Exhausted by the pavement pounding from our first night in Cuba and also the excitement of Sunday, on Day 2 (Monday) Luxy, Ciara, and I gave our sandal-clad (espadrilles for me) feet a break.
This is going to be a long blog post (I counted over a hundred photos) so you might want to pour yourself a drink. Make it a mojito. Havana Club rum, naturally. And fire up a Cohiba while you're at it.
A couple of Saturdays ago our long awaited trip to Cuba kicked off. Luxy, Ciara, and I spent two nights in Havana of sightseeing, then flying down to Cayo Largo Del Sur for six days and finally retuning to Havana for another night. This trip has been a long time in the making and would not have been possible without Luxy's amazing micromanaging skills (she even made a Powerpoint presentation), so muchos gracias Catarina (her new Spanish name for when we were in Cuba. Mine was Jazmín)!
All I knew about Cuba before this trip was that it is a 'socialist paradise' and practically inaccessible to most Americans. What I didn't know was that this was thanks to the embargo which also meant that internet is more or less non-existent. And here I was asking innocently 'Do they have Uber in Cuba?' Are you Havana laugh? But in all seriousness, can Cuba make 3G more widely available? Then they can start a taxi app called Cuber. *waits for applause. Gets none. Awkward*
So I flew to Paris with the girls before enduring a ten hour flight (Air France, economy class. An ordeal) to Havana to see for myself the charming communist country steeped in a history of revolution, and home to the best cigars and rum in the world. And also the catalyst for all the Che Guevara tees that years ago were so popular with clueless bros who have no idea who he is. I like it when the Cubans wear Che tees because he is their hero, but I wouldn't, because...well wouldn't it be a bit odd for my London friends to wear tees with Tunku Abdul Rahman's face on them? Who's Tunku Abdul Rahman you ask? Exactly my point.
We checked into our charming B&B, Casa Cristo Colonial (more on that in the next post), a short walking distance from Old Havana on Saturday night, and devoted our Sunday to exploring the city.
I posted this photo on Instagram, mistaking this dude for Carlos Manuel de Céspedes aka the Abraham Lincoln of Cuba who with his grito de Yara (war cry from Yara) freed his slaves, called for the abolition of slavery, and called upon his fellow Cubans to rebel against Spanish rule. I was wrong, apparently this is Jose Martin. Oops. Anyway, good man.
The third post in the 'sorta series' of photos of my stylish friends imaginatively titled 'I like your style, friend'.
My long-suffering brother Max, or as I call him The Dishonourable Max of Pembridge, or Maaaaax *in a whiny voice when I want all his red Percy Pigs*, or Maxipad, or Maxi, or...you get the idea. I suspect he (not-so) secretly hates me.
Chillin' like a villain in his digs. Damn it feels good to be a Notting Hill gangsta. Maxin' and relaxin'. Yes, the bad 'gangsta' puns could roll in all day, but can you blame me when all his Spotify updates are somewhere along the lines of 'Max is listening to the entire catalogue of rap and hip hop from the '80s to the '00s?'. We're both gangsters in the same mold, that is, the sort that name their hamsters Coolio and L.V cos they're spending most their lives livin' in a hamsta's paradise.
The second post in a 'maybe series' of blog posts featuring some of my stylish, photogenic, and beautiful friends. Today's character goes above and beyond his clothes. His personal style manifests in his exuberance, outlandishness (no, he is not drunk), and the quirky things he does seemingly without pretense. Even his more calculated peacocking ie. inventing personas for him to play for an event; complete with outfit, accent, voice, and title is something you can't really contrive unless you're inherently, well, nutty. And this one is nuttier than squirrel poo. Meet my 'husband' Henry.
I seek him out at work and catch him on a cigarette and cocktail (fine, beer) break.
Greetings from Havana, this is past Jasiminne (or should it be present?) leaving a message for the future. I'm currently trapped in a 1950's time warp where communism is de rigeur, the internet is non-existent, the mojitos are warm (drink ice at your own peril), everything is vintage (thank you embargo) and charmingly so.
I'm here for ten days with Luxy and Ciara (thank God for that or I'll be drinking poisonous tap water if left to my own devices) and we're here to start a revolution. Against those vile Che Guevara motif tees. Or maybe we're just here to drink £1 cocktails, soak up some culture (ha), ride in vintage cars, and luxuriate on the beaches of Largo Del Sur.
Anyway. I'll try to see if I can get some internet to at least update my Instagram if only to assure my friends and family that I'm still alive and haven't drowned inside a mojito.
I've scheduled two blog posts for tomorrow and Wednesday, so even if I don't get my paws on some wifi this blog will at least have something going on.
Now if you will excuse me, Cuba awaits.
I'll be the first to admit that many of my friends are very easy on the eye, stylish, well dressed or at least have an inherent strong sense of personal style. I'm very lucky to be surrounded by such beauty. Perhaps I'm biased because I love them so much and therefore they are gorgeous in my eyes. But you know you're know you're (or they) are on to something when you can't walk down a street with them without getting street-style snapped, or go anywhere without being papped or asked where their threads are from. Some of them even volunteer outlandish personas created especially for the day (remember Sir Reginald Fancy Man of Chutney?). Anyway, I thought I'd share some of the loveliness that surrounds me, so there might well be a sort of series of blog posts featuring some of my beauties. Aptly named 'I like your style, friend' just because of it's simple sincerity and also because I like reading it out in a funny accent.
First up, Nichole.
*so said Glen Gary the Canadian tramp who lives in the park off Brick Lane.
So the actual details of my so-called whirlwind wedding** are vague and not widely known. That's only because the truth is more astonishing than any story one can come up with. All that has to be known is that it was two Sundays ago, I had only known him (H) for all of twelve minutes before we were declared man and wife, I met him when running away from a dusty old pirate, and we bonded over our shared love of musicals, autism, and our penchant for hijinks.
**Any good divorce lawyers? Can I annul a marriage that has already been consummated? Am I actually legally married? Help! Get me out!
I fooled everyone on Facebook into thinking I actually had eloped with a total stranger by posting a photo of us beneath what looked like a stained glass window in a church, when really it was the decor at Meat Mission where we had our first meal of (faux) man and wife. The stuff of legendary romance.
Das steaks are high but ve are just trying to make ends meat. Ve need to stop meating like zis. Sausage jokes are da wurst.
On Tuesday I ventured to the other side of town for a little blogger's party hosted by the lovely Sarah of The Prosecco Diaries at Taylor Taylor in Notting Hill. The theme was 'healthy', and the House of Cuckoo rose spectacularly to the occasion with their fruit and vegetable cupcakes. The recommended intake of '5 (portions of fruit and veg) a day' has been bumped up to seven a day by the NHS, so I'll have four green tea mojitos and three pea cupcakes please, merci.
The twin to my blog post A day in my Posh, Broke, & Bored life / K.L Edition.
Here in London the calm, languid air of general wellbeing associated with one blessed with a life of comfort and privilege is replaced with a slight frenzy of tension and self-sufficiency (Malaysia Tatler describes me as 'strongly independent') like the smell of rain on the ether moments before a storm. Gone are the luxuries of being in the motherland ie. staying with my family and exploiting their generosity, the 'holiday mood', and mostly not having to worry about neither time nor resources. Oh, the duality. But such is my Posh, Broke, & Bored life...
May 12, 2014
The twin to my blog post A day in my Posh, Broke, & Bored life / K.L Edition . Here in London the calm, languid air of general wel...
Today is Mother's Day in Malaysia, and what could be more appropriate for this occasion than mine and mummy's feature in Malaysia Tatler?
Mummy and I wearing Diane Von Furstenberg and Ceres jewels for Malaysia Tatler.
|Sir Reginald, Fancy Man of Chutney, and Lady Chutney.|
On Thursday I introduced my husband du jour to my brother at The 25 Collection launch, Clerkenwell Collection. What happens when you put two war-loving military nuts together? They get on like a house on friendly fire. Max may have smashed Henry's glass with an exceptionally aggressive toast as a display of masculinity, but Henry lets his beard do the talking. "Don't worry Maximillian! You'll grow one when you make your first kill! That's the ticket to being a man!"
May 10, 2014
Sir Reginald, Fancy Man of Chutney, and Lady Chutney. On Thursday I introduced my husband du jour to my brother at The 25 Collection ...
I have been atrociously behind on my blogging. A whole week without, to quote one exasperatingly emotionally-invested (heavens knows why) 'follower of Posh, Broke, & Bored': "every detail of my winding stroll through the annals of decadence, extravagance and outrageously well-funded wellksajdvbwbeing being recorded and publicised". Well, yes. I blame getting married. Suddenly and surprisingly. To a complete stranger. These things tend to throw one off a little. But I'm not writing this to offer any excuses (simply because I make none, I am lazy, take it or leave it) but to share with you the delight that is the newly launched House Of Peroni.
The House of Peroni have taken over a townhouse in Lincoln's Inn Fields for the month of May.
You may have seen on my Instagram (@jasiminne) that Malaysia Tatler made me their cover girl for May.
'Force of nature' indeed. I am, as D puts it, a 'testament to the power of shameless self-promotion' (Americans have the best sense of humour). What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object? It gives birth to yours truly. Evidently. Happily the people who know me well know not to take me too seriously. Including D, three friends (all men!) have already made fun of me and my face on the cover. I believe the phrase was 'resting b*tchface'.
Well now you know where I got it from. Bahahhaha our faces really macam loan shark. I cannot. "Where's my money?"
Yesterday evening Battersea Power Station threw their first annual party, and as a proud owner of one of their new properties, Phase One: Circus West, it would have been rude of me to decline the invitation...!
Sir Elton would have never approved.
So I dragged Edd down to Battersea Power Station with me to check out my new pad (and to try to convince him to buy it off me), and to join me for an evening with Tom Odell, Sir Elton John, as well as to show our support for local charities.