You could say it was not my hottest day to be kissing a handsome stranger.

The call in question was for the Emporio Armani 2008 perfume advertising contest, where hundreds of film makers try to create something different that makes them stand out and can be considered Armani standards.

This is what I am listening to right now… and because I think it is good to share…

Time to get funky:D

I was met at the station by the lovely Polly, who only needed one look at me to drive without any questions to the nearest pharmacy. Loaded with allergy relief tablets and water, we went on to join the rest of the filming crew.

The theme was slightly daunting considering that we had not met the male models we were going to be kissing. We had been briefed beforehand but we were pitched on the spot, and if it wasn’t because it was so well organised (J. Watson rocks) and the whole crew was so professional and attentive, it would have been a bit of a nightmare.

As usual, there was a bit of waiting around, five female models and five male, two of the latter didn’t turn up and the show had to go on so they managed to persuade a couple of guys that were around the College to fill in. We were lucky they were lovely!

J. Amedume, the director, is amazing. Not only he made us feel completely at ease, he was also able to think in our shoes. He took the awkwardness away and all that was left was a very funny situation, and who hasn’t been in one of those situations before, right?

So then you are, beautifully made up, very Armani glow and shimmer, sleek hair, a couple of huge cameras rolling and about 14 people staring from behind them. On top of that you need to remember the choreography (about three steps), and the pace. You are told exactly to which way and to what speed, and for how long, and where your body needs to be facing, when and where your hand needs to go, oh, yeah, and don’t forget you are half naked and you have this guy you don’t know coming at ‘cha.

The good thing is that by the fifth take you have got used to all of the above. And… well, you concentrate on the ‘kiss’.

I love the final cut of the ad, and out of hundreds of entries, it entered the top five! We met up to celebrate a few months later and we made a few of the crew kiss each other. Revenge has never looked so beautiful!

Kaleidoscope of Kisses by J. Amedume

Congratulations to all!

RN

PS: This I didn’t find too nerve breaking (thanks to the crew being so pro and understanding, I am sure). Or maybe those nerves dwarf in comparison to a catwalk I did a few weeks back for an Aveda Hair show, but more about that some other time!

Naked PETA supporters aside, there is a lot more to the San Fermín Festival week that you may have already discovered. Many things happen to be as memorable and as part of the festivities as the ‘Txupinazo’. And that is the rocket that initiates, officially, the overtaking of the city by Bacchus and his 40,000 closest thieves. My favourite will always be the “other” run of the bulls, the Villavesa run.

Bárbara and I came across the now more ideologist custom running of the 15th of July almost half a lifetime ago. We were stumbling on our way back to sleep up Santo Domingo Street, which is the beginning of the usual bulls run. I will not embellish our state, we had been partying 4 days straight and reality was hitting us as hard as the mid July sun.

I have never been that tired ever again and she, as the older and most responsible adult, had joined the Sisters of Merry of our Pain Order, praying for her already setting hangover not to kill her. We came to a halt and watched in giggles the scene that was developing in slow motion before our eyes.

7.45 a.m. and a group of about 20 dirty and smelly boys were singing the “Pobre de mí”, a welfare song to the week of festivities, for the hundredth time. They had not been home yet either and were full of bright ideas. After climbing the wall on top of each other to reach for the by then empty stone niche that hosts the saint patron for the days of the festival, they placed a few bottles of the remaining ‘Kalimotxo’. This teenagers’ poison of choice is a mix of the cheapest red wine you can find and coca-cola in equal measures, sugar added to taste, simply vile.

Homilies aside, the show was moving. Drunken, unstable on their feet and as miserable looking as teenagers can get, they all engaged into a tender group hug and together walked to the starting mark.

Bárbara and I looked at each other in amazement, were they really that intoxicated to not be aware that the bulls had run for the last time that year the previous morning? Our amazement turned to panic, were we that off the mark that we had found ourselves in the middle of the street and over a dozen beasts were going to stampede taking us with them?! We were 18 after all, none of the above would have come as a surprise.

I climbed on a leftover halved fence, the bull pen was not there anymore and it was business as usual in the city, albeit the sight of the many few hotel-less scattered in gardens, under benches, trees and lampposts being soaked by the water pumping Ministry of Sanitation, without even waking up.

And as any other week day until the next San Fermines, the local bus appeared in the distance on its morning service. Our unsung heroes hugged once more and us girls refused to believe what was about to happen.

The bus was now approaching, roaring, magnificent, its metal shinning under the 8 a.m. sun. It was fresh from the depot and ready for its descent into the centre of the town.After its week of sedentary life, the bus descended almighty and implacable. Majestic. Fearless.

And in 3rd gear.

The boys held themselves for as long as possible and as the bus horned gutturally and driver shouted unbiblical quotes, they took off speeding in front of it.

Don’t be mistaken for a minute, the bus was not going to ever get tired, or sympathetic for that matter. We heard the jolly screams and the disturbing singing all the way down, and let’s not forget the drivers cursing.

By this point, my best friend and I had fallen off the fence, incapable of holding it together. The undeterred, ceremonial expression in their faces, looking ahead, focusing on the pebbled street that needed to be conquered had been what had me almost holding my breath. The camaraderie of a bunch of drunken die-hards in white-ish and red, piously committed to their Saint Patron, with the rolled morning paper as an unswerving weapon and enough courage to defend Iruñea’s bastion, that image, will be with me forever.

I even forgot about the ‘Pan de Talo con chorizo’ that was now squashed in between my fingers, dripping down my hand. My friend was placidly finishing hers, trying to persuade me about taking on the boys’ earlier offer regarding joining them back at the main square.

I wasn’t that keen but a fresh ‘Talo con chorizo’ at 8.10 a.m. of a body hangover morning would have moved me to the centre of the Earth.

I needed not to worry; the entertainment was still high in value. Another 20 random shipwrecked cowboys had joined the original horde - albeit a slightly wounded bunch - and were jovially jumping in front of the amused water pumpers sliding all the way up to the stone walls.

Self inflicted bruising or otherwise didn’t seem to bother any of them. I sat in peace across them on a bench already dried from the sun, fresh ‘talo’ in hand and away from the water battles.

It may have been early in the morning and after an overlooked political incorrectness of a week long non stop partying, but I was still not going to downgrade my table manners. Napkin on stride and this time dedicating my full attention to the task in hand, I inspected the perfectly amassed corn flour, the secret behind it being the addition of warm water little by little to the flour and once mixed letting the mass breathe on a damp cloth for half an hour. I loved preparing them with my cousin in our Nan’s kitchen; we were the ones in charge of pinching the dough and making little balls with it. Our ‘amoma’ would then regain control of her kitchen and flatten them in circles starting from the outside until they were fine and somehow perfectly rounded.

A good bite of ‘talo’ bread and slowly grilled ‘chorizo’, tenderised and marinated in cider is usually delighted with a chilled glass of ‘txakolina’, and not teenage offering a magically produced icy cold beer was going to change that institution.

The old lady in the Bakery was fierce and not “punkies” were allowed in her shop so, as I was not particularly happy about having to share my bite with the animals, I felt compelled to provide for them.

As the clock gave us 9 bells, we ate and they drank in the most complete silence, appeased and tranquil, sun on our backs, rounded up in a pebbled prairie, happy and serene… finally subdued.

‘Good to be a girl’ I remember thinking, ‘no need for bull runs… and you would never be turned away at breakfast’.

Rhea Nielsen (c) 2008

My grandmother, ‘amoma’ in my ’second’ mother tongue, was many things. She was not just the force of evil that made me take a tablespoon of liver oil every time I went over to her house. She was also the one who brushed my hair back so tight with her pearl hand brush that my ears ached. Eventually, I discovered her other life and I forgave all the vile dollops and the brushing of my curls.

On Fridays after school, the youngest of the family, my cousin Mikel and I were summoned to her house, her kitchen in fact. She put us to work helping with dinner. Mikel seating at the kitchen table reading the quantities out loud and ‘Zipi y Zape’ comics simultaneously and me dangerously close to the hob wanting to smell and taste every sauce of everything. Being 8 years old, I used to hide her reading glasses in her apron just to see her going crazy looking for them… only to leave them in the fridge, where I knew she would find them. She then turned the radio even louder and sang along and gave us treats to celebrate the discovery. Life was a carnival whenever possible and I wish I had paid attention to her ways instead of staring in disbelief.

She always dressed in black and if I mentioned it, her reply was always “Death does not do you part”. I was too young to understand her strong sense of mourning, especially as she was so vain with her red lipstick and silver hair. Beautiful until we said goodbye, she was not one to apologise for it. Every morning she tapped her eyelids and lashes with a little drop of extra virgin olive oil, she made her own glycerin soap and she never trusted a moisturiser.

Her immense kitchen was the place where we plotted our boarding school escapades, she half listened smiling, insisting we got our hands dirty and get amassing to the bottom of the pan instead. Mikel refused to get involved unless we made burgers so it became a Friday custom. Her simple recipe involved marinating the minced beef in dry white wine with a mix of sage and ‘romero’ herbs, she added rosemary to everything. Seasoning, onion and garlic and the juice of a big tomato was added and it all came together. While it settled in the fridge we played Star Wars vs. Marvel and she tried to peel and wedge potatoes around us, whisking the egg batter and preparing the flour to dip the meat patties in before the frying.

I never knew what was in those potatoes and I have never been able to find the same taste. My mom insists it was just paprika and seasoning, and the fact that she deep fried them in olive oil until golden.

Playtime was up as soon as we broke something or each other, so she would tirade in her thick Southern accent and Mikel would give me the last nudge leaving me ever so confused trying to decipher what was all the shouting about. Her expressions were from such a faraway land to me that they never failed to amuse me. Even 15 years later she would still come up with new ones, I always wondered where she got them from as she only spoke with her cousin about twice a month and visited her birthplace only once a year. My godmother, her older child, never lost her accent either and they were a dialectic bomb together. It is the sweetest and funniest accent, and I still find you could get away with murder apologising in that mellow tone.

She was extraordinary, and I never told her, with her crazy ways and loud mouth, I never even took her seriously.

Nobody was ever allowed to go through her collections of all sorts while she was alive, so when my dad and I were clearing out her house, we found a wooden box with rolls of fabric inside. These notes from the Republic made my ‘amoma’ a stranger to me. She was not just a daft soul who loved dressing up in frills and dancing ‘Sevillanas’. All of a sudden I knew why I found her in her veranda crying sometimes. I understood that any Flamenco hands clapping made her skin crawl because raw emotion took over. I understood her solitude and her black dresses, her sometimes distant gaze and her temper. I understood her outbursts of laughing and crying when I was home one hour late on her watch. It all came slowly rolling my way.

Why had she not shaken me and made me realise it was a miracle I existed at all? Realising of her coping mechanism was a blow below the belt.

A dozen historical questions spilled out of my mouth. I had studied both Spanish Republics and reluctantly learned about Franco. At a family level, all I knew was that my grandfather had been a communist and sentenced to death for seven years, held as a political prisoner. My dad and I took a break and in that big table in her kitchen he drew diagrams and time frames and the untold story of my humble ‘amoma’.

Born into a noble family, heiress to half of the village land, she married at 17. My grandfather was the youngest ever Major of the town, blond, blue eyed and as good in economics as he was playing the clarinet. He was also a General for the Republican side, which proved to be the less popular, (oh the irony!). These politics got my ‘amoma’ into a lot of danger. Her first daughter, my godmother, was almost 3 years old when the Civil War was declared, acquiring a brother half way through it. In only a year, from 1939 to 1940, they lost everything, the land, the orange tree fields, their businesses of confectionery and ‘peinetas’, their ‘cortijo’ and everything in it. All my ‘amoma’ had time to do was grabbing her two kids, aged 6 and 2, and run for hiding. Her husband had been betrayed, small towns are the same everywhere, and the ‘nacionales’ knew where he was and how to get there fast.

She was informed of his imprisonment by neighbours, and continued to know of his whereabouts only via third hand information for the 11 years he lived as a political prisoner, the first 7, sentenced to death. That sentence meant they were called at random from the over populated common jails and were escorted to a patio in the middle of the building for everyone to see how they were shot. She lived not knowing when the final news would be whispered. She traveled the South following any thread of information she was given, from one prison town to the next, with two children grasping her skirt and not even a suitcase. Due to the ‘overbooking’ of the jails with so many political prisoners, it was difficult to follow Franco’s commands of keeping them separate or isolated so they were moved constantly, or killed, depending on how many new arrivals were expected. Luck was on their side in the sense that his last name was pretty unique and his hair so fair, that he was recognised in any listing, which made her inquiries a lot easier.

They traveled by foot, sleeping in farmlands and joining the gypsies’ wagons whenever lucky. Year after year, making friends along the way and cooking in houses in exchange of a mattress, food and a bath. Her twenties doomed, all across Spain, all the way to the North, where they finally met again. Two strangers who never gave up on each other.

Eleven years had passed since they had spoken. Eleven years since she had heard his goodbye in the form of “be by the river tomorrow at dusk, we will be driven closer to the Portuguese border”. My Nan knew those words would be honoured as a promise.

The currency we found in the box was all the money they had kept secret away from the banks when the Civil War started. She hid it inside her girdle all throughout Spain and refused to exchange it for Franco’s money. She could not comprehend there would be a country where Franco would be allowed to rule sovereign. It was a bad dream that simply could not turn reality.

She never spoke about the horrors of the war or how they got out of it. Their third kid was born 2 years after the “monarchy” was re-established and the prisons were aired. She was 36 years old, away from what she knew and with a shadow for a husband. She was also far from the only woman in black walking around Spain.

That day I also understood why she used to say “En el amor y en la guerra, no hay héroes, solo tontos.”

“No heroes in love or war, only idiots.”

Rhéa Nielsen (c) 2008

The crew had already been there for four days, snapping locations and the ‘Swimwear Shimmer” set part of the shoot. I was their second girl, only needed for a full day and two long gowns, the “Summer Dream” set.

Please allow me to play something for you while you carry on reading…

A gorgeous villa on top of one of the hills bordering San Antonio was Base of Operations. With seven rooms to choose from it seemed odd that nobody was inside, until you entered pool territory, then you joined the sunbed brigade and forgot the villa was behind you. In fact, you forgot there was a world somewhere. The outside bar was right beside it, shadowed by glorious bougainvillea, when you see that fuchsia, you know you have arrived.

Juanito, the local maitre, cook, driver, tour guide, professional whiner, and overall comedy central was taking care of breakfast when I arrived. He sliced the juiciest watermelon with four samurai-worth incisions and I got ready for make up. Sandrita, the make up wizard, barely stopped giggling while introducing me to the crew’s antics from the night before. No wonder they could not peel themselves off the lounges. The shoot was taking place around the back in the private garden. It overlooked San Antonio and the bluest sky met the bluest waters as far as you could see. No time to stare though, we were rolling as soon as I was dressed.

Whoever dare telling me ‘modeling’ is one of the easiest jobs around will get a (pathetic) left hook. For about three hours I was joyfully suspended from an old swing, upside down, hair all over the place - it is not supposed to have a mind of its own, but it does - and wearing a grass length multi layered Badgley Mischka that was too incredible for words. The dress had a phony Latin temperament and did not enjoy being shot the wrong way up, too delicate. Let’s not forget the swinging of the swing, the Mediterranean sun, and the ever present “Summer Dream” tag. I felt seasick, but somehow I loved every minute of it. That is how powerful a dress as such can be.

Sandrina, the aforementioned Wizard, instead of re-touching the make up, continuously waived her wand erasing more and more. Protection Factor 12 aside, I was getting tanned by the minute and the original Melba Blush had been replaced by a natural Peach Twist Shimmer Blushing. Who knew ‘Head Rush’ could be part of a make up line.

Marianella Schulz, the photographer, might not have been impressed with my height but she loved my patience. My dedication only stretched as far as her last click. I would have collapsed if I had not minded grass staining a work of art. My body felt I had overdone the Pilates stretching program. Luckily for all the involved, she was very happy with the pictures and we all smiled at the prospect of a whole afternoon by the pool until the golden hour. We spent it rightfully doing nothing but fighting over the play lists and listening to a tipsy Juanito offering us his very own version of Mediterranean tapas.

As we were leaving for the second shoot, the delivery guy appeared, of course, he was Juanito’s cousin’s friend’s brother, the whole island is full of those. Little J. had spent the afternoon surrounded by a neverending supply of iced chilled mini Mahou’s, and was not going to make much of a dinner. Luisillo and I devised a safer bet: all the fresh seafood we could eat, all the sangria we could drink, only a 10 minute walk down the road to San Antonio, 25 Euros per head. His cousin (of course) could sort it all out for us, no problema.

This cousin of his had, I can only refer to it as, a terrace, just off the main road. We drove by on our way to Cafe del Mar. It really was a dusty terraced floor, literally just off the kerb, so impossibly random… but at least it overlooked the sea. It had a little veranda, no safety if you were taller than 3 feet, and almost invisible behind some shrubbery, four grills on the ground. No tables, no chairs, no nothing. We looked at each other and shrugged, we didn’t particularly care.

The second shoot was a lot steadier than the morning rocking. These rocks were tricky but the vibe from the place is just pure Chill Out, you may have taken my word and even be listening to it right now.

“Café del Mar” is a legendary establishment. It was there the first time I visited when I was 16, and it still offers one of the best sunset views from the island. Add a bar, live, noninvasive shows and a huge crowd simply relaxing and catching their breath and you cannot go wrong.

Round 2 of summer dreaming didn’t need much prep because the lens was looking directly into the sun. It didn’t need any make up either due to I was four shades darker than upon landing and I was being shot in profile, my dark silhouette contrasting against another glorious dress. This time by Georges Hobeika, it was so light I felt nude, not naked, but comfortably nude. The outer layer was so barely there, the minimum breeze was a treat for Marianella. Her chosen picture had me bending over backwards, with my now curly hair (all day pool and heat, what do you want from me?) floating after the top layer of the dress. Sore muscles aside, it was a joy just to be part of it.

Can I play you another one?

We had a pleasant surprise on our way back, the ‘terrace’ was not a sad space anymore! White cloth covered some sort of low table and big, colourful patterned cushions had been thrown around everywhere. All the grills were beginning to smoke and dozens of scattered tealights were ready to be lit. The “cousin” & Co. waived at us and carried on. It was borderline midnight by the time we got changed into flipflops, cork platforms, the shortest minis, denim and day-glo underwear (please note: not moi), hats, sunnies and half a dozen necklaces (each). If there is somewhere you can get away with such attire, is in Ibiza.

By 2 am we had literally eaten all the seafood and shellfish that is humanly possible. Simply grilled with lime juices and seasoned with rock salt, it tasted incredible. Squid, lobster, clams, scallops, cockles, langoustines and more spilled out of the platters. Someone’s grandma had even prepared 10 different sauces, apparently she was originally from my side of the Basque Country and although she couldn’t come over and meet us, she had insisted in making some traditional Basque dipping sauces. That’s Spain for you. I gave her grandson my “Lauburu” pendant as a thank you, but I could never thank her enough.

We didn’t only gorge, we also came up with three sangria & champagne cocktails each. The party carried on into San Antonio town, there is where Ibiza hits you. Until that moment, I could have been anywhere else, tranquil, appeased, too quiet even. I only sobered up when we hit a random foam party in a bar. It has to be done, all I am going to say is:

• Water-proof mascara.
• Watch out for hidden steps.
• Cover your drink, and your mouth… frothing from it has never been en vogue.
• Foam parties rock

We were invited to a Manumission Night so off we went, it is a capital sin to miss them, you need to experience one at least. Amnesia is an awesome club and another legend from the island that doesn’t sleep during summer solstice. You just need to choose what side are you on, oh yeah, and don’t forget to bring your open mind.

I woke up half way up the hill back to the villa to find myself wearing a helmet. My knight in shinning armor was Luisillo’s friend (me no idea either) and he was driving a Vespa. I probably insisted on it in my sleep. Half of the crew was in a taxi in front of us (Juanito didn’t find funny that the boys threw him in front of the foam pump and he drove off without us after that), the rest had carried on to Pacha for a last drink, or brunch I guess.

We got in as the mannequin du jour was getting dropped, hers was the ‘Nightime Play” set. How did she not get back in the taxi and sped off down the hill I would never know. We must have been a sight. My plane was leaving in three hours, as they all went to sleep I sat with Marissa, originally from Mozambique she was a gorgeous green eyed girl. Her shoot was not due until that night so she suggested going for a dive off the West coast cliffs, the undersea caves are not to be missed. My brain didn’t feel like dealing with underwater pressure but any other time I would have raced her there.

We all had early lunch together (Juanito as jolly as the previous morning, all forgotten and forgiven). I had to go back to my University homework so with a little tear in my heart I said my goodbyes.

The crew was awesome, the place is awesome, the vibe will always be awesome. I am eleven words away from the closest I have ever been to cursing:

“Ibiza es la hostia”*.

My last treat, for you! (worth watching)

RN

Rhéa Nielsen (c) 2008

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(*) Pronunced: “E-be-tha es la os-te-a” >> Just learn the whole thing and a local will explain it to you (and love you forever).