MANILA, Philippines - Every territory has a Vegas. A city of sin, with the necessary properties in aid of no good. To wit: flashing lights (the better to keep pace with), crashing tides, or balmy nights. The last two, of course, inevitably pull up the image of Boracay, the Philippines’ own sand trap, home to hedonistic pleasures, and certified hall-of-famer in the what-happens-in, stays-in category.
Determined to fight the feeling, I booked myself for the oxymoronic — a wellness weekend in Boracay. Dubbed “Beauty and the Beach,” the signature event of Women’s Health magazine — heretofore staged in the Hamptons and Miami Beach, for the title’s international counterparts — promised a weekend of dance workouts and sunrise yoga. “Sign me up!!” I said. What I did was another story.
To be fair, things started off well enough. I jetted in Friday night, walked around the beach, killed dinner, and went straight to bed. I woke up pretty early (i.e. before noon), for these parts, and caught a session of Hatha yoga, after a mini pep talk from the impossibly toned Women’s Health editor in chief Lara Parpan. I had tried Bora yoga before, on previous trips, at True Food. What made the workout pleasantly more challenging, though, was the fact that the mats were laid out on the beach, atop sand, making it hotter and much harder to balance.
In the afternoon, Women’s Health introduced new dance workouts, to the delight of the beachcombing crowd. Indian Bollywood took elements from Bollywood movies, upped with vigorous choreographic variations. Chair Cabaret was more Striptease, making use of a chair to execute dance moves, for calorie-torching cardio. Hapa Haole Hula, which I tried, basically had a lot of hip and arm movements, with a focus on a tight core, to tone the stomach, buns, and thighs, Hawaiaan-club style. Finally, Fitness Hula Hoop is an all-in cardio that also trims the waist, hips, and thighs, and also builds the abs.
When I got to the Patio Pacific Hotel for early dinner, I was pleasantly surprised to find that room service carried my kind of poison from back home. That is, green smoothies that basically churn carrots, apples, and, you know, the occasional head of lettuce for a low-cal, high-nutrient, higher-on-life beverage (I have felt faint a couple of times) that really doesn’t taste as gross as it looks! I should have had one, actually, but instead my death-wish tendencies got the best of me, and I proceeded to have dinner out, followed by a side trip to Juice Bar. Caveat: They do not really serve juice. In fact, juice is a euphemism for certain other liquids; in this case, three tall glasses of Red Bull (with a shot glass of Jaeger dropped into each one — fairly and squarely), and some other bodily substance from the boy who insisted on buying said bottoms-up material, only to find that he would NOT be able to keep the drink down. He did, however, manage to get some on my forearm. I quickly forgave him, though. Endorphins do make you happy.