a cove in San Miguel (which I have to admit right now, I actually stumbled on by mistake, after hearing the rumblings of the bass over the water where we were doing a photo shoot that day, talk about luck!) and of course, the amazing Exit sunset after party at Cala Conte, where you needed to be sporting a white dot to gain access and the amount of Facebook flurry about it caused traffic jams and all kinds of chaos in the area. Don’t you guys know that the first rule of after parties is you don’t Facebook post about after parties? Take note for next year… it’s much more fun to gloat about them later!

4. Sven and co. Ah Sven, the original king of the after hours. Papa Sven has been known to DJ for more than 27 hours straight* without even taking a toilet break so when this summer the Cocoon gang started taking over La Sal Rossa in Bossa, things were going to continue well on into the next day. Just add Ricardo Villalobos and Loco Dice plus the beautiful beach, the sunshine and a laidback, cool crowd – a welcome change from the dance floor at Amnesia – and there were times when I seriously started to think there was no point in going to Cocoon at all, when the best part of the party happens here for free and after midday so I can get a good night’s sleep and make the most of it.
*urban myth alert

5. Circo Loco. We all know Circo Loco at DC10 was the most authentic Ibiza after party back in its heyday, so it makes sense then that these guys can keep the dream alive long after the club doors have closed. HOWEVER I’m going to have to be honest here and admit that Miss W Ibiza has never actually been to a DC10 after party, because they just so happen to fall on my deadline day (see opening statement!) and I can never make it. So my information is just seemingly reliable hearsay. And what I hear is this: there are a couple of mystery ‘Australians’ with a mega McMansion somewhere in the hills who play host to the post-Circo Loco shenanigans. Nobody actually knows their names. All they know is ‘some Australian gave me these Gucci sunglasses at a DC10 after party,’ or ‘Some Australian had this amazing party with Seth Troxler playing all day,’ or ‘Some Australian knew a friend of my friend and drove me back to the villa for the party,’ and so on, and so forth. Although you do have to wonder how accurate post-messy-DC10-after-party hearsay can be… Will the real ‘Australians’ please stand up?

6. Jamie Jones. As part of the aforementioned DC10 gang (and this year’s winner of the young-Brit-raver’s choice award), and a DJ with seemingly endless stamina, it’s no surprise Jamie’s always been an after party favourite. The man knows how to turn it on – and up – for the right crowd in the right venue, whether someone’s living room, villa or, where the biggest and most impressive Paradise after party was held this year, La Plage. The place was so packed we couldn’t help but wonder if Jamie should switch to day parties next year… and then perhaps his legions of female fans wouldn’t feel the need to wear so much make-up. I mean really girls, sunshine and a full face of foundation just don’t mix. As you may have noticed at said after party.

7. We Love. The crew behind Ibiza’s original Sunday morning rave-athon certainly know a thing or two about hosting a carry-on, but usually keep their after parties to a very tight knit crew of people each week, which is why you don’t hear a lot about them. For the closing party however, an after party of epic proportion was held, encompassing the entire hotel at Ibiza Rocks House at Pikes Hotel and was basically the best day of my life. EVER. Fact. But I can’t tell you why. Because what happened at Pikes, stays at Pikes. Including my voice, as nine days later I’m still kinda croaky.

Now, before completely closing this chapter, let’s see what Sankeys Ibiza has got in store for us tomorrow morning… are we there yet?