One of my favourite UK blogs, The Cool Hunter, published their list of amazing places around the globe a week or so ago. So I figured I’d offer you a little travel porn today. Pick your favourite photo and, just for a moment today, imagine that you’re there. Smell the air, listen to the sounds, feel the ice/water/rock/sand under your feet and then just…breathe.

Click here for the full list.

How do you get a PR-poppie such as myself to go mentally wonky? You tell her to plan her own perfect-princess wedding, of course! The brief? Seventy guests from around the world in a setting so perfect, so remote and so beautiful that it will impress the socks off everyone and leave a lasting impression that is indicative of the interesting and (somewhat) quirky couple getting married in said setting. And all of it on a tight budget.

Of course.

Months of planning, hours of Skype calls to Mamma M in Namibia and a couple of teary breakdowns later, our perfect wedding week arrived! We started on Tuesday the 15th of February with dinner at Joe’s Beerhouse in Windhoek, the best steakhouse in the world, according to me (and many others). The next morning at 9am, a bus with 45 guests departed Windhoek for two days safari at the gorgeous Erindi Game Lodge. Suffice to say that we had two game drives a day, that all food and ALL BOOZE was included and that we were staying at a fantastic 5-star lodge where afternoon tea outshines the buffet dinner, which outshines the buffet breakfast, which aims to be as good as the buffet lunch – to answer your question, yes, the dress did fit a little tighter than it did before safari!

On the Friday the 18th – coincidentally also Sue’s birthday (so old, so old, so old) – the bus departed the game lodge and made its (hot and sweaty – Mr A/C decided not to play along for this part of the journey) way to the coastal town of Swakopmund. A quaint German settlement in the middle of nowhere with the most breathtaking sanddunes you can imagine. We had a very small celebration that evening as Sue was beyond tired and feeling a little cranky about everything. (As brides do. Do they?)

Saturday the 19th was a frenzy of friends, rushing around for the last couple of plans and then a manicure, eyebrow wax (I know…) and then off to where we were getting dressed where my friend and the world’s-most-fabulous-designer Kobus Dippenaar worked his magic on my hair and make-up. The world’s-most-fabulous-photographer Susan Nel (great name, btw) arrived at 3pm to start capturing every moment and succeeded way beyond my wildest expectations!The bride and her entourage, made up of best friends and sisters, left for the ceremony on the beach and as we got into the car Mama M called, saying: “Just wanted to let you know that the guests are all here and ready for you…and, darling, it’s windy.” “No problem, Mom”, I quipped back. (Nothing was going to ruin my day.) “No,” she said, “you don’t understand…it’s really, reaaally windy.” Oh boy.

Upon arrival I quickly got what she meant…My veil was blowing in the wind in a not-so-romantic way and chair covers (and chairs) had been blown into the air. The dune sand was quickly covering up the red carpet and my guests all looked a little, uhm, windswept. But in a way it was perfect. No one could be uptight after surviving that wind! And my hair had so much Elnett in it that no wind was going to move a lock!

We had a quick ceremony on the beach and then our guests were moved to the secret location while we went off to take some photos. Drinks on the beach? Not so much!

I love this photo of my 80-year old gran...Love.

After taking photos on the beach and on the jetty, we made our way into the dunes where we had another stop before starting to search for our secret spot amongst the dunes.Now, in all the months of planning. In all the many emails and phone calls. In all my many ‘to do’ lists and delegated tasks. In all those things, the ONLY aspect of this wedding I didn’t plan was printing out the instructions to getting to our secret location, or making sure that someone knew exactly where we were going. Picture the scene…The bride, her groom and her maid of honour along with our ‘driver’ – a dear friend of Mama M who graciously offered his services and remained patient throughout – following the photographers in their small Yaris, heading into every possible turnoff amongst the dunes and back out again. We could not find this effing tent. My lip grew longer and longer as I pictured myself, all dressed up and newly ‘ringed’, having dinner at the local ‘Brauhaus’ in Swakopmund. After all that planning we were not going to get to celebrate our wedding day with our guests! Ugh.

And, just before I ruined my make-up with a big cry, we found it! Halleluja! Only 45 minutes late and still in time for sundowners. Hooray!

From there on the evening was a blur of perfection. The world’s-best-event-planners Sharmine and Colin Livingstone of Desert Catering had gone beyond our wildest expectations in putting together a party like no other.

For one night, Sue was a princess. And this, dear reader, is my happy ever after!

Please vote for us in the Sarie Bride of the Year competition by leaving a comment and ‘liking’ our entry on Facebook!
Just because I love them and would hugely recommend their services to anyone – here’s Sue’s Little Black Book for planning a wedding in Namibia:

• Dress, Hair, Make-up, Theme Concept, Table Cloths, Mental Support: Kobus Dippenaar Atelier
• Event Planning, Food and Mental Support: Colin and Sharmine at Desert Catering
• Photography and Mental Support: Susan Nel Photography
• Flowers…and Mental Support: Uwe at Der Blumenkorb
• Transport, Shuttle, Bus, Rental Cars: Anna at Sunshine Tours

In one week I ate more calories, walked more miles, and spent more ‘friend time’ than I had in months in London! Rose and I had a 10k run in Central Park, which I absolutely loved and we worked our way through all the cocktails at Pegu Club, our favourite downtown bar where the doorman, K-Dawg, greeted both John and I by the name! It was good to be home…

And how weird that this strange city that I once loathed living in now feels like home to me. I can only hope that London will soon do the same!

Some new hotspots that we discovered include:

• The Hurricane Club – best frozen cucumber & mint rum cocktail ever
• The Bang Bang, sorry, Boom Boom Room at The Standard – gorgeous interiors and scary bathrooms
• Del Posto – most expensive Italian restaurant experience of my life – ha ha!
• Eataly – amazing Italian space with any type of Mediterranean food you can imagine…very New York!

And then of course we spent lots of time at the usual hangouts including:

• Joe’s Shanghai
• Supper
• Chelsea Market
• The Apple store (we didn’t have internet at home, so had to rush from free wi-fi spot to free wi-fi spot – such techno-holics…)
• Shake Shack
• Menkui-Tei – still the best ramen in town (in fact, we went there twice in the one week visit!)

You know, looking back on this list (and I didn’t even include the 3am pizza slices or the cream cheese bagels on here), the 3kg I gained does not seem that excessive…

We got back to London on Friday around noon and the entire city was covered in snow – quite a bit colder than the weather in New York, actually. Have spent the last couple of days mostly cooped up inside trying to shake the world’s most hideous flu – probably due to my overindulgence of the past week…a small price to pay, I say!

With us missing our Berlin flight, we are putting a claim in against our travel insurance and needed a letter from Ryanair, confirming that we did, in fact, not make the flight. After ten minutes (at 10pence per minute, of course) of holding on the phone, Victor the friendly call center helper informed me that he would be delighted to send me this letter, but, wait for it, I would have to pay £17 to receive this. What a laugh we had about that, I tell you. After I stopped laughing out loud, I kindly asked Victor to please make a note on his system to confirm that I would NEVER be flying Ryanair again. I hate Ryanair.

Fast forward a couple of weeks and I am finally on an Easyjet flight on my way back to London from Ibiza (more about that later…Oh My Word…). I say finally, because we were meant to take off last night at 01:55am, yet here I am at 21:12, the next day, on my way back home. Turns out cabin crew aren’t allowed to fly longer than a specific number of hours and if earlier delays are messing that up for you, that’s your problem. We waited for our ‘delayed’ flight until about 02:00am before the ‘delayed’ sign turned to ‘canceled’. Ugh. We had to line up to get our checked in bags back and then about 200 passengers were bussed out to various corners of the island and put up in crummy three-star hotels for the night.

In all fairness, the process was quite a bit more painless than it could have been (I didn’t have to sleep in an airport), but still, it sucked. The upside was that we were forced to spend our sixth day in Ibiza and it was glorious. I guess having your flight canceled from Ibiza back to rainy London is waaaay better than the other way around. It’s the small things that make me happy these days…So I’m not complaining too much. But still. I am more of a five star kind of girl.

Ryanair has a no nonsense approach to customer service. If you want it, you will have to pay for it. Dearly. No nonsense. If you want to check a bag on your flight, you have to pay for it. Dearly. Feel like having a cup of water? Yep, that will cost you. Dearly. Want them to print out your boarding pass?You guessed it. It will cost you. Dearly. They even fly their own staircase with on the plane to ensure they don’t have to rent one from the ‘stairway’ company that all the other airlines use! What’s more, they recycle their airline crew – the same girl who checks your (printed-at-home) boarding pass, is also the same one who guides you through security and then she welcomes you on the plane. These poor cabin crew members are worked off their feet.

And it only gets worse once you step on the plane.  Thought you could sit back and relax on your European flight? Nooooo sirree! That would be too much. From the moment you step onto the plane and dash for a seat (yes, they don’t assign seats either – you have to take what you can get!) the direct selling starts. From smoke-free cigarettes to scratch-cards-that-benefit-hungry-children-somewhere to cosmetics to hotdogs to bus tickets from the airport to the city center to your favourite flavour coffee or a totpack of brand-less vodka to mix into your expensive Cola, you can get it all on your one hour 50 minute flight. And I have a strong suspicion that the cabin crew earn commission on their sales…It’s a constant barrage of “Get your scratchcards / hotdogs / perfume / bus tickets / drinks” thundering down the isle while all you want to do is forget about the fact that you’re on a plane.

I have now resorted to making no eye contact at all with these stewardesses, employing the same tactics I use when I walk through the cosmetic section of a huge department store. The less eye contact I make, the smaller the risk of them trying to sell me something!

Apparently Ryanair is about to start charging £1 to use the toilet on board. When we were on the plane this weekend I was almost disappointed to find that they weren’t doing it yet. I was all prepared with my response. When the stewardess said “That will be one pound”, I was going to pipe, “No Honey, this is an emergency – we’re talking at least three pounds here!”

Strangely enough I didn’t really feel sad. I felt more…angry. And I decided to hold on to that anger for the whole day, just to prevent myself from crying, crying, crying. Because I figured that once I started, the waterfall would most likely not stop. In three short years, Manhattan had crept into my system and embedded itself in my psyche as ‘home’. The freezing, sunny days. The long walks in the park. Yes, even the vomit spots on the sidewalks. The rude walkers (“Haaay, I’m waaaalkin’ here”) and the friendly coffee cart guys. The impatient cab drivers and the polite police officers. With every fiber in my body I wanted, no, I needed, to stay.

But my brain overrode my feelings and I counted on the benefits of living closer to home, of being nearer to friends and family (but what about the friends who have become our family in New York?) and of being able to travel to Spain and Italy for a weekend. And so I kept packing. And packing and packing. Four oversized suitcases and two cabin bags later, I had a quick shower, pulled on my jeans, boots and warm coat and gave our Super’s wife a teary hug. (Sofaya was crying so much she couldn’t say goodbye and kept offering us a place to stay if we ever wanted to visit!) John, being his fabulous self, had organized a super stretch limo to take us to the airport and as we bundled our luggage and selves into the back of this long black car, I put on my brave face. This was it.

We popped a CD, made specially by Rose and titled ‘Gotham – What will you take away’ into the player, turned up the volume and John popped the cork on a bottle of Vuerve. And then, on the second glass, the tears started rolling. Uncontrollably. “Turn the car around. Turn it around,” I kept thinking, but I smiled and shook my head when John wiped my tears away and told me how lucky we were to be leaving on top. We have had the best of times. We made friends that will last us a lifetime. We went to the best parties. We did things that I would never have thought that a girl from a small town in Africa could ever do. And we were leaving it all behind for another bold adventure.

By the time the stretch limo dropped us at JFK my tears had dried and I was focusing on getting the sleeping tablets (the poor man’s business class, of course) ready and organizing us some dinner. We got on the plane and were both asleep by the time dinner was served (and I’m a bit disappointed by this as I notoriously love the lasagna on British Airways. No, really. It’s delicious). Six hours later our plane touched down at Heathrow and all our bags made it through with no problem.

We had arrived. And inside I was sad, sad, sad.

Now, after three days of non-stop rain, no sunshine and a cold that cuts right to the bone, we have organized cellphones, bank accounts and have even gone grocery shopping. We have walked miles in the rain and even attended a Goldfish concert on Leicester Square on the first night here. We are regrouping and starting over. And perhaps it won’t be so bad. Through my friend Shelley I’ve found a waxing salon and even gotten into a bookclub. She’s also hooked me up with a hairstylist whom I’m hoping to go see next week to pay some attention to my tresses. We have dinners lined up for next week, and, most importantly, John has announced that we will be going to Paris for my birthday on Thursday.

Life is looking better. The big question at the moment is what to do with this blog. Because after all, The City can only be Manhattan, right? Laurel kindly suggested I change the name of my blog to ‘Sue in the Loo’. After complaining about the non-stop miserable rain, Helena suggested ‘Sue in the Shitty’ (what do you think?).

Either way, this is going to be a whole new adventure. One that I’m ready for. Bring it.

We’ll be traveling for 26 hours to get to our destination (double ugh!) and I already know that my luggage will be a) overweight and b) unable to close. Dammit. How does Christmas shopping always go this route? I have put tomorrow night in the calendar for packing so if you hear loud wailing coming from Manhattan, that will be me trying to decide which summer outfit NOT to pack.

Wishing you all a warm Christmas and a safe holiday – whether you’ll be having a White or Brown Christmas.

From the day that a girl gets her brain going the right way (probably around age five?), she starts planning her wedding. It’s always an elaborate affair and for all the years after that, every boy she meets has the potential of being Prince Charming. Mr Right. Some of us are lucky enough to find The One at some point in our lives and his face usually slots onto the body of the man in our dreams (and into our dream wedding) just perfectly. Often you ‘just know’ shortly after you meet the handsome Man Of Your Dreams that he is the one and then, ladies and gentlemen, the waiting game starts. Will he do it? How? When, oh when, oh when will he get down on one knee and ask you to marry him? Popping the question is just the cherry on top of the cake and the final hurdle a girl has to pass that will allow her to go into a full wedding planning frenzy.

When one gets married the way we did it back in 2007, it still has a certain charm, but it most definitely does not quite live up to that lifelong dream. Yes, you still get Mr Right, you still get to say ‘I Do’ (a big think for an Afrikaans meisie such as myself), but you lack the magic. And magic is what makes the world go round.

And very often, magic starts with a diamond (or eleven diamonds, in this particular case!). Two and a half years ago we promised to do it right at some point in the future and Beyonce’s ‘Single Ladies‘ took on a whole new meaning as John had to endure many repeat sessions of ‘If you liked it you shoulda put a ring on it’ by me and a myriad of girlfriends who all ‘get’ the dream.

My poor Prince Charming did not stand a chance.

During our trip to Brazil last week the big moment finally arrived – and I had no clue that it was happening! Mr Right had bought the most perfect diamond, gotten the most perfect setting and went down on one knee on the most romantic setting in the world – atop Sugar Hill in Rio de Janeiro.  Of course I had to take the bling right off as we left the mountain as we just couldn’t risk having my now-precious finger cut off on the streets and I think John was quite amused by me wanting to spend as much time as possible inside our holiday apartment where I could prance around wearing my ring, my eyes never straying too far from my now-beautiful left hand.

Annie kindly offered the use of her bridesmaid’s dress which she wore at the original ceremony (Ha ha!), but I think this time we’ll do it right. We are, after all, officially engaged-to-be-married-again. I am such a lucky, lucky girl.

Only a handful of doctors in the city are licensed as ‘Travel Doctors’ and thus allowed to administer a Yellow Fever shot. I called five of these doctors to schedule an appointment for two shots and the conversation with almost every one went as follows (Consider this – we have ‘good’ healthcare coverage):

Sue: Hello, I’d like to schedule an appointment for my husband and I to get Yellow Fever shots, please

Person: Well sure. Just so you know, Yellow Fever shots are not covered by health insurance and neither will the office visit be. When would you like to come?

Sue: Uhm, okay. So how much will the visit and the shot cost?

Person: Well, seeing as how you’ve never been to this office before, you’re looking at $250 for the office visit and about $200 for the shot.

Sue: <GULP!> Okay, so $450? Is that for both of us?

Person: No m’am. That is per person.

Sue: So our Yellow Fever shots will cost us more than our flights to Brazil?

Person: (Without remorse) Yes m’am.

Sue: Uhm…is there an alternative? Perhaps a clinic somewhere where we can go to get this shot administered that won’t charge us $250 just to see the doctor for three minutes?

Person: No m’am. This is it.

Sue: Uhm…okay. Let me get back to you……

Is this not the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever come across? I’m furious, frustrated and just absolutely gob smacked. I think at this rate John and I could probably fly my mother (a doctor) in from Namibia for a visit and get the Yellow Fever shot AND Malaria tablets imported from there at a fraction of the cost!

What to do? Do we miss out on the one chance we have to go explore the Amazon jungle because of stupid costs? Do we risk getting Yellow Fever and go without the shots? Any advice will be hugely welcomed! Once again I’ve been silenced into submission.

My only real regret? I didn’t spot Elvis.

There’s a reason that Las Vegas is called Sin City. It’s that good! After an initial doubt about how much of Vegas I could handle (thinking that it would be at least ten times as bad and tacky as Sun City near Johannesburg, and definitely much worse than ‘The Strip’ in Cancun, Mexico), I now sit here on the plane on my way back to New York, wishing that I had just a little more time.

It seems like all of Vegas is a stage, with breathtaking performances everywhere for the taking. If it’s not a real-time pirate battle until one of the life-sized vessles capsize, it’s an erupting volcano that leaves the ground trembling, or a waterfall with digital images displayed onto it while larger-than-life dragons hover over the top, if you can imagine it, Vegas will provide it.

John and I left a rainy New York on Friday after work to fly three hours back in time to the West Coast and landed at Vegas airport (located pretty much in the centre of town) at around 9.30 pm. We checked into Trump Las Vegas and, through his cunning abilities, John got us upgraded to a suite on the 59th floor where we had our own jacuzzi bath, a kitchenette that included a stove and oven (!) and a view of the Vegas strip that cannot be beat. After unpacking, we headed out for a bite to eat and John played his hand at Craps (and won three times what he was betting – alas, that winning streak did not extend beyond just Friday night!) and we walked the brightly lit streets of Vegas until 2am (5am New York time!). We both had a hard time falling asleep as our veins were pulsing with excitement. Vegas was so much more than we had expected!

On Saturday morning we were up early and headed out for ‘The Buffet’ at the Wynn – a $40 extravaganza with baked goods, any kind of egg, any kind of sausage, cheese, cold cut, warm cut, fruit, roast vegetables, rice and deserts that I could only dream of available for the taking. And more taking. And even more taking. I was in heaven. (Until my stomach hurt from overeating, of course).

We couldn’t eat anything else for the rest of the day.

But the brunch did prepare us for the noon-time visit in 103F / 40C to the Neon Graveyard – the final resting ground for some of the old neon billboards of Vegas. What a treat! From the original Stardust letters to leftover signs from some of the wedding chapels along the strip, this was truly off the beaten path and a rare find. Our host, sweating almost as much as the members of our tour group, entertained us with the background stories of Vegas and we hopped from shady spot to shady spot, sipping water throughout, but actually enjoying the dry heat of the Nevada desert. Photography at this site was pure bliss.

After sweating our way through the Neon Boneyard we hopped on a local bus, got better acquainted with some of the (toothless) locals and drove past yet more wedding chappels and newly married couples on our way to the Las Vegas Premium Outlet Center to pick up a pair of sunglasses for John, who had (conveniently?) forgotten his old ones at home. Vegas was not to be tackled without shades. After finding a beautiful pair of Tom Ford’s for him, and a couple of discounted items for me of course, we headed back to our hotel – via a quick foot massage pitstop – and lounged by the pool for a good hour. Then it was off for a shower and we dressed up for a night on the town, starting with Cirque du Soleil’s ‘O’.

And ‘O’ what a magnificent, magnificent show that was! I literally sat with my mouth hanging open at times and once again displayed my empathy for height-devying acrobats by getting severly sweaty palms everytime they performed one of their breathtaking acts. (Insert a John-giggle here). Amazing. Wow.

After ‘O’ we headed for some expensive sushi inside the Bellagio casino from where we watched the famous water show, performed to the American national anthem. From here we ventured over to the Wynn Hotel where we gambled a little more and eventually made our way back to Trump to fall into bed, exhausted yet exhilarated.

Sunday was somewhat less action-packed, although we did attempt to go indoor skydiving (I know…what was I thinking? And what would I NOT do when prompted by John?). After waiting around for an hour and enduring the instruction video, we were geared up, earplugged, goggled, and serverly anxious (okay, honestly, that was just me) when the engine of the turbine wind propeller overheated and we had to get a refund. John was terribly disappointed. As was I. No, I’m being honest – it did look like fun!

More time at the pool, more gambling, more eating and then we headed over to the Wynn’s Encore hotel to check into the room where I would be staying for the week. Oooo la la! All I can say is that five star is definitely the way to go if you’re going to go to Vegas. Motorized curtains (both sheer and silk), a mini bar that automatically adds what you take out to your room bill after 15 minutes (so no, don’t take stuff out to chill your own bottle of cheap wine – it’ll cost you!) and a suite that was the size of our entire New York apartment. Pure bliss.

After another great dinner on Sunday night, John caught the red-eye back to New York and I reclined in my luxurious suite to await the week. My boss was being honored at a big convention, so we had an action-packed schedule from Monday through Wednesday (think more dinners, more parties, more gambling – of all kinds, and you get the picture). So it was with a mix of regret and relief that I loaded my suitcase into the back of the towncar to take me to the airport this morning. In five hours I’ll be eight hours ahead of time and back in the hustle and bustle of New York City. And back to one-bedroom living on the Upper West Side.

My only real regret? I didn’t spot Elvis.