A Day in the Life

Stuck in the Middle

2012-03-03T09:21:00.000-08:00

I’m generally not one to attend posh dinners where most of the guests are either sailors or lawyers as I can’t speak intelligently on most related matters, but I made an exception this year to attend the Bar Yacht Club’s annual dinner. Having dined at Middle Temple Hall before, I knew what to expect of the food and wine, and having had most of Tim’s crew come through our home in Cowes during the sailing season, I was looking forward to seeing them in something other than waterproofs and chatting about life off the water!

This year is the 75^th anniversary of the Bar Yacht Club, and the club's Admiral happens to be one of the royals, who was asked to and graciously accepted the invitation. Brush with royalty? I was happy to rush out to Debenham’s for evening dress and practise a curtsy, just in case. In fact, I would venture to guess that most of the ~ 300 guests were not there to hear Commodore Sir Michael Briggs talk about the many different trophies he had before him, but because it was made known that a special guest would be in attendance that evening.

And what a superb evening it was—a black-tie / evening dress affair for all of us, and most of the regular crew of Coh Karek in attendance—either at Tim’s end of the table, which (ahem) happened to be at the front of the room, or down the bench just a bit with the crew of XtoSea, the boat owned by the Vice Commodore and the vessel on which Tim did most of his sailing before acquiring his Contessa.

Picture me in this:

After a quick change from work attire into my purple evening dress, Tim (looking resplendent in black tie after his own quick change at chambers) escorted me from my office reception to Pegasus, a bar just steps away from Middle Temple Hall. The bar is usually filled with barristers and solicitors; this evening it was complimented by a bevy of lovely ladies in posh frocks and men looking very smart in black, sipping champagne and chatting away on what we’d been doing since the last time we were together. It was the first time in a long while we’d seen some of our friends, and certainly the first time we’d all been in the same room in ages—we were 17 in all, though one couple closely related to Tim were stuck in a taxicab on Oxford Street whilst the champagne poured for the rest of us!

I am always a bit in awe, a bit thrilled by the ceremony of events held at Middle Temple—the grand pronouncements, the rapping on the floor with a tall rod several times to call us to order, the toast “to the Queen”, etc. I might also add that I am and also quite fond of the food and wine selection at Middle Temple; I’ve come to understand that the Inns of Court spare little expense on certain pleasures.

The hall, dating back to the 16^th century, is laid out bench style, with long rows down the length of the hall; the main table at the front of the hall stands across them. Behind the main table the wall is filled with portraits of many royals including Queen Elizabeth I, who is said to have dined there many times during her reign (which ended in 1603). The hall itself is 101 feet long and 41 feet wide; to say it is impressive is an understatement.

Shakespeare fans will know that Twelfth Night was first performed there in 1602.As an American I simply love England for its history, reaching back longer than America has existed.

I’ll temporarily bore you with a few details from the menu—gravalax with a seafood timbale followed by filet of beef with a confit of oxtail, mango and passion fruit brulee (just one of three desserts), petit fours, cheese, and more. It was all delicious, and as expected the wines perfectly complemented each course. I was most impressed with the Chateau Lafitte Premiers Cotes de Bordeaux 2009—that year being one of the greatest in Bordeaux history, it worked a treat with the beef and was in fact the only wine that I gratefully accepted a second pour; while the others were equally lovely, including the Louis Latour 2009 Macon Lugny Les Genievres, I have always sided with the reds.

The piece de resistance was neither food nor wine; it was the speech by The Admiral, His Royal Highness the Duke of Edinburgh, that stayed with us long after the plates and glasses were cleared. I truly felt privileged to be inches away from Prince Philip as he was escorted past our table—all of us standing at attention as he smiled at as many of us as he could. During his speech he joked about how he is generally invited to such events only when things are going horribly wrong, and how he was happy to forgo golfing outings to his second son (Andrew, former husband of Sarah). He looked well, though a bit shorter than I’d imagined—he is said to be six foot tall (to the Queen’s five feet four inches); perhaps with my own heels and standing tall I was merely appearing taller than my usual five feet five!

Tim, as a member of the Bar Yacht Club committee, had the honour of greeting HRH and escorting him through the rooms within Middle Temple before dinner. He said the Duke seemed in fine form, and while Tim talked rather nonchalantly about it, I suspect he was chuffed as cheeseballs to have had the opportunity to get up close and personal with HRH.

Cowes on the 25^th of July as part of the celebration of her Diamond Jubilee. My calendar is already marked as out of office for that day when I hope for another glimpse at royalty. How lucky can you get?

A Moveable Feast

2012-02-19T06:07:00.000-08:00

Without fail whenever I am asked what I miss about America, one of the top three answers has been "pizza." Pizza in England is not like pizza in the NY/NJ region of the US--for starters, it's rare to find pizza by the slice, even in London. There is no pizza "joint" in London that has the aroma of a neighbourhood pizza place--and isn't that smell a big part of the experience? (Lest we forget, close to 80% of what we taste is actually attributed to our sense of smell; smell also has a powerful link to memory.) The combination of crispy crust, melting cheese, and a dash of oregano that then becomes folded with an ever-so-subtle "crunch" from the top of the crust before a small bite off the pointed end, careful not to burn one's mouth from the piping hot cheese . . . THAT is what I was missing, and in a recent whirlwind trip to America I rediscovered my love of the great American "slice."

And, of course, Tim had to be there for the occasion--more of a revelation than the reliving a memory for him. There were a few choices of venue: John's, on Bleecker Street, my "local" pizza joint as it was nearby to NYU when I went there. Lombardi's, the other pizza family in Little Italy, on not-too-distant Spring Street, was also a possibility. And what of Famous Ray's? I've had a few of those in my time, though I always found Ray's crust to be a bit more doughy than the other famous houses.

In the end, perhaps owing to my impatience, the winner was a tried-and-true neighbourhood place that Robyn had discovered, in Belleville, near her home. Robyn and I spent the morning sorting through the last of my boxes in storage--mostly photo albums, tchotchkes, and various and sundry tax and financial papers. By the time we'd finished unpacking, sorting, trashing, and/or preserving the contents of nine cardboard boxes, almost two hours later, I was ready for something warm and delicious, and the pizza place was just a few blocks away-the obvious choice. We fetched Tim from Robyn's flat (we were on the ground floor, in vacated office space) and headed out.

I knew we had it right when I opened the door and that lovely aroma of pizza wafted out as I breezed in. The counter held several pies--plain, sausage, veggie--but this was my first experience in a bit, and it had to be the plain the first time. And a Coke (OK, diet for me--more calories to expend on pizza). I sat in a booth while the pizza counter worker tore off a slice for me, a slice for Robyn, and one with meat (sausage, I think) for Tim and popped them in the oven for a minute or two. Served simply, as ever, on thin white paper plates and carted to the booth table on an orange plastic cafeteria tray, behold, the slice. Tim has never seen me smile so widely, he said.

The lift. The fold. The sensory intake of fresh pizza before me, and then finally, the bite . . . I am home and in pizza heaven. It is good. It is better than good, in fact, and after enjoying it all the way down to the crispy crust with just enough bite to it to make it chewy, it's time for slice number two. Mirror image, only this time with a dash of garlic powder. Delightful. Life is good.

The rest of the trip to America was a lot like that--reliving dormant food experiences for me, enjoying new tastes for Tim. Next on tap was my favourite Italian restaurant in my old neighbourhood of Harrison, where Robyn and I live for a bit. We had a routine--Thursday nights, Nino's, and then often after dinner a twenty-step walk to the Dunkin' Donuts on the strip for a takeaway coffee and, sometimes, a large cookie. Nino's appeal for me is twofold--one, the place is family-owned friendly and the food has always been good--not spectacular, but always fresh, tasty, and simple. Mr Nino would greet you with a smile if he was in the house, and on chilly, snowy days when I'd pop in for an eggplant parmigiana with spaghetti and a side salad he'd offer me a cup of coffee while I waited for my takeaway, on the house of course. The other draw to Nino's was that eggplant (pardon me, EU readers, aubergine) parmigiana I just spoke of--it was the second best I'd ever had next to my ex-Italian father-in-law's homemade dish. (My first husband was of Italian descent.

We'd planned for dinner on Friday night, after a quick trip to see my eldest sister Debbie's family in Bayonne, where the XBox was fired up and we were soon bowling with Alyssa and Danny, my niece and nephew, and then dancing--well, Tim danced, I watched, with the excuse that I was going to dinner and didn't want to sweat (rather than I'm uncoordinated and don't want to).

The dinner guests included Robyn and Jimmy and my eldest sister Debbie and her husband Bobby. I also invited my dear cousin Judy and her husband Carroll, who I am very close with. Surprise guests were my nephew, Robert, who is now 24, and Regina and Pat, friends of the family and with cousin Judy our babysitters when we were growing up in Jersey City. What fun it was--and the food, particularly the eggplant, did not disappoint; Robyn was a bit worried that perhaps the chef or the recipe had changed and I'd been looking forward to the meal for weeks before the trip, but it was as delicious as I'd remembered. Tim started with eggplant rollatini

And the company, of course, was wonderful--after dinner some of us changed seats so we could catch up a bit. The hugs were long and slightly emotional for me at the end of the glorious evening--I'd see Robyn and Jimmy on Sunday for a wedding we'd been invited to, but not the rest of the crowd until my next journey home.

A trip to New Jersey is not complete without a visit to a diner, the Diner Capital of the World, where 600 diners dot the Garden State. For my money one of the best is Tops, in East Newark, a stone's through from the hotel we were staying at in Harrison. I'll admit that I chose the hotel for its proximity to Belleville, home to Robyn and the wedding reception hall, the New Jersey Turnpike, the train to NYC, Nino's, and the Tops. Diner breakfasts are huge--meaning both important to the business and largely portioned. Tops Diner has a queue every Saturday and Sunday morning, as I recall, and the staff is well trained to take names, clear tables, and keep the hungry crowd moving. Eggs and bacon, with an enormous amount of hash browns on the side and toast piled high continuously stream out of the kitchen.

Bacon. Proper bacon--crispy, thin, salty. You can get Oscar Meyer bacon in London, but it's just not the same as having it at the diner. Out of practise on my first run, I failed to ask for no hash browns and to have my butter on the side of my wheat toast. No matter; I politely picked at the potatoes, about the same amount of those as the scrambled eggs, and scraped a bit of the excess butter off the bread. Tim, unaccustomed to the American lingo, ordered "brown" bread. The waitperson laughed--all toast is brown, after all! After a brief exchange of what was on offer Tim decided on rye, and when she brought the bread minutes later, she chuckled and said "it's a little brown" when she placed the plate on the table. I had to smile.

The breakfast was delicious, of course, and would carry us through the morning, as Tim and I began in Hoboken, New Jersey, to see the town where I spent a few years as a single girl. Hoboken is just about a square mile and there is a bar on practically every corner, with lots of shops and restaurants to boot along the main drag called Washington Street. It's become home to singles and young families who can afford the high price of property or a rental--even when I lived there, back in 1996, the rent was steep but not as steep as Manhattan, just across the river. Part of the trip was giving Tim the tour of the places I lived in New Jersey--Hoboken, Harrison, Kearny, Lyndhurst, and later in the week Mullica Hill, near Philadelphia. I chose to skip my birthplace, Jersey City. Though we were in the city itself, we didn't go by the two places I'd lived--the first, where I spent my first 5 years, is no longer there, and the second, where I lived until I was almost 25, is in a rough neighbourhood that even in the 70s and 80s was known as a haven for drug dealers, muggers, and other dodgy types. We were close with our immediate neighbours, and early on had a wonderful time growing up, riding our bikes and playing wiffle ball or double-dutch in the street. Everyone was kind and good and we all looked after each other, but year after year the area was overtaken by a less desirable element. The house looked run down years ago when I last drove down Kennedy Boulevard and espied it from there--we actually lived near the corner of Lexington Avenue, a one-way street that meant having to travel up to Bergen Avenue to come down the street, and pass the apartment houses where many an evening the Jersey City police were dealing with some sort of fracas. No matter; Tim would see quite enough on The Donna Tour!

And there is so much more--the trip to Manhattan later that day, where we skipped the pizza (neither John's nor Lombardi's does "the slice") and opted for a deli sandwich, a walk around the World Trade Center site, an expensive drink in a revolving bar near Times Square called The View to see Manhattan from 48 stories high, and a trip to Riverside Drive on the Number 1 train to visit with friends Heike and Mahmoud. The dining table in their beautiful flat was crammed with cheeses and olives and dips and breads and, well, wine of course. The sparkling Lambrusco we started with was a treat, and the night was filled with conversation among the other guests--the couple from Italy (Torino and Genoa); Gowan, from White Plains (NY) whom Tim had an engaging conversation about the Anglican church; Eva, from Austria, who spoke of the wonder of the Viennese balls and answered "NO!" and then laughed out loud when I asked if it was all right to wear the same ball gown to two different parties! And of course catching up with Heike, who I have known for a couple decades, and meeting her Mahmoud for the first time, well, that was special. Heike's parties are always international--they and their friends are a wonderful melting pot.

After a good night's rest we yet another engagement, with my dear high-school friend Jill and her husband Mike. (High school means ages 13-17, so that's how long I know Jill.) Jill found a lovely little cafe in Nutley, near to where we were staying, known for good food. The Chestnut Cafe has lovely hardwood floors and high ceilings, and handsome wooden tables that make the place feel cosy. We went at brunch time, where the menu is filled with eggs and omelets and burgers and paninis--all sampled by the four of us. Tim went for the burger, Jill and I for panini and Mike for eggs, and all of us simply loved the food. And how wonderful for me to watch Tim and Mike and Jill chat--when you have special friends you want them to really like your partner, and it was simply nice to chat around the table about life and work and holidays and leave with a sense of warmth that recognises a special moment in time.

OK, so why did we go to America in the first place? The reason for the trip was a wedding--my friend Gary and his partner Randy, together for twenty years, had decided to throw a big, fat party to celebrate their relationship and recent wedding in New York. Gary wanted it to be the best party we'd ever attended, and I must say, the couple did their best to make that happen--the food was, well, anything you can imagine and then some; the entertainment was brilliant--the Barbra Streisand impersonator was wonderful, particularly when she sang both voices of the duet "You Don't Bring Me Flowers."

The dancers were fabulous, the DJ had us on the floor, and the desserts for the Viennese hour, much like the cocktail hour, were anything you could think of. I personally enjoyed the chocolate-covered strawberries and bananas, but there were many others to choose from: creme brulee, cherries jubilee, crepes, zeppole, and of course wedding cake (that we were given a slice to take home). I was happy that despite 213 other guests Tim and I had the chance to chat briefly with both Gary and Randy--each very happy and radiant on their day. Gary is a treasure in my family; I know him since I am 15 (do the math) and before moving to London he was not just a family friend but the man who cut my hair! A trip to his salon, or to his fabulous apartment on Greenwich Street in Manhattan, was always a treat for the conversation. I couldn't help but think how my mother would have loved to be at the wedding; Gary treated my mom so wonderfully and it's partially that emotional tie that makes me want him to be happy.

The moveable feast continued to southern New Jersey, Philadelphia, and then Newark, NJ . . . and I think I'll save that for the next post! After all this recollection, I need to eat!

Small kindnesses

2012-01-18T11:17:00.000-08:00

I am still a little surprised, a little impressed, and always heartened by the little things I see people do for each other in the course of a day. It reminds me that I want to always be thinking of ways to perform small acts of kindness--not for any glory, but simply to make someone smile. I know how it makes me feel when someone offers me a seat on a crowded bus or subway, or stoops to pick up something I've dropped. That and, I think it's contagious, and why not spread a little love?

I recently had one of those days where it seemed everyone was in good form, and there were small displays of caring in quick succession: a young man exited his seat on the Bakerloo line to a woman at least four times his age. The woman in the elevator in front of me held the door for two gentleman, one with crutches, so they didn't have to wait for the next elevator (and believe me, that's brave when the elevator is close to full and on its way down). The bus driver paused to let a man who was running toward the bus actually make the bus--here in London, it seems like the drivers are forever on a tight schedule and no matter how hard you run, many of them simply won't wait.

I smiled at all these little acts of kindness I saw my fellow citizens do for each other. I know it probably happens far more often than I observe--I hope it does--but when it happens on a day when you're feeling like crap or you're tired or angry, and you can take a deep breath and take the time to watch the world around you unfold, well, it is a lovely thing.

Speaking of lovely things, a small update on an altogether different topic--driving in Britain. The lovely part isn't the driving--LOL--it's the fact that I've decided with Tim's coaxing (and a bit of his dosh) to buy a small lovely Peugeot to get around the Isle of Wight. It's had its fits and starts, literally--while we both test-drove the car and had no issue driving it away two weeks later from the owner's home in Ventnor, she has been a bit tetchy about starting and staying running (and note she is an automatic). Tim has a trick to simply start the car in reverse rather than in park, so of course it will move immediately and you need to be careful of your surroundings. I tried that once and hit the car park bumper (which is better than hitting a car) and decided it wasn't an option for me. We'll get the little blue Peugeot checked, and in the meanwhile we've tidied her up with a fabulous jet spray bath at the local petrol station and a good hoovering and wiping down of the interior so she looks pretty and actually quite sporty for an old gal--a '96 with 126,000 miles!

The idea to get a car on the IoW has been in our minds for a little bit; while there is bus service, it's not frequent and you almost always need to start in Newport to get to any of the other areas like Ventnor or Ryde, etc. The Cowes-to-Newport run is about 20 minutes, whereas with a car you needn't always go in that direction and of course you generally don't stop to pick up / drop off passengers. It's also good to have for carting ropes, cushions, and other boat-related items to and from the marina, where Tim's other woman now sits patiently for the winter, getting prettied up for her spring coming out.

Having a car opens up possibilities for when guests come, to see more of the island, or to simply do what we did with our first weekend having the Peugeot--we went to the movies in Newport to see The Iron Lady. (By the way, the car is a lovely shade of blue Mrs Thatcher would approve of.)

Which reminds me . . . my dear friend Leah asked me what I've named the Peugeot. I hadn't thought to name her, though I recall my sister Robyn always having names for her vehicles, unusual names like Betsy, whereas I never really called my car anything but my car.

So, draped in blue, a bit old, conservative yet still a bit feisty . . . dare I say . . . Maggie?

Tim, no doubt, has just fallen off his chair.

New Year, New . . . Pub?

2012-01-06T12:53:00.000-08:00

What makes a favourite pub? For me, a few important things, not in any particular order—a fireplace; a decent wine list; proximity to where I want to be; atmosphere; good food.

I’ve decided my favourite pub is The Union Inn, a very short walk from home in Cowes. It’s just recently won an award as the best Fuller’s pub in England—Fuller’s being a massive pub-owning lot with 364 in all in England. (Fuller’s also brews London Pride, a well-known quaff, and has been a British institution for 165 years.)

Here’s where I like to sit at The Union:

There’s a fireplace to the left, where you can see some exposed brick. On chilly autumn and winter nights, it works a treat.

I have other favourite places here. There is no place in Cowes that beats the view from the Island Sailing Club, and with an outdoor deck it’s lovely in the summer. But it’s not really a pub—it’s a place to go to have a glass of wine and soak up the view. And it’s actually a few steps closer to home than The Union, with nice food and a lovely wine list. (It’s starting to sound like the fireplace factors in quite highly!)

The Fountain Inn, just outside the RedJet ferry terminal which means I must pass it heading home, has always been comfortable. Before having a place to call home in Cowes it was the place to stay. Some of the rooms have a view of the Solent, though I recall it all being a bit cramped. The pub is cosy enough, and the food is always cheap and cheerful and tasty. The Fountain is where Tim and I usually go to watch rugby, and we enjoyed our Buck’s Fizz (aka mimosa) on the morning of the most recent “big” royal wedding (mean Kate and Wills and not Zara and Mike).

Like home, The Union Inn has no television. Like home, I think there are board games; I recall seeing some stashed on a shelf. I keep a game of Scrabble here, and Tim is generally game to give it a go in lieu of the telly (well,let’s face it, he has no choice).

For other lovely pubs in my southern home, there’s also The Wight Mouse, in Chale. Frankly it almost has it all—the fireplace, the wine list, the food, the atmosphere. What it doesn’t have is the proximity to my front door, but when we are out and about, it’s a lovely place to stop. In fact it is a stone’s throw from a western-facing view where you can watch the sun set. Last week Tim and I popped in for a cup of tea and a biscuit after watching the sky grow pink as dusk came, leaving me slightly disappointed that it was too cloudy to see the sun on the horizon dip into the English Channel. There will be other sunsets near Chale, I am sure, now that we have found a place to watch (and we have purchased an old Peugeot to knock around the island with) and we know the Wight Mouse is nearby.

I think I shall have a resolution in 2012 to explore more of my southern England home. Let’s see how The Union fares come same time, next year!

Happy New Year to all!

Thankful for . . .

2011-11-22T05:57:00.000-08:00

It's funny the way the weather can make you smile. This has been the mildest November I can ever remember, and it is a delight. I am bopping out of the house each morning without scarf or gloves, and taking in long, deep breaths of air that almost smells as sweet as spring. There are big, beautiful hydrangeas bursting on the enormous bush in our front garden. I'm fairly certain I am wearing a silly grin as I head to the bus stop. I'm smiling at everyone who passes . . . I occasionally get a smile back.

This weekend Tim and I saw some people in shorts walking along Cowes High Street. No flip flops were on display, though even shorts this late in November gives pause. Our long walk along the parade to Gurnard was glorious--I was wearing a jacket, but unzipped. A couple of times I realised I stretched out my arms as if to let the air envelop me, and making a cape of my jacket. I felt like Mary Tyler Moore, happy as Larry (one of those odd British-isms), and would have gladly tossed my beret high in the air, only it was too warm to be wearing a hat. And I felt so in love--with life, with all that I have, with my husband. Lovely weather, my friends, is an elixir.

The nights this November have been just a bit cooler than the days, with inky dark skies. To my surprise this weekend it was clear and dotted with stars that you don't often get to see in the better-lit London skies.It all feels so precious, this November warmth, and I know it is short-lived. Everyone is talking about it--and yes, Brits do talk a lot about the weather (apparently because it's generally rubbish), but this spring-like spell commands a lot of talk in the coffee shops and at bus stops where the outerwear ranges wildly from knit scarves (because it's November, it's what you're supposed to wear) to light jackets (which are more prevalent).

At the same time this unusual stretch of weather has thrown me a bit off kilter--I am having trouble rationalising this fabulous, temperate weather with all the decorations that scream "Christmas!" along Oxford Street. And I realise, well, I need to write out Christmas cards before we go on our honeymoon. I need to buy gifts for the nieces and nephews.

But I can't quite get in the mood. Perhaps as Thanksgiving approaches, it will set me straight. This year we are bypassing our usual Thanksgiving gathering at Bodean's BBQ in Soho for the more comfortable and likely less noisy environs of the home of our friends Taron and Neil, who will be hosting an honest-to-goodness Thanksgiving feast. I'm excited; an intimate occasion in a warm home that will no doubt have the aroma of home-cooked turkey, stuffing . . . I am hoping there's pumpkin pie.

In fact Thanksgiving had always been a favourite holiday of mine--it brings friends and families together without the need for cards and pressies; it reminds us to be thankful, and to cherish our ties far and near. I liked that all of us trouped to my mother's house or, later, to my sister Debbie's home for turkey and ham and the ever-popular mushrooms in a sour cream sauce, and of course the array of pies--pumpkin, yes, but also apple and mince pies too that my mother would make. It was a rare occasion to get us all together as we got older and gained spouses or significant others, yet more often than not we managed it for a number of years. I think I was first in the family to throw a monkey wrench into the annual gathering--going away for Thanksgiving became a bit of its own tradition for me in the late 90s and for the next several years--still spent with friends and, even in a place like Jamaica, turkey on the menu.

The first year I was in Britain I found it strange to work Thanksgiving Thursday and Friday--I didn't miss the Black Friday shopping, but I did suddenly miss having Thursday with my family, like the good old days. Having my American cadre of friends here helped fill the gap--and Bodean's even showed NFL football, which before coming to England was a staple of not just Thanksgiving but many of my weekends.

We adjust; we find ways to celebrate the things that are important to us even when those things may not be widely recognised in our new landscape. I suppose the Fourth of July is another example--but here there is Guy Fawkes Night, and the fireworks are legal!

I have learned to be grateful of one more thing this month--don't laugh--the Transport for London's new online bus arrival schedule in real time. OK, go ahead and laugh, but I'm becoming slowly addicted. You punch in your stop--the name, or the number if you know it--check the correct direction, and voila, a list of all the next buses coming toward you! It's brilliant, especially now that I've practically stopped using the tube because most of my travel is on foot or by the double-decker, where I still inwardly squeal when the seats at the front of the top deck are empty and I can sit and watch the London scene.

Case in point: Tim and I take the 341 from Waterloo Station back to our home in London. The 341 runs notoriously poorly--you just never know how long you're going to wait. As popular as the Waterloo bus stop is, it is one that does not have an LED display of arrivals and several buses stop within feet of each other at three stops in a row. As each bus several blocks down turns the corner on to Waterloo Road I'm squinting to see if it's a 341, or just another 172 or 168 or 4 (which is an alternative, but requires a transfer at Angel). Thanks to the TFL I can now simply whip out my Blackberry, go to the site, and know exactly how long the wait will be. And, I can call the site up while we're still on the train, approaching Waterloo Station, and then know whether it's worth hoofing it to the bus stop or if a leisurely stroll will get us there in the nick of time.

I found myself calling up the site this morning at my bus stop to the office--3 minutes! Know what I'm afraid of? I'll start a little earlier--before I leave the house--and arrange my time around the bus schedule. The good: more time with Tim in the morning sipping coffee, knowing there won't be a bus. The bad: less time with Tim in the morning sipping coffee, knowing I can catch a particular bus if I just look at the site. Deep breath. I won't let it happen.

Life's simple pleasures: Family. Friends. Food. Love. Life. Technology. Be thankful.

Ode to the 40+ Females

2011-11-12T05:11:00.000-08:00

I'd forgotten how I enjoyed Andy Rooney's monologues until the media reported his death last week. I read it in the NY Times, not the British Times; there may have been a small piece in some newspaper here, but at the moment it's all gloom and doom in the Eurozone that takes up the newsprint. (That and Princess Zara's husband being kicked off the England rugby team. A minor scandal as royal scandals go.)

I may not have always watched the entire hour of 60 Minutes, the talk program Rooney held the last three minutes of, but I was almost certain to tune in to hear what topic he was going to bring his brand of sensibility to. He wasn't always politically correct and had more than a few dissenters--I certainly didn't agree with everything he said--but I found he often made a good point. I don't really watch much TV now, and honestly I don't miss it--most Brits in fact bemoan the fact that most of what's on the telly is crap.

Hearing of Andy's passing though made me pause and reflect on how my habits have changed since coming to the UK--getting to the theatre and opera more, spending Sundays without football (though I'll admit I truly enjoy rugby at the national level), watching almost no TV (I didn't even own one the first year here and still don't on the IoW), and, alas, eating less pizza. Those are all actually good things, but oh how I get that craving for a slice from back home.

The day after Rooney's death, a friend of mine shared a monologue that is commonly attributed to Andy, but in fact was penned by a gentleman called Frank Kaiser. Andy wasn't all that fond of women over 40; his response to whether he agreed with Kaiser's opinion is said to have been "not particularly." No matter; I appreciated Rooney for his honesty.And I liked that he occasionally referred to his wife, fondly, in his three minutes.

Some of what Frank Kaiser said made me smile, and thought was worth sharing. For my friends over 40 and those inching ever closer to the mark, then, enjoy:

As I grow in age, I value women who are over 40 most of all. Here are just a few reasons why: An over 40 woman will never wake you in the middle of the night to ask, "What are you thinking?" She doesn't care what you think. If an over 40 woman doesn't want to watch the game, she doesn't sit around whining about it. She does something she wants to do. And it's usually something more interesting.

An over 40 woman knows herself well enough to be assured in who she is,what she is, what she wants, and from whom. Few women past the age of 40 give a darn what you might think about her or what she's doing.. An over 40 woman usually has had her fill of "meaningful relationships" and "commitment". The last thing she wants in her life is another dopey, clingy, whiny, dependent lover. Over 40 women are dignified.

They seldom have a screaming match with you at the opera or in the middle of an expensive restaurant. Of course, if you deserve it, they won't hesitate to shoot you if they think they can get away with it.

Over 40 women are generous with praise, often undeserved. They know what it's like to be unappreciated. An over 40 woman has the self-assurance to introduce you to her women friends. A younger woman with a man will often ignore even her best friend because she doesn't trust the guy with other women. A woman over 40 couldn't care less if you're attracted to her friends because she knows her friends won't betray her. Women get psychic as they age. You never have to confess your sins to an over 40 woman. They always know. An over 40 woman looks good wearing bright red lipstick. This is not true of younger women. Over 40 women are forthright and honest.

They'll tell you right off you are a jerk if you are acting like one. You don't ever have to wonder where you stand with her.

Yes, we praise over 40 women for a multitude of reasons.

Unfortunately, it's not reciprocal. For every stunning, smart, well-coifed hot woman of 40+, there is a bald, paunchy relic in yellow pants making a fool of himself with some 22-year-old waitress. Ladies, I apologize.

It's Not about Love

2011-11-02T14:38:00.000-07:00

Sometimes you just feel like you have to post, even when what you have to say isn't interesting or funny or important. It's been a while since I've blogged, and that's partially because I've been uninspired. Yes, I know, again. It's not that there haven't been wonderful things going on; it's just that they haven't compelled me to write. Time has also been hard to find, and yet when I did find the odd hour or two, I found myself preferring to do something else. I sense I'm going through one of those phases where I'm trying to figure out what I want my blog to "be"--at this moment I've settled on "whatever comes to mind"!

I thought about posting about love. My friend Taron, who writes a wonderful blog called Mind, Body & Scroll, encouraged her mates to write on the topic in October . . . but my adventures in love have been complicated, and I felt like I couldn't be true to my feelings about the subject without possibly unsettling others. I will simply say that each love has been different in wonderful ways, and I am blessed to have had an abundance of love in my life, which shows no sign of fading with age! I think, deep down, that I didn't want my current love to think there was anyone or anything more important to me than him--that is the truth--and sometimes bringing up the past can place too much meaning on what should, simply, be left in the past.

I came across two things that struck me today. One was from Mona Simpson, who eulogised her brother Steve. Her words were simple, evocative, and honest. She made me cry. There are phrases like "He treasured happiness." Or "Steve worked at what he loved. He worked really hard. Every day." I thought, what love between them; what genuine caring and admiration her words spoke. I want to live some of those words, I want to emulate that caring. I hope I do. And oddly enough, I feel I was taught some of those lessons from someone who, like Mona's brother, battled with pancreatic cancer. At the end of the article I smiled and wished I could reach out to her and say, well done and thank you.

The other bit that crossed my inbox today was a clip of Malcolm Gladwell, one of my favourite writers, giving a presentation for TED about the Norden bombsight. Norden was born in 1918, a Swiss engineer who developed the technology to target bombs. He is not all that different from Steve--he worked hard every day, passionate about his contribution to the greater good. I'll admit I watched the 15-minute video because I like Malcolm Gladwell; he is an interesting, funny, and compelling person who finds unusual things to talk about and make me think. The message, at the end of the day, was that Norden was a Christian who wanted to mitigate the human cost of war by being able to, with pinpoint accuracy, target important sites and make the enemy weak. In fact it was an inaccurate device, owing to the constraints of technology and the presence of anything but clear blue skies in a time of war. And, in the end, his device delivered the bomb that annihilated Hiroshima. Apparently no one told Norden that it was his device the Enola Gay carried; as Gladwell said, it would have broken Norden's heart. I'm not sure what the moral of the story is meant to be; for me, it is simply that sometimes things go awry even with the best of intentions; we don't always have control of that.

It is November! I won't count down the days until Christmas--I did take note that the sandwich shoppe placed my takeaway in a bag that was decorated with holiday trees. I am quietly anticipating time away for a delayed honeymoon; time away to see wonderful things, eat delicious food, and explore a different part of the world with someone who I know will make it exciting and brilliant and fun and romantic.

I think this is perhaps my most unusual post--both for its brevity and stream of consciousness. I half thought to scrap it, and dig out the day planner that reminds me that I went to a French cheese and wine tasting earlier this week, or that I've officially changed my name and have the passport to prove it . . . then again, those stories today moved me, and whether you love them or hate them, I wanted to share them.

Nightfall

2011-10-13T13:29:00.000-07:00

It’s a cool evening in London and I’ve just finished having a quick chat with Tim, who is sailing on Nightfall to bring her home to England from Sweden. It has been a slightly arduous journey—not the best weather, small mishaps, and while the journey has been wonderful, I sense the desire to simply be home in Tim’s voice. They will all have wonderful stories to tell and fond memories, of course; it is one of those adventures of a lifetime—sailing down the Baltic coast, seeing a different part of the world, experiencing ports and people in places that are quite different from England. No, the desire to be home is less about wanting the trip to end than it is simply wanting to be here, with me. Am I a bit conceited for saying that?

Nightfall is just beyond Norderney, less than 300 miles now from the coast of England—they plan to head for Ramsgate, a port close enough to call home, and almost due west of Zeebrugge. With favourable wind, Nightfall should reach Ramsgate by Saturday, which is a relatively short train journey back to London for Tim.

When Nightfall first set off with a crew of four (owners Tom and Karen, Tim, and Eddie), the two-week journey was meant to exclude night sailing, but now that the trip has been delayed due to weather, etc, tonight they sail the North Sea, three hours on/three hours off for the helmsmen. Tim is used to it; for the 16-day trip from Gran Canaria to St Lucia on Tom’s previous sailboat, Nightlife, it was the same interval. No doubt there will be little chance of flying fish leaping on to this boat as it traverses the North Sea!

Here’s a quick look at what’s left of Nightfall’s maiden voyage:

Mirepoix the Cat and I have managed well since the 2d—even without electricity in key rooms in the house, no land line phone service, and a broken shower pole (when it rains, it pours)! We are fine here in London, and we are both anxiously awaiting Tim’s return. Poor Mirepoix has been without milk and any decent table food!

I had a wonderful postcard from Nakskov today from Tim—addressed to “Mrs” . . . it made me smile. I’m not sure if absence makes the heart grow fonder—I am, after all, very fond of Tim even when he’s sitting three feet away from me as we read email on our computers. I do miss conversation; we spend the time together most nights while preparing dinner simply catching each other up with our day, and that continues into the meal and with the lingering sips of wine that follow. Life’s simple pleasures.

There is rose champagne chilling—one of life’s adventures (and I don’t mean rewiring the house with leads to have a cold fridge or a cup of tea) deserves a celebratory toast—and I will be home on Saturday in London, waiting for the text from Tim that tells me when he will arrive at my doorstep.

Until then, a safe journey to Nightfall.

What’s in a name?

2011-10-10T14:20:00.000-07:00

What's in a name? That which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet.

Romeo and Juliet (II, ii, 1-2)

After 50 years, I’m giving it up: my surname, my last name. You may wonder why I hadn’t done it before, having been married more than once . . . the truth of the matter is I asked, and the response in return was a bit wishy-washy--something along the lines of it being up to me. Well, when you consider the paperwork, the time and effort to change everything from one name to the other, my feeling has been if it doesn’t matter to you, then heck, I’ll stick with the one on my passport, my driver’s licence, etc.

Tim, however, said yes immediately when I asked him if he’d like me to change my name. That actually made me quite happy! The new combination has gotten some interesting remarks; agreed, it has a lovely alliteration. It does feel almost, well, celebrity. But the strangest comment has to be that it sounds like a porn star.

It hasn’t stopped me.

Act I: At the office. One HR rep tells me a copy of the marriage certificate is OK to move forward with the name change, and I change the database myself as we are empowered to do and await approval. Another HR rep tells me a certified copy of the marriage certificate is required. I politely counter-argue based on what the first HR rep has told me. Agreement is made to change the name, but at some point a certified copy must be viewed by a HR rep. Sorted? I seriously doubt it. Apparently there is also the need to contact someone in IT to change how my name appears in Outlook. I just think, well, one day at a time. I expect to debut my new name at the office in 2012.

Act II: The driver’s licence. All the D1 forms are gone at the local post office; I order the D1 pack on line. Seven days, they say; I still have a few more to go before I start stopping at all the Royal Mail facilities. You mail your licence with the form, and a new licence turns up with the new surname, same old photo. I suppose driving without a licence here in the UK is a less serious offence than in the US of A!

Act III: HMRC, which will take care of National Insurance. Their website down all day; I decide I’ll take care of that some other time.

Act IV: The passport. When you change your name, you effectively have to pay for a passport renewal, at $110, including the submission of a new photo and a certified copy of the marriage certificate. (Perhaps now you can see why both the office (see Act I) and the Embassy can’t be satisfied at the same time; I chose the Embassy as my priority.) The “renewal” form is easy to complete, available on line, and you can even pay by credit or debit card if you download and complete the appropriate form. The Embassy site says the process should take 15 days; I’ve no plans to travel until December, so this seemed like a good time to make the leap and forgo the passport.

It’s been a comedy of errors—first, I download the form and complete it, only to realise that the site says you can’t use double-sided (how very NOT green of them) so I need to copy the form before sending. In my haste to do this at the office on Thursday, I copy the wrong side—I now have two copies of the same page. Sigh. Despite that, I think I can get a copy made somewhere over the weekend, so I’ll get my passport photo taken. There’s a shop in Cowes, where I spend most weekends, that has a sign for passport photos. I walk in, give a cheerful American hello, and say I want my passport photo taken. The lovely gentleman asks me to sit down, and while he is fetching the camera I tell him it’s for an American passport. He frowns; he is only set up to do UK passports—the US passports demand a different size. I’m deflated—the nearest next passport photo place is in Newport, a 22-minute bus ride that I’m not really willing to make as I have no reason to spend £7 to get there and back—the shopping is only mediocre and I’ve already had a long walk, thank you. I smile anyway and thank him, and decide that instead I’ll leave Cowes early enough on Sunday to hit a Snappy Snaps in London and be ready for the quick photocopy of the right side of the form at the office, and then dash to the post office on Monday at lunch.

The ferry is delayed on Sunday to get back to Southampton (restrictions on speed around the Hamble due to diving, they tell us) and then the train to London seemingly stops everywhere, even though it is the “fast” train. The bus comes quickly at Waterloo, but alas I arrive at Angel at 5:03; Islington Snappy Snaps closes at 5:00. Monday it is! I’ve a busy day but I’ll find the time . . . and so I do, and Snappy Snaps on Holborn is happy to take two 2 x 2 photographs for a US passport for, ahem, £19.99.

I smile, then I don’t—apparently you’re not allowed to smile any more for passport photos. The photographer / shopkeeper then asks me to move my hair away from my face; apparently there’s too much of it blocking my features. I try not to look dour, but I do. I ask for a retake. My hair is a bit wild from the wind, my nose is slightly pink from a budding cold, and my eyes, never asymmetrical, seem particularly off. I also look a little tired. Cheese. Oh, no, curds.

This is the photo I must live with for 10 years.

I have never considered myself photogenic; in fact, as I’ve aged I’ve shied away from the camera more and more—I simply don’t look good in photographs, particularly when I’m not smiling. I feel lucky to have had a few really nice pictures with Tim from our wedding—then again, it was a joyous day where I was simply bursting with happiness. I’m not exactly bursting as I sit on a wooden stool in a cramped shop in central London thinking about the next meeting I need to get to.

I could have had the shot re-taken, but it would have come out just the same. I secretly count my lucky stars that someone in this universe called Tim thinks I’m lovely despite the photographs that say otherwise. I think of the Seinfeld episode where Jerry’s girlfriend looks alternately lovely and ghastly so he keeps taking her to the diner where she looks lovely. I think of Nora Ephron’s book, “I Feel Bad About My Neck.” And in the end I laugh with the shopkeeper that I’ve got to look at it until 2021, and he smiles, accepts my £20 bill, and tells me to have a nice day.

Act V: Credit cards, bank statements, council tax bills, and other miscellaneous items. I’ll get there. The pressure was really on to manage the passport—we’ve finalised our honeymoon to Sri Lanka under my married name so I simply had to get that done, and I am less inspired to rush to ensure that everything has the new seal.

And grateful that there are no more photographs.

Torbenator II

2011-10-04T12:34:00.000-07:00

I realise I owe you a follow-up on my new adventures in osteopathy. I revisited the Torben’s office one week to the day of my first “manipulation.” I was both satisfied and disappointed with the result of the first visit; that’s Tim’s fault (LOL) as every time he has gone to Torben he walks out a perfectly readjusted man without having to (immediately) return!

The satisfaction came with not having any discomfort in walking. The odd feeling—not a sharp pain, but a pain nonetheless—that had recurred several times in the week before the first visit had disappeared; I could walk normally. The disappointment, then, was that I was feeling a bit more ache in the instep of my left foot, and, just the day before the second appointment, I started to feel a slight strain in my left calf, as though I’d pulled a muscle. I tried to think of when that began and why; the best I could come up with is that I’d gone to my reading scheme at the primary school and had to sit in a child-sized chair for about 30 minutes while listening to my partner hurry (as Year 5 kids do) through a dozen pages of her chosen book.

I explained all of this to Torben, who got right to work—first having me bend and twist in several directions, and feeling my neck, shoulders, and hips for alignment. On the table the method started by following last week’s process, though I was admittedly better braced for the sound of the gas bubbles “popping” within the fluid of my joints. The treatment continued with a rather forceful massage that, even in its pressure had me laughing out loud—I’m terribly ticklish and Torben seemed to find all the wrong places. When I get tickled—which I hate—I naturally tense up. Nevertheless Torben kept on and I managed to not squirm off the table. Session done, and I felt good—again, no pain in hip or foot—and dutifully made my next appointment before heading off to the St Pancras Grand Hotel lobby to have a coffee and catch up with Jyoti.

My friend Taron, who has regular visits to a physiotherapist, posted a comment on my earlier blog asking how osteopaths do what they do. Like a physiotherapist, the osteopath will try to alleviate pain and also improve mobility. Torben’s site mentions three basic principles:

1) Your body is a whole and must be regarded and treated as such.
2) Your body can under the right conditions heal itself.
3) Your body's structure and function are mutually interdependent.

Osteopathy recognizes that pain and disability stems from abnormalities in the body's structure and function; osteopaths diagnose and treat problems with muscles, ligaments, nerves, and joints to help the body's natural healing ability.

Treatment involves gentle, manual techniques to ease pain, reduce swelling, and improve mobility. And, once the optimal balance in the body is restored, the osteopath may provide exercises to maintain this balance.

I’ll admit I didn’t ask as many questions as I normally would of Torben on the first visit—I was thinking “one and done” and was actually surprised when he said that he wanted me to return, and of course my time was up and the next patient was waiting.

During my second visit, however, I asked everything I could think of: where was the discomfort coming from? What is the root cause? How many more visits before it goes away?

I’m not thrilled with the answers—sciatica, root cause unknown, and 4-6 more treatments before he can relieve the compression. The sciatic nerve is the longest nerve in your body, running from the back of your pelvis, through your buttocks, and all the way down both legs, ending at your feet. Makes sense as to the discomfort I feel; how I may have compressed the nerve, I don’t know. I’ll wholly admit that I’m clumsy, that I stumble, and I have in fact tumbled down a few stairs recently and turned my ankles any number of times walking on the crooked sidewalks in London.

I must say I’m disheartened by reading posts on the NHS (the national health care system) site from patients who have found little help or relief after months, sometimes years. Drugs (which I won’t do) and leeches (um, never) have been recommended. Some patients have found an alleviation of symptoms with physiotherapy. I’ve also seen some sufferers suggest Shiatsu massage and yoga (and thank you to the anonymous post about yoga—not a fan, but do enjoy Pilates). Several patients have found that cycling has been helpful—I think that means I need to make a better effort to get a bike on the Isle of Wight, which has been my intention for months.

I have asked Torben about exercises—he said to keep playing tennis and let’s see how the next session goes. I’m not 100% satisfied with that, but will accept it for now. I am still walking well, have the occasional discomfort in my foot, and feel that odd tingling now and again in my left leg and arm—I don’t like that at all, and it seems to be either something I’d not noticed before or something “new” since my treatment. I keep thinking, heck, I’m too young for this!

Actually, reading other people’s stories, I’m not—in fact I’m older than most of them. And I’d like to think I’m more active—I walk quite a bit, even more on weekends when I take my long strolls to and from Gurnard; I take the stairs, not the lift, at work; I walk from the office to Angel regularly, and except for the last week owing to other events I’ve been playing tennis twice a week. I don’t sit at a desk all day, I don’t lie in bed for hours . . .

Enough. We’ll see what the next few weeks bring. In the meanwhile I’m very glad that I can still be active without discomfort—last time we were in Cowes Tim and I took a four-plus mile walk on Saturday and a 15-plus mile bike ride on Sunday, and I was comfortably able to do both—even though I was less pleased about the latter, where we found ourselves a bit isolated in Parkhurst Forest (but at least on a worn path, so we weren’t actually “lost”)!

I’m the eternal optimist, as you know; sometimes I think that’s half the battle!

Hot and Cold

2011-10-02T13:38:00.000-07:00

This last week has been most remarkable in terms of weather since I arrived in England. Every day the sun shone, the temperature reached into the high 20s C / 80s F, and despite the arrival of October, there was neither a scarf nor a pair of gloves to be seen, at least not in London.

Perfect timing for the refrigerator to go on the fritz. It has been groaning loudly for months, collecting inches of frost at the back of the fridge and freezer compartments where our jars of gherkins, onion chutney, and whatever else nearby was slowly swallowed up, only to be prised out with a hacking around the sides to loosen the goods (Tim’s choice of implement has been a paint scraper).

Yes, we saw it coming—in fact, I can recall doing research months ago on a fridge freezer that would fit the space the current one occupies—it’s about four feet high and narrow-ish, with a small freezer at the top. Tim wanted a unit where the freezer is at the bottom; except for ice and the occasional frozen veg or fruit, our freezer compartment remains relatively empty. I’m a fan of fresh fish, fresh chicken, fresh everything really, so the freezer doesn’t matter much. Even leftovers are generally quickly eaten rather than frozen.

Over the last two weeks we’ve awakened to an odd silence in the kitchen—no fridge croaking and whirring loudly. While we can’t be sure, we think the electricity gets tripped by the unit gasping for energy (wasted, no doubt) to remain powered up.

So, toast and morning coffee have waited for Tim to power off the main switch, flip the circuit and get everything up and running. It works, but it’s been annoying—the milk isn’t quite cold enough, nor is the yogurt, and worst of all the white wine isn’t chilled properly!

Several days ago I suggested to Tim that we either get a new unit or make sure I know how to get the electricity running again, and just before he left for Sweden to sail for two weeks, both happened—a fridge freezer, larger than the one we have (though likely far less thirsty on electricity), has been ordered. And, to be safe, the wall below the circuitry in the space under the stairs has scrawled in pencil the order of getting the electricity back on. I’ve referred to it once, and have just two days before John Lewis comes to the rescue . . . if in fact that is the reason why the power goes out, generally while we’re sleeping. I suppose I’ll know come Wednesday morning!

I spent a small part of today clearing the cabinet above where the old fridge sits—the new fridge is taller, so the cabinet previously filled with odds and sods of glassware and dishes will need to be removed. I thought I would be able to do it myself—emptying the various bits (and trying to find a new home for them, for which I was marginally successful), and then removing the glass interior shelving, I somehow thought that I’d be able to figure out a way to simply lift and separate the unit from the wall. I'm not sure what I expected to see—bolts to unscrew, perhaps—but there is no obvious indication of how that unit is attached to the wall.

So the new fridge freezer will take residence in some odd space near the area it will eventually reside, but not until sometime in the middle of October when Tim arrives back from his journey down the Baltic Sea, then through the Kiel Canal and into the North Sea to England. I don’t know the exact route, but here’s an idea:

The crew will be day sailing—meaning they will only travel by boat for about nine hours each day and then moor at some port each evening to relax, get a decent night’s rest, and start very early the next day. Tim was very much looking forward to the chance to see some of the Baltic ports; it is one of those small adventures of a lifetime, much like his trip across the Atlantic. As with that one, I will meet him on the other end, possibly in Gosport or some other place depending on when Nightfall—the new boat—arrives. Tom and Karen have been taking trips to Sweden to see their Arcona 46 being built, and she is now ready for the maiden sail to her home port.

The week before Tim left—our Indian summer—I made an effort to leave work on time and get home while it was still light so we could enjoy a sip of something along with the day’s conversation in the garden. It was a lovely week in hindsight; warm, clear nights relaxing at home, anticipating Tim's upcoming trip and wanting to spend some time together. We ventured out, too, and had dinner with Tim’s brother and his wife one evening on The Strand at a well-known curry house, and went for drinks at a neighbour’s house two doors’ down after dinner.

Saturday was a true delight—after a bit of gardening while Tim gathered his sailing gear and prepared for the trip, we had a lovely lunch in the shade and then took a stroll through Clissold Park, coming back to a dusky, warm evening. Life’s simple pleasures, courtesy of a generous Mother Nature who has extended her warmth into the early days of autumn.

Torbenated

2011-09-22T17:04:00.000-07:00

Last Thursday I found myself having trouble walking. At 50, that was unexpected, annoying and slightly worrying.

I was heading down Grays Inn Road in London with two of my colleagues toward a local school where we volunteer to read to a student (Years 2-6) on our lunch hour once per week. I felt a twinge in my left leg, and then had some trouble walking comfortably. It eventually passed, and I was able to make the half-hour walk back without incident.

But in the days following, that discomfort was intermittent. When Tim and I were taking our usual two-mile walk to Gurnard along the Esplanade on the following Saturday on the Isle of Wight, I could only make it comfortably as far as the little ice cream hut at Cliff Road, just over a half mile from the house, before conceding that I should probably turn around and not push it.

That prompted Tim to suggest that I visit his osteopath, Torben, for a fix—or, as Tim says, to be Torbenated. Tim swears by the man, who is osteopath to several athletes including the current Number 1 WTP-ranked women’s tennis player Caroline Wozniacki (she’s Danish, and I believe so is Torben). Tim has the occasional bad back, and while I’ve come in handy to give the occasional tug of his leg to stretch his vertebrae, well, I ain’t the Torbenator.

I had only £56 ($86) to lose.

I arrived to find out that Torben was running a little behind, but I had nowhere to go but home and found a chair, dropped my rucksack and watched the world go by outside the clinic's front window. I got to the clinic by bus, rather than walk, not wanting to be late or be unable to physically get there. There appears a tall gentleman who has just emerged from Torben’s office floating on air—a recent car accident victim who has had trouble walking for two weeks even after several visits to a physiotherapist, he is feeling no pain for the first time since the accident, and he is singing Torben’s praises.

Torben, who I’m guessing having owned the clinic for 20 years is in his mid-forties, is pleasant, talkative, lean, and of slight build—years of judo, I surmise, from his website, explains the physique. He looks younger than what I think is his physical age. He has a wonderful manner that makes you feel instantly comfortable. He asks a lot of questions. He exits the room as you undress (at least, for females).

I’m standing in my undergarments—there are no hospital gowns that tie awkwardly--while he asks me to touch my toes, turn every which way, bend and twist. Torben tells me he feels some tightness, which I expect he will relieve. Finally I get to lie down. I’m noticing that the room is warm, the windows are open and, in fact, the view is not completely hidden from the street—we are up on the 1^st floor on Pentonville Road, a rather busy venue where double-decker buses pass by often on what would be considered a major thoroughfare. No matter; I’m practically naked, but nothing more than you’d see on a beach. (No matter that there are no beaches nearby, unless you count the man-made affair at Southbank.)

I am asked to bend this, and then push this way with all my force. Torben says I am strong; I am at once both relieved and proud. Torben talks; not incessantly, but enough to distract me from the prodding, and then, eventually, the cracking.

The first one is a bit daunting. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s loud—as Torben told me it would be. We talk athletes he’s recently worked with, and I mention Caroline first. He tells me about the Jamaican runner, faster than Usain Bolt was at the same age called Yohan Blake, who is a patient. Jamaican, like Bolt, he has just run the second fastest 200 m in history. We talk about Jamaica and its poverty, and about the gene pool that has created these wonderful sprinters. I feel but don’t see his elbow grinding into my hip; it doesn’t exactly hurt, but it’s slightly uncomfortable.

He cracks my neck. I think I should be using the word “adjust,” actually.

He tugs at my bare toes.

(A knock-on effect of the trouble walking is that I feel a bit of discomfort in the instep of my left foot, which I explained to him earlier. I also told Torben, only slightly embarrassed, that several years ago I broke a bone in my foot, only I can’t remember which foot, left or right. With perfect bedside manner he doesn’t laugh, just jots something down on my chart.)

Within several minutes he is done—I have been adjusted. I stand, and the world feels right. I can walk normally, there is no discomfort in my foot or leg, and I can touch my toes (although to be fair I could do that beforehand). Nothing aches, although I do feel tenderness at the place on my left side that has had a quiet ache over the last week.

Torben suggests I have one more visit. I shake his hand and wish him well; he sends his regards to Tim and his mum (who, by the way, Torben says is in good shape for 80). I amble down the winding stairs to the ground floor, pay my £56 and make an appointment for same time next week, and head out with a smile on my face.

I feel a slight twinge as I open the door to exit to the street. It is fleeting.

The short walk to the tube is uneventful; I’m walking at my usual pace comfortably, although given my last week of on-and-off pain I am tentative about placing the usual amount of weight on my left leg. I tell myself to get over it and just walk!

I find my way to the Northern line, get a seat heading toward Waterloo, and don’t you know a woman exiting at Goodge Street steps on the very same foot I’ve just had tugged. She apologises, and I smile and say “no worries.” I laugh to myself—that could be fifty quid down the drain! But it doesn’t hurt for more than the time it took her to lift her foot back off mine.

I make it all the way to Cowes with no other incident. I am still feeling sore in that space in my back, kidney-level, and hope I can sleep well.

Remembering . . . France

2011-09-17T07:36:00.000-07:00

One of the many things I've come to love about being in Europe is the ease and relatively minor expense to travel to other countries.When I lived in America, I used to think it was rather exotic to go to France--but when you live in England, well, it's a hop, skip and a jump away. And you can go by car! Well, I suppose you can travel to another country by car from the US--I did go to Canada that way, and there's also Mexico . . . but having lived on the east coast with hundreds of miles away from either of those foreign borders, there's a little bit of a thrill in whipping out a passport while seated in a short queue after a relatively short journey.

Tim and I had talked for months about taking a trip to France this summer--perhaps Mirepoix (yes, there is a place named after my cat . . . ) or the wine country, or, well, just anywhere to get away for a quick cheap break and see a different area of the country. I was pressing the issue because I was holding on to my US passport waiting for the trip before taking any action to change my name or request additional pages from the embassy, and Tim finally got fed up listening to me (LOL) and went online searching for accommodation and booking a slot on the Euro tunnel from Dover to Calais--a weekend away, first to Boulogne for a pit stop (where we'd been before) and then on to Caen and, to commemorate 9/11, to Omaha Beach in the Normandy region.

Yes, I know Normandy isn't New York and some people didn't "get" the significance of being in an American cemetery on 9/11 in a foreign country when I mentioned how I'd spend my weekend, but I thought it was a lovely idea and was really chuffed that Tim and I were going. As I said, we'd been to Boulogne before--very early in our relationship, but that was a quick day trip (the ferry from Dover is only 35 minutes and the ride from London to Dover about 90 minutes--not all that different from travelling to Cowes). This time we'd spend overnight in Boulogne before making the three-hour journey by car to Caen.

View from our hotel--wonderful architecture!

I must say we lucked out with the weather--it was warm and positively summery on Friday when we arrived, settled our bags at the Metropole, and then took a stroll. The hotel we were staying at is situated along the strip where cheese and wine merchants were selling goods--not hawking, but more subtly watching passersby who gave them a glance of interest and then asking if monsieur or madame would like a taste of Chablis? The aroma of cheese was strong along the narrow sidewalk, and I loved it. We dropped our bags but had to move the car into the hotel's garage, and promised the vendor in the stall just outside the Metropole that we'd come back for a taste, and so we did. He was gracious--speaking in French with Tim that he'd come from Burgundy and pointing out on the map he had on display where his wines were from. We tried two Chablis and a sauvignon blanc, and after a bit of thought purchased the sauvignon because it was my favourite and Tim is not much of a white wine drinker. Our first 6 euros spent!

Onward to stroll before dinner. We first walked around the center of town and then decided we'd revisit the restaurant we'd been to when we first went to Boulogne together, called the Welsh Pub. I wanted to sit outside--it was still a bit light out at 8 pm and the air was still warm, and I am a great fan of al fresco dining. Our waiter who said he did not speak English was a bit, well, abrupt, but he still managed to be helpful; Tim's French is more than adequate whereas mine is limited to the standard phrases. We ordered drinks first, then decided to stay for dinner and enjoyed a lovely meal at the foot of the cathedral. It was a glorious night--it may not be Paris, but it was tres romantique. And I had the best seat in the house--looking at the cathedral, under a full moon, across the table from my beau mari.

On Saturday we started our drive into the Normandy region, making stops at Juno Beach, site where the Canadians landed on D-Day, and then a few lovely small coastal towns that were simply quaint--little shops, beautiful coastline, wonderful views from bluffs. I really loved Arromanches, with its artificial harbour that protected the World War II landings of some half a million men and a quarter of a million vehicles. Two of the huge concrete structures were built in Britain and then submerged in rivers away from the sight of German aircraft, and towed across the English Channel as the invasion began--brilliant.

We were staying in yet another port town--Caen--which had me inwardly laughing about how I seem to find myself by the sea most weekends. The harbour had some lovely sailboats, and around midday we found a little restaurant called L'Universe with outdoor seating and plunked down for food and conversation. I adored the little pichet of rose--when in France, I am compelled to have a glass of rose in the daylight hours. The food was generous--I ordered a salad with chicken and Emmentaler and it was accompanied by a light wine vinegar and olive oil dressing--more of what is known in "French" dressing, unlike the ketchup and vinegar concoction of America. The coffee afterwards was outstanding--I must say in most places we had coffee during the weekend was absolutely delicious, the exception being the adequate machine-made cafe au lait at the hotel in Caen.

We wiled away the afternoon hours walking around town and also, of course, shopping for inexpensive Bordeaux at the local Carrefour (which is the French equivalent to a large supermarket) and found lovely bottles between 4 and 6 euros--really. I was happy to see some Lalande-de-Pomerol, and Tim grabbed a few from the region of St Emilion, which has always been a favourite.

It was another lovely evening, too, and we found ourselves strolling in town for a place to eat, again hopefully al fresco. We'd been through the central district earlier and had seen the line-up of restaurants that reminded me a bit of the main drag in Miami where the menus are all on display and the occasional hawker comes to lure you in. It was just starting to rain, and nothing really grabbed me; I was looking for some seafood choices but hadn't seen a menu or a place to eat outside that I wanted. We walked beyond the main street and spotted a small place with outdoor tables just a short distance from the crowd--and now that the drizzle had turned to more of a downpour it almost became our destination by default. But what a find! The service was lovely, the food was delicious, and the atmosphere positively wonderful. We lingered over a pichet of rose, of course, and had some lovely French cheeses (chevre, Camembert--first made in Normandy in the 18th century--and brie). It was dark by now and we took a short stroll before heading back to our hotel for the evening, just a short drive out of the centre of Caen.

On the morning of 9/11 we set off to Omaha Beach and the American Cemetery--something I'd wanted to see, and also as a commemoration for the day. As with the cemetery near Champagne that Tim and I visited last March, it is a solemn, slightly overwhelming place. You are suddenly caught a bit breathless at the sheer number of identical marble crosses, here spread across the 172-acre landscape, dotted with wide, conically-shaped trees and on a perfectly manicured green lawn. There are statues, and curved walls describing the conflict, and waves of Omaha Beach lap below, beautiful and calm, as the backdrop. American flags were flying at half mast to note the day; the cemetery, even early, was busy with tourists, perhaps relatives, perhaps people like me who felt that they wanted to be somewhere significant on the ten-year anniversary of an appalling, unforgettable event in American history.

In front of a flag at half mast.

I don't know why, but I find myself looking for markers that denote a soldier from New Jersey. There is no geographical grouping in the massive, perfectly ordered rows of crosses and Jewish stars--a New Jerseyan is next to a Texan is next to a Nebraskan. I spent some time looking down at Omaha Beach from the cemetery; the sea, this day, was quiet and grey from the bluff. 9,387 Americans are buried at the cemetery, and walking from cross to cross so many died on D-Day or within weeks of the 6th of June, 1944. Two of President Theodore Roosevelt's sons are buried there--one of them a victim of World War I and the only soldier from that war to be buried there. I was noting how many soldiers died on D-Day--estimates are anywhere from 2,500 to 5,000 on the actual day. What isn't noted in the cemetery, and is probably lost to most people, is that 19,000 civilians in the Normandy region died during World War II. That certainly brings home for me the juxtaposition of D-Day with 9/11: tragedies for civilians beyond anyone's comprehension, and yet, there it is in black and white: war on home soil.

As solemn as the end of the journey to France was, it was all wonderful, and I am grateful to have seen the beaches, and had a moment of contemplation for the events. I was sorry to have missed the reading of the names of those who lost their lives in the WTC attack; I did go through the AM and FM channels on the car radio as we were heading back, to no avail. No matter; I have said my silent prayers.

Rows of crosses at Omaha beach.

And I contributed a short piece for my department's newsletter about 9/11: while ten years has finally brought the memorial to New York City, it has also brought a piece of the World Trade Center to Britain. Home to 67 of those who perished on 9/11, Britain is the first country in Europe to be given a fragment from the WTC. The sculpture, "After 9/11" by New York artist Miya Ando, is constructed of steel from the fallen towers. It has a temporary home in Battersea Park while a permanent location is yet to be finalised. This month also marked the launch of the 9/11 London Project Foundation, whose aims include teaching schoolchildren about the legacy of the attacks a decade ago.

I found it quite comforting that my adopted home has embraced the tragedy that occurred on different soil; it puts meaning to the term "special relationship" Great Britain and the United States use to describe our political liaison.

No photos, please

2011-09-15T14:28:00.000-07:00

I'm generally not a fan of having my photo taken--I'll oblige for special occasions of course, and it seemed the natural thing to do at our wedding to pose and smile, and I'm quite glad I did--I've recently put together a photo album online that I'm looking forward to seeing in print.

When I eye Tim getting ready to snap a photo of me, I'll more often than not stick my tongue out or put a hand out . . . a women's prerogative, I say, to decline a photograph when she is not at her best.

And recently I was suddenly and unexpectedly not at my best, feeling the effects perhaps not enough of "down time" and, certainly, feeling a bit of the effect of a sailing outing that found us caught in a squall and me a bit unprepared for the weather. I'm well recovered now, but I must say the situation has stuck with me, and I've learned something about myself . . .

It was a lovely start--sunshine, warm-ish temperatures as Tim and I set sail with friends Taron and Neil who were visiting over the bank holiday weekend. English weather is unpredictable--ask most people here and they'll say they pack both a brolly and a pair of sunglasses! We did bring our "oilies" for warmth and dryness, and I was already donning my red Musto waterproof jacket before we were too far outside Cowes. The plan was to sail to Yarmouth, about 90 minutes, have a pub lunch and stroll their quaint high street, and then wait for the tide to be with us to sail back.

The afternoon went as planned except for the squall. We could see the grey clouds looming about 45 minutes into the journey. I asked for a hat while Tim went below to put on his waterproofs. I was not feeling fab--it was a bit of a bumpy ride and having made a trip to the cabin earlier and feeling nauseous, it was not a place I'd re-visit. It was just a bit of drizzle at first--Taron was at the tiller (steering) and Tim was trimming the sails to prepare for the gusty winds that were whipping up. Taron and I were pulling our jackets closed and laughing at the sudden change of events.

Then the hail came along with the strong, gusty winds. Coh Karek had no trouble dealing with the squall, though we were healing (leaning over) quite a bit and I found myself (a) cold, (b) wet, and (c) holding on to a winch for dear life while the boat leaned far over to the side. Tim was pulling ropes and steering while Taron was putting all the energy she could into winching in the sail. (Neil was a bit under the weather and in the cabin.)

Finally we were on a steadier course, less rain and a bit of smoother water. Good thing, too--I found myself needing to, well, yes. I thought I heard a "well done" from Tim for managing to heave over the side.

When we got to Yarmouth we pulled ourselves into the nearest pub, The Kings Head, and ordered a round--a ginger beer to settle my stomach sounded appropriate (sans rum, though offered). Food was challenging--we had a 90-minute journey back, and even running with the tide and the promise of smooth sailing there were still grey clouds in the sky. Jacket potato (aka a baked potato)? Not usually in my top choices, but it seemed a reasonable one--it was warm and, to my mind a "safe" food to fill me and stay put (or not be harsh should it not stay down). While at the pub I also stripped out of my wet jeans and into the waterproofs I didn't get the chance to get on while on the boat. I also spent a few turns under the hand dryer in the ladies' trying to get the sleeves of my sweater and fleece dry--my arm was leaning on the side of the boat at an inopportune time when a bit of water coursed down it and directly up my arm. The dryer in the loo actually worked quite well and by the time we'd walked around the lovely town of Yarmouth a bit, popped into a few shops, had a coffee (all except me) at the pier and then ambled back on the boat, my fleece sleeve was dry enough to put back on for the journey to Cowes.

And it was a smooth sail--the tide with us, the grey angry clouds behind us (as we waited a bit to watch them pass before we sailed away). Taron was fabulous--she took a turn at the tiller again, and even more impressive led us back to our mooring between any number of boats already on their buoys while Tim grabbed the one to anchor us. It's tricky--boats don't just stop, but you can use the engine to go into neutral and then reverse to essentially stop them. She took her quick lesson from Tim and handled Coh Karek beautifully.

So what did I do to contribute on this journey? Well, I took a photograph, I turned the engine on and off, I occasionally pulled a rope when requested . . . not exactly the helpful first mate! Taron has been on boats for a number of years and was brilliant at keeping us on course and taking orders from the skipper (which were always preceded or followed by 'please').

I was commended for managing to keep my lunch down on the return. I probably should have been insulted by that remark, but I was too unsteady.

I shared my story with Robyn--she and I had a trip out on a fishing boat once that a former employer owned and it was a near-disaster with him and his first mate vomiting over the side (likely due to the amount of alcohol they'd drunk) while we were trying to find our sea legs. It was a motor boat, not a sailboat, but it was in the Atlantic and it was a bit rough. I recall that other than feeling a slight bit queasy I managed fine. Robyn shared that she'd never go back on a boat!

Would I return? Well in fact I did the following weekend, on a much calmer day when the other Mrs D-Tim's mum--came for a visit and wanted to have an amble up the river. It was her birthday weekend, and Tim was happy to have her on Coh Karek. As it was just the three of us, it was an engine run, up the Solent toward the Folly Inn, with me at the tiller and Tim providing some instruction. Frankly anyone can man a tiller on engine--you just have to remember that you pull the tiller in the opposite direction of where you want to go (which is likely why more people prefer a wheel to a wooden stick). It's a bit non-intuitive and I will admit to having to focus so that I was pulling the tiller toward me (right) when I wanted to go left.

We managed fine--me steering, Tim occasionally revving or slowing down the engine depending on the other boat traffic--until we had to moor at Shepard's Wharf, and without going into too much detail it was another stressful afternoon for me that found me asking Tim to have the Harbour Master assist him in getting Coh Karek back on her own mooring while I walked with his mum back to the high street and then, gratefully, home.

So what did I learn? I think it's fair to say that I am, and always will be, a fair-weather sailor. I'm not ashamed of that nor do I care what anyone thinks. We can't be everything our partners want us to be; I can at least say I tried! And, in fact, I'd try again--with more able crew so I don't have to worry so much about getting it right, and perhaps one of those magic patches that keeps one feeling a bit less queasy at sea.

Life's too short to do things you can't embrace and enjoy . . . I'm glad Tim has a lot of friends he can call "crew." I think he's happy to settle for a wife that isn't his first mate; I'd like to think I have other attributes that make for a happy co-existence. Well, perhaps more a shared relationship: Tim, me, and "her"!

Running with the tide

2011-08-26T01:28:00.000-07:00

I just had a conversation with my eldest sister about her continuing treatment for cancer, and I used the phrase that the tide has been running with her.

She knew exactly what I meant—her progress so far has been amazing when eight months ago it seemed all a bit dire, and though some cancer still remains and more treatment is to come, there is no reason not to think that she will not recover, and that the tide will bring her to a safe harbour.

It gave me pause that I even used such a phrase—perhaps it’s the influence of spending time by the sea where the tide dictates so much activity: when to sail, and where, and for how long: the optimal journey is when the tide is on always on your side.

Before living part-time in Cowes I never cared about tide tables much, and now I find I seek out high tide times to plan my walks; there’s such delight when the waves brought on by the high tide splash the Solent over the Parade making adults and children giggle when the water hits the pavement and, occasionally, a passerby.

I am in Cowes listening to the rain hammer against the windows while Hurricane Irene is moving closer to my family and friends in New York and New Jersey. I realise I am, at least a little, homesick. There’s stuff going on with my family, and I’m feeling like the outsider looking in rather than a participant. I don’t know that anything would be different if I were there, but there’s a slight uneasiness to not being able to influence a situation because of physical proximity. It’s a big ocean that separates us. We all recognise the power of a face-to-face meeting to a Skype one, though the latter is, as the Brits like to say, brilliant.

I don’t think my longing for a bit of home is because I missed the earthquake—I clearly recall the one in 1985, and I’ll tell you why—it was the 19^th of October, the morning of my (first) wedding. It was a 4.0 magnitude, and I did feel it and am certain that I joked that the earth moved under my feet on the day of my wedding . . . which ended in divorce not quite 10 years later (his idea, not mine).

I doubt it’s because there’s a hurricane coming to my home state—I remember a few of those, too, and am not anxious to experience another, although, I secretly enjoyed being in Cape May, New Jersey, for more than one nor’easter—even seeking them out by driving the 70 miles or so south—where the water was just ferocious, with huge waves that crashed well beyond the beach and washed the boardwalk clean.

We all have our moments of feeling a bit out of kilter, not quite running with the tide. Best to accept the feeling, take a deep breath, be thankful for what is good about life and, eventually, get back in stride. I may not be running with the tide at this moment, but in hours it will change, and so will I.

Do I owe you news from the end of Cowes Week? Coh Karek finished 10^th in her class, of 12 Contessas, and the crew agreed it was all a wonderful week of sailing. There were handshakes all around (as men do) and promises of sailing again in next year’s regatta. My own take: I was glad to have experienced it, and thoroughly enjoyed the company, and of course the parties—we’ve scored yet another Mount Gay Rum red cap by queuing up early for one; now if I can only find last year’s! Mornings were leisurely, with breakfasts cooked by any number of different crew who were happy to take to the frying pan for bacon and eggs.

In the end it was a bit of an exhausting week for what was meant to be a holiday for me, and I will likely give some thought to what next year holds. I’m secretly hoping the races start earlier so a morning person like me can begin her day some time before 11! To be fair, I could have just got on with it even with crew sipping tea and reading one of three papers that we had each morning (FT, Guardian, Telegraph), but it didn’t seem quite right, and, I did have plenty of time to myself while the sailing took place to stroll the high street or watch events from the shore.

And since then it’s been mostly time spent in London—a nice change of pace, actually, to sit in the garden or as Tim and I did explore a bit of the city we hadn’t before. We took a short trip to Putney (home of David Clegg, deputy PM, and St Mary’s church, site of the Putney Debates in 1647 where a group of radicals advocated changes to their constitution to give more power to the people . . . an oversimplification, perhaps, so if you’re interested go here).

We also briefly followed the sculpture trail and took a short walk along the Thames Path, watching as a few rowing clubs oared within shouting distance—we could see that some of them were in costume but never did determine why there were men in ladies’ costume and, I think, Smurfs. It was a mixed-weather day, and we found ourselves in a pub called The Rocket, with a view of the Thames, to wait out the raindrops before the sun came out brightly again.

Perhaps there’s more I should catch you up on--Tim will be disappointed that I haven’t captured every event we’ve done together—LOL--but I’ve been feeling a bit uninspired about giving the “blow-by-blow” of restaurants, events, etc.

I think, for now, I’ll just run with the tide, until I find my footing again about what inspires me to come back to post.

U is for . . .

2011-08-11T07:51:00.001-07:00

Unlucky. Unhappy. Unbelievable!

Mostly it’s for U-bolt, which apparently sheared off this morning on Coh Karek’s deck, causing the crew to retire. Ach!

The weather was meant to be a little wet, a bit windy, and very grey. The crew gathered this morning here and talked who would trim, nav, man the foredeck, etc—and a full contingent of sailors—seven in all—were ready. The text came in from Tim about 80 minutes after the start—my first thoughts were . . . unprintable. I am now just awaiting their return and to see if she can sail tomorrow, the last day of racing for Cowes Week.

Small consolation, but the time to stroll the Parade and spend time in Cowes off the boat was nice for the crew yesterday—The two Tims and I walked down to see the Extreme Sailing, only to find that the wind was too strong and gusty for the catamarans to compete—the first time in history that a race has been cancelled. They’ve postponed for today until 4:30 pm, hoping to get in some races.

Last night was fun—a stroll to the Royal Yacht Squadron, all of use decked out in our best kit, to sip Pimm’s / wine and rub elbows with the Commodore and the other members of the Royal Ocean Racing Club. It was a bit chilly last night; while we started outside (as the photo below shows), we eventually moved under the tent to chat with some of the other sailors. There was music, but no dancing this time—too many others inside, and, this year the quartet was outside! No matter; we enjoyed chatting and taking in the lovely view of the Solent from the RYS garden—it is quite lovely and well maintained, though you only get to see it if you are on the grounds.

Tim's brother, Dom, Dave, Tim, Tim's brother, me, Tim E

Afterwards we went for a delicious Thai meal just steps away, a large table in their enclosed garden area. Less talk about sailing and more about life and work—even sailors have their limit to how much they can talk boats, it seems!

Tonight we head over to Shepard’s Wharf to queue for one of the coveted 500 Mount Gay Rum red caps, a free rum ‘n coke, and another chance to catch up with sailors on other crews. Tim’s crew seems amazingly resilient—even after a disappointing day I expect they’ll be ready to catch a bit more of the Cowes night life. Let’s hope for the best for tomorrow!

Reefer Madness

2011-08-10T04:42:00.000-07:00

Roller reefer, that is.

What?

Tim’s boat had an unfortunate incident with the roller reefer, which simply aids in getting the sails up and down. The bit at the bottom was worn, likely due to age, and the sail wouldn’t stay put. That’s landlubber language for a disappointing finish on Monday when it first happened and on Tuesday when the crew had hoped that the wind and course would mean not too many sail changes. They are in the second half of the leader board—but there is still more sailing.

It’s a gorgeous Wednesday morning—WSW winds, temperatures in the mid teens (that’s about 65 in Fahrenheit)—and Coh Karek has had part of the reefer replaced so she can compete. On board are Tim and his two brothers, Dominic, and Tim E. Having not made it to the start line on time, they will cruise today, and hopefully race tomorrow. Probably some disappointment among the crew, but likely a consensus decision that if you start out behind and are unlikely to make up the time it’s better to retire from the race and enjoy a day’s sailing.

So what am I up to? I am surprised it’s Wednesday—I feel like I’ve not done much during this holiday. Tim asked me last night if I was enjoying the week, and I hesitated. I think it’s because the day starts so late and I’m a morning person, ready to get out and begin the day when in fact none of the races start before 11:40 so the crew is here idling for a bit, getting to the boat about an hour before but up at around 7:30. We have a leisurely breakfast—eggs, bacon, brown bread, coffee and tea. Tim E shares his Guardian, Tim’s brother his FT. We read the paper, emails, books. Tim will check the weather, the tides, and the wind. There is often some discussion of who will take which position on deck. Occasionally there is talk about what to get for lunch and whether to make tea in the Thermos rather than having to make it on the boat (yes, there is a hob and a kettle).

At the appointed hour the crew heads out and I think about what to do next. Sometimes it’s the mundane—run the dishwasher, start a load of laundry, review what we need in the house that runs out of stock quickly, like butter and milk and loo paper.

I always walk the High Street—just for the exercise, but also for the people watching and being a part of the Cowes Week scene. I have also made my way toward Gurnard, to the west, for a longer walk, though it is crammed with walkers, dogs, prams, and stalls. Yesterday the most popular of them was the Talisker tent, where there was free whisky to be sampled I walked down to the western part of the beach to watch some of the extreme sailing—40-foot catamarans racing close to the shore and extremely close to each other. It’s quite exciting to watch, but the commentators yammering over the loudspeakers are a bit over the top with their enthusiasm. The crowd is bigger than last year, and stretched out more along the beach.

Every day I’ve paused for a cup of tea on the roof terrace; I like the view, the quiet. And I always seem to find my way back to my comfortable perch on the second floor where I have a view of the boats either finishing or coming back to the harbour after the race. I always look for which Contessas are coming in first—always Blanco, owned and skippered by Ray Rouse. Blanco has entered Cowes Week regatta each year for over 20 years and has won 7 times, each with the same skipper and crew of six, including last year. Tough to beat, clearly. After seeing Blanco I anticipate that Coh Karek should be not long behind.

Tim seems very happy to participate, though disappointed that the reefer caused them to not finish well in the last two races—expectations perhaps falling a bit short of reality. (He’ll tell me what he thinks after reading this!) He is such a gracious skipper, thanking everyone for their help and for an enjoyable sailing day, no matter how Coh Karek finishes. I have enjoyed meeting them at the pub to hear them talk about the race—what went well, what could have gone better. I’ll admit it, I’m a poser. I wear a Coh Karek polo shirt and I sit at the same table in the pub, and look to be part of the crew rather than a WAG. Yesterday after a very long day’s sail they went to the Union Inn, just outside the Island Sailing Club’s launch where ribs bring the crews back in from their moorings, and I was on the roof awaiting the Black Knights, who were preparing to parachute in the sky above . . . and I was thinking to myself, you know you don’t belong there so why are you disappointed you weren’t asked? I smile. Truth be told the conversation continues well into the evening and there is something to be said for letting the crew have their wind-down Shandy and relax together!

(Shandy: beer and cider, generally, of equal parts. Lemon soda can be used instead of cider.)

Tonight is the Royal Ocean Racing Club do at the Royal Yacht Squadron—the most posh we get during the week, where the gents wear jacket and tie, the ladies dress in lovely frocks, and we stand on the lawn overlooking the Solent with our glasses of champagne and occasionally have a chat with others. Last year there was a quartet playing under the marquee and Dominic and I decided to dance, hoping others would join us. They didn’t, and we didn’t care.

Holiday

2011-08-08T07:33:00.000-07:00

I was just thinking about the term “staycation”—staying locally for vacation to keep costs down (for one reason; there are probably others). Well, I’m staycationing, but I must say it feels like a proper time away from the office. Tim and I are in Cowes for the world-renowned Cowes Week. which includes seven days of sailing, events every night (some posh, some not), and a chance to see the old town transform into a wild, crowded, noisy but ultimately fun place to be.

We came down on Thursday to prepare—Tim to take Coh Karek for a bath (boats move faster in the water when they’re clean) and do the last-minute tasks to get her ready to sail; me, simply by routine of coming on Thursdays after work (because there wasn’t too much to prepare for on my end). Jake came to lend a hand to Tim—they didn’t have to personally wash her, but there were other things to do to make her sail faster (which included dumping old sails off and stowing them in the space below the stairs here at home).

Thursday was still quiet—perhaps a few more people on the High Street than usual, but not anywhere near full Cowes Week proportions. We had a lovely steak dinner at home and took a walk in the evening to see what was happening along the Parade—it was still quiet, even at the Champagne Bar next to the ferry terminal. It was just a matter of time!

By Friday things had picked up—able crewmen Tim (E) and Dave arrived, and we had a chicken stir fry, a couple bottles of wine and great conversation, as ever—the three men have sailed together quite a bit, including a 16-day journey across the Atlantic—and there was planning for CW as well as just catching up with each other. Jake returned to London for the night and Dominic was arriving in the morning before the start. I sensed excitement. Heck, I was excited and I wasn’t even sailing!

We decided to take a walk to the Cowes Yacht Haven to see what was going on—there is always plenty of music and some mock Blondie band was scheduled to perform. When we arrived it was more a mock Dire Straits band, though they were good and somewhere along the line they were kind enough to inform us that the Blondie band wasn’t showing . . . no matter. It was a lovely night—a little cool, but dry, and I enjoyed taking it all in. You simply have to experience Cowes Week—the mix of sailors, wannabes, crazies, and the rest of us (as I don’t consider myself any of the former) just watching. There was plenty of dancing in the aisles, including for our entertainment this evening [drunk] girls with water guns that we artfully avoided—guns and girls both.

Day One. Nice weather—sun and just enough wind. Off they go after a hearty sailors’ breakfast—bacon and egg sarnies and coffee / tea—and I set about doing a few chores (mostly food shopping) and taking in the town. It’s become crowded—in fact, far more crowded than I expected with throngs of visitors popping in and out of shops, queuing at Tottie’s fish and chips (which I’ve never had) or Corrie’s, just another 200 steps up the High Street (which has a proper restaurant attached). I don’t mind the milling people—I manage to weave my way around them all with bags full.

Midafternoon and Tim’s brother arrives and we have a cup of tea and catch up—he’ll be sailing with the rest starting Sunday.

Tim texts—they are getting close, just in East Cowes . . . I take my perch on the roof terrace to see the finish. I see a couple of other Contessas ahead, and then finally Coh Karek sailing beautifully to the line with two boats near, just feet away. I have to admit, I yelled something silly like “Go, go!” but there was no one else nearby. She finishes 7^th, edging out Contessa Connie in the end by 30 seconds. Connie is owned by our friends Mark and Kim, so a friendly rivalry indeed.

Drinks follow at the Island Sailing Club (ISC) for the Contessa class—jackets required for the men, and I wear a dress for the occasion. We head up to the top terrace for champagne and canapés. Some disappointment that members of the ISC who are not Contessa owners are taking up tables and eating chips. We remark but only to ourselves, not to them, and chat about the day, chat with a few of the other boat crew, and sip bubbly between bites of some nice finger food. It was not the most social event—most crews weren’t there and those who were tended to stick together, rather than mingle. The lack of space to move around likely contributed to that—we have been to other Contessa gatherings and they are generally a good, if not competitive, lot to socialise with. Those who were there were anticipating the Red Arrows, who were scheduled to fly over at 7:30. I brought a camera, hoping to get one or two shots, though you can imagine how fast these jets fly!

And I must say, there were spectacular. Breathtaking, even. It is simply amazing how tightly in formation they fly, so close to each other, and then suddenly the planes veer off in opposing directions only to come back together again, and perfectly. I think most people enjoyed it when two of the craft were seemingly heading directly toward each other, at great speed, and as they were just crossing each let out a coloured trail that was a single perfect line when joined—that’s how close they were.

Jake, Dominic, Tim E at the ISC party

Some of the Red Arrows

After the show we headed back home to have Tim’s chilli con carne—made the night earlier for a quick heat and serve. As usual it was delicious—a thoroughly satisfying day for the crew! In the evening we decided to head out to Cowes Yacht Haven to see what was going on—I stayed behind, preferring to just relax.

The week is young!

Art / Life

2011-07-28T11:47:00.000-07:00

Tim and I were invited to a private view of an exhibition of paintings and sketches by Jules George, the brother of one of the “regular” crew of Coh Karek—you may remember me mentioning Dominic. The exhibition, at Bonhams (a somewhat well-known art auctioneer that has been in existence since 1793), is called ‘Into the Valley’ (Scenes of an Afghan Conflict). Jules went to Helmand Providence in February of 2010 and from that experience created over 150 pieces of art that are now on display at Bonham’s New Bond street location in London.

What struck me first as we walked into a very crowded gallery was the colour of the sky in Jules’ paintings—it is a beautiful, soft blue that is not quite bright but blends effortlessly with the sand below to create a muted, pleasant landscape. These are not all pictures of war per se—many of the paintings and sketches do have soldiers and helicopters, but there are also landscapes, and Afghans dressed in traditional garb who live in the midst of the war. Those where soldiers are depicted show a mix of emotions on their faces that Jules captured wonderfully--I saw tiredness, sadness, slight exasperation.

Tim and I met Corporal Ross because Tim wanted to know what the significance of a blue band around the helmet of one group of soldiers in one of the larger paintings meant—perhaps they were in a particular infantry, for example. Corporal Ross—I didn’t catch his first name—is handsome and young—early 20s—and has a wife and two children under the age of three at home in London. He is on leave, but is ready and seemed to me anxiously awaiting his fourth stint in Afghanistan. He is related to Betsy Ross, and recognised me as a Yank immediately (likely by my accent). He is animated, talkative, and knows quite a bit about guns and ammunition, as you might expect.

We chat; I am listening to him talk about uniforms, food, having to carry pounds of gear, in the desert. I am not listening that carefully because, in my mind, I’m thinking four tours of duty? Of course I didn’t say it aloud, but I was a bit shocked—he didn’t seem quite old enough to have been there and back three times, for one thing. Maybe I was even a little disappointed that he has a young family at home and should simply stay there and take care of them. He is in the line of fire, I gathered from the conversation, constantly. He talks about it matter-of-factly; of course he is in a war, and that comes with the territory. I am thinking I am judging him harshly in my mind while being amiable on the surface.

I realise he, and all of the troops, are protecting us. I recognise, too, that for families who have a military history, as Corporal Ross’ family does, that being part of the armed forces is what you do, and he is very proud of his heritage, and happy to do his part to serve. We need soldiers, and what soldier doesn't have loved ones left behind? Very few, I imagine.

There was also a bit of sobriety amid the champagne and canapes when we are reminded that 100,000 veterans are suffering psychological trauma as a result of their service. Jules, to his credit, is giving a percentage of his sales to the organisation Combat Stress. That doesn't surprise me, and not because I know Jules--we met only briefly. I think he saw anguish--and aptly depicted it--and found a way to help through his work.

I left the exhibition happy to have met the artist and congratulate him for his work. I was glad to have had an opportunity to talk with a soldier—it wasn't something I'd planned, though in hindsight it did make the conflict seem more real, even more than Jules’ work could.

I also left thinking, quite morbidly, that now that I have a face to the name that I hope I never hear of Corporal Ross on the radio or read his name in the paper. It is the slightest of bonds, I know; but it is there.

The First Seven Days

2011-07-09T11:22:00.000-07:00

This time last Saturday I’d just been married, sipping champagne and chatting with family and friends. What a difference a week makes! I am home alone in London, just back from a lovely lunch in Earlsfield to celebrate Taron’s birthday. Some of the wedding guests attended—Claire, Kelly, and of course Taron. Taron’s mother is also in town and it was nice to see her again—she was in London for Taron’s wedding back in March.

Mirepoix is a stroke away; Tim on the other hand is miles away in Yarmouth, racing his Contessa this weekend. Of course I miss him; I always did even before being married. Having said that, I’m not the least upset that the first weekend of married life we are apart. In fact we will have dinner together on Sunday and will have lots to talk about when we’re together again. I remember reading a response by a famous rock musician about how he kept his twenty-year marriage together—his response was “touring.” Absence does indeed make the heart grow fonder. The time away gave me a chance to organise photos from the wedding and, of course, write this post.

So what did the first week of wedded bliss hold? Well, you probably would prefer hearing about the wedding first . . .

When all is said and done, it was perfect. The ceremony was short, simple, and performed beautifully by our registrar, Adam. None of us flubbed a line. The canapés and champagne arrived, chilled and ready for the first glass after we kissed for the first time as husband and wife. The quartet played wonderfully—not exactly to the set I’d asked, but it didn’t matter; it was elegant, warm, and as special as I’d hoped.

Everyone talked with each other—I looked around the room occasionally and was delighted to see conversations among guests who’d only just met—I’d expected to see Sue and Austin chatting with Julia, but was pleasantly surprised to see Amanda and Birgit chatting uni with John J and Sybil and was delighted to see Tim’s mum talking with friends Jyoti and Lucy. I knew Robyn would talk with my dear Leah, one of my first friends here in London, and Jyoti, too—both of them were so happy to meet this sibling whom they’ve heard so much about over the last three years. At times I just closed my eyes and smiled at the thought of having them all together. Those moments were truly special, and I can still see some of them in my mind’s eye; I am happy to have them captured in photographs, too.

Friends told me that they thought it was a delightful affair—just the right length, a perfectly-sized venue, lovely wines and small bites—a really nice day. I couldn’t agree more.

There didn’t seem to be any pre-wedding jitters for either Tim or me—third time lucky, we not only knew the lines but we knew each other, and felt in our hearts that this was a commitment we’d cherish. Funny, Tim asked me the day after if it felt any different, and while I’ve lived with him for two years, there was something just slightly special about sitting across from him on the same couch we’ve shared before. I like seeing a band of gold on his finger, and mine. I am thrilled beyond words that I am his “wifey.” I like being called that and knowing that I can prove it! So, yes, it does feel different in a subtly warm way.

I like that we danced. I like that Tim's wife and brother danced, too, when the quartet played a tango (which I’d planted on the list for just that reason). This wasn’t your traditional wedding with lots of speeches and the first dance, etc, etc, though it had some of the usual touches—Tim’s brother Peter gave a delightful, funny speech, and Tim said a few words to thank our guests for joining us.

There was no official photographer but it didn’t matter—within days I had over 200 photographs in hand from friends and family, and in fact have posted them to Facebook and to Snapfish if you’d like to take a look! We didn’t spend money to decorate the Town Hall Council Chambers, though Tim presented me with a beautiful posy of white roses and blue cornflowers to match my dress—

Photo credit to my dear friend Birgit Schmidt!

I was perhaps most happy that my sister Robyn was there. I always smile when her beau Jimmy recognises that she and I are about to crumple into laughter even before we’ve finished a sentence; we just have this bond. I was thrilled to see her when they arrived on Thursday, when we had a late dinner and catch up, and a little sad to see her go on Monday when we left them at the security gate in Heathrow. But oh what wonderful times we had in between—a wonderful, relaxing, delicious meal at Frederick’s in Islington, a relaxed after-wedding nosh and drink at the lovely St Pancras Hotel, and then a chill-out barbie in the garden, too, to talk about the wedding and just enjoy each other’s company again.

Speaking of the St Pancras, it was not just a post-wedding drinks place but also Tim’s and my wedding night venue. I didn’t want to just come home to our London home and anyway we’d offered it to Tim's brother's family for the night. The hotel only recently reopened and it is such a grand building that I thought I simply must stay there for the night, and Tim obliged and booked us a room. The reception area is small compared to the vastness of the building, which takes up considerable space above Kings Cross station. It is modern, airy, light, and a perfect place for a meet up. The bar was dark and cosy, and the service was lovely. The food—charcuterie, cheese and nuts—was just perfect for the post-wedding nosh.

The room in the Barlow Suite we had was lovely—quiet, modern, and while not spacious it had a lovely comfortable king-sized bed. In the morning we opted to linger over coffee and breakfast and the Pan Quotidien in the St Pancras International station, near the Eurostar; it’s a fascinating place for people-watching and it was a bright, sunny morning so the area was filled with light and travellers hustling by speaking any number of languages.

I suppose there could be more to say about the wedding, but those are the highlights for me. I loved the day, all of it. When John J said to us at the receptioin that we look really happy, I practically gushed that I was happy. I still shake my head in disbelief at how I am where I am; I’d never have guessed my life would be here in Britain, and with a man who loves me as much as Tim does. Well, my dear friend Wilma would have—did—predict that I’d find a happy ending here; she also predicts I won’t be coming “home” though Tim occasionally talks about taking the NY or CA bar exams!

So what of Married Week One? Well, having seen Robyn and Jimmy off to Heathrow and visited Mum on Monday before she went back to her own home, Tim and I cracked a bottle of rose champagne—our stash from when we went to Reims—and had a lovely barbeque for two in the garden and simply relaxed and chatted about the long weekend that really felt like a mini-holiday. Tuesday was back to work, and dinner as usual at 8. Wednesday was the Middle Temple Garden party where Tim could introduce me to some of his colleagues as his wife, which was nice. The rest of the week was same old, same old, but then again, something just feels slightly different. The affirmation of our love and commitment is still palpable; we’re both, I think, still glowing. We call each other Mr and Mrs Devlin and smile at the newness of it. That will no doubt fade in time, but for now, for this week and the next and probably the next, I will still smile broadly when my husband Tim calls me Mrs Devlin or “wifey.” Ah, life’s simple pleasures.

Do I look happy here? You betcha!

The party begins!

2011-07-01T01:31:00.000-07:00

This morning Tim suggested that while he is off to work for an hour that I knock out a T minus 1 blog . . .

What's to say? Everything appears to be in place. Families are starting to gather--Tim's mum arrived by train yesterday and we greeted her at Kings Cross station. How happy she was to see us, a wide smile and dancing eyes as she hugged each of us. I thought I detected a bit of wistfulness in her face, seeing Tim for perhaps the last time as a bachelor, her pride and joy taking on a new wife. She asked me to take care of him; I said I would. I meant it. She generously offered flowers for the register table; I said no matter. It was a lovely gesture to ask. Small talk on arrival plans, dinner that night (for her, at a Chinese restaurant in Acton, west London, with family), the planned barbeque on Sunday, all this amid the bustle of commuters around us at Platform 2.

It was a brief encounter; they were off to west London in our car so there'd be ample transportation for Saturday, we back to north London via the bus to have dinner and await Robyn and Jimmy's arrival. They landed during our dinner at the local kebab shop, Robyn and me exchanging a flurry of texts about queues and baggage and where the arrivals point for pick up is. We'd arranged a car service to make it a bit easier on all of us, and had a slight snafu when Tim changed the time for pick up to be an hour later owing to a conversation we'd had with James about two-hour queues at passport control--there was a public sector strike on which included the border agency staff. Well, naturally, having changed the time the queues were surprisingly short and Robyn and Jimmy arrived at the meeting point a full hour earlier than the car. Fortunately the wait was just 30 minutes after Tim called them again to get a car there. The traffic was light in London, too, so they quickly arrived at their hotel and Tim and I managed to hop off the bus literally minutes before--I hadn't even sat down yet in the lobby!

Ah, the hug, the warmth, the immediate reconnect. R&J checked in, planted their luggage in their room and headed back down for a bite to eat--Virgin Atlantic's food (beef stew) was hours ago, and it was now just passed 10 pm BST. The pub at the hotel was willing to stay open a little longer to get their food order, and Tim bounded to the bar for drinks all around. We sat, relaxed, and began what was almost two hours of conversation. The flight was mostly uneventful--a few screaming children, but otherwise a swift flight that left Newark minutes early and arrived on time in Heathrow. A few conversations about family matters--Elena fine after minor surgery; Debbie doing well and the cancer-free declaration for her throat a relief. Alyssa's graduation come and gone and now a summer to reflect on what to do next--most certainly a gap year for her before possibly returning to school. Who's coming, who's not, to the wedding. And then, a few strokes before midnight and we depart, Jimmy having said his good night slightly earlier to shower and lie down in a quiet, hopefully comfortable environment compared to the plane! Tim and I hop on the bus back; I am happy (and he is tired).

T minus 1. What's on my agenda? I want to pull the weeds from the front garden. I want to watch Andy Murray's semi-final match. I want to relax . . . drink plenty of water, rest up, and spend the day with Tim just puttering about the house. And we will most certainly see Robyn and Jimmy, too; dinner is planned at a place near Angel called Frederick's. I need to buy a few items at Boots; I can do that on the way or earlier, depending on my mood. I will consider what to pack for our overnight stay at the St Pancras hotel. Oddly enough I've avoided walking into the hotel because the first time I want to go I want it to be special . . . though we are considering dropping our overnight bag there before the wedding. We'll see.

I will smile often at the thought of tomorrow's events; I am truly looking forward to all of it.

It is a beautiful, sunny day; the front garden awaits! I promise photos soon.

Seven, six, five, four . . .

2011-06-25T09:52:00.000-07:00

Yes, the countdown begins. What a week this will be--with all wedding plans sorted (as best as we can), what's left is simply to anticipate the arrival of guests and to be ready for the big day.

I must admit I cannot believe how quickly the time has flown--it is six months since Tim proposed, and yet it doesn't feel like it was that long ago. There's been a lot that has happened since, including our 11-day trip to America, and there has been of course the planning for the wedding; perhaps keeping busy has made the months and weeks disappear into what is now just days. My friend Leah just texted me from America with a "T minus" message, which was very sweet and thoughtful of her. What's even sweeter is that she'll be back in time to be here for the wedding, and as one of my closest friends here in London, that is very special to me.

There's probably something about it being "third time lucky" for both Tim and me that has made the planning somewhat uncomplicated, at least from my perspective. The wedding was always intended to be a small, less formal affair, with immediate family and good friends in attendance--a brief ceremony at the town hall followed by champagne and canapes, and then an exit into the early evening, just the two of us, to stay at a hotel in London. So, everything is in place . . . I'm frankly just hoping for a good hair day.

I realise I haven't blogged much about the wedding, the planning, the stress . . . but there really isn't much to say and it honestly hasn't felt stressful in the least. I'm excited for the music, which will be performed by a string quartet that we heard at Taron and Neil's wedding. Tim and I revisited the town hall on Wednesday so I could consider the possibilities for how to manage the ceremony and reception in the same room without it appearing "auditorium style" in seating . . . I think we have that sorted with the event coordinator, and if not we'll roll up our sleeves and rearrange the room ourselves! There was a bit of a mix up around rooms with the caterer, who made a special trip to the hall to meet with one of the event coordinators only to have left with the wrong information! We were able to sort that one out quickly, and I am looking forward to an elegant array of canapes with our champagne.

I did have trouble finding shoes, which I thought would be easy peasy once I had the dress, which by the way I bought in a store on the high street in Cowes. I wanted a pair of shoes I could wear again--c'mon, it's just shoes--and they needed to be navy to match the blue in my dress (which is blue and white). I had hit a total of seven stores (Jones, Clark's, John Lewis, Selfridge's, Zara, Barratt's, and Aldo) before I settled on a pair of blue and white, semi-comfortable, low-heeled shoes from Next. I will say I liked them immediately; the shoe is blue with a white piping around them that ties in a simple bow at the front. They would actually look nice with a pair of blue jeans and a dressy top for an evening out--so I've done well for cheap and cheerful (hey, it really is just shoes), and I think I will actually wear them again.

As much as I am not a fan of Oxford Street, in this instance, it worked a treat to hit all of those stores in a short distance, though the Jones was just outside the Chancery Lane tube before getting to Oxford Circus.

I've decided to forgo flowers and jewellery, except for the ring. I may wear a string of pearls, but may not. I will wear sheer nude stockings--the white leg look with a white dress is a bit too much, and I'm not a fan of the fake bake. The dress is just below the knee in length, sleeveless, with a frilly bit at the neckline. For you fashionistas out there, it's a Gina Bacconi.

I haven't decided about earrings. On a daily basis I wear a pair of simple gold ones with a small light-brown "crystal" (likely made of plastic) that dangles; those will have to come out. Perhaps a visit to Monsoon for cheap and cheerful pearl studs is in my future.

Tim and I haven't really argued over any of the arrangements--I had a very brief moment of frustration in trying to focus on music, and in the end we have some wonderful selections prepared for the ceremony and for the reception. I admittedly pestered him to call Majestic to make sure the champagne would be delivered by 4 pm so it would be cold for 5:30, ready to be served after the ceremony. I don't think I've been overbearing, but I know I can be a bit tetchy.

We went to pick up our rings at the jewellery store in Cowes on Friday afternoon--simple gold bands--and I sensed a moment in Tim where he was thinking OMG I'm doing this again! LOL. After several years of not wearing a ring on that finger, it's no surprise that it felt funny to him; I remarked that mine fit like a glove. I love its simplicity.

I always felt bothered when men wouldn't wear a wedding ring because it was uncomfortable or interfered somehow with the ability to do something with the left hand; on the other hand, I suppose there are some excuses that are valid (for surgeons, for example). I'm not sure if Tim will always wear his, though I think he will at least make a try at getting used to it. No matter; I know his heart is true.

This week the excitement really begins on Thursday evening, when Robyn and Jimmy come to town. As my sole family representative, Robyn also gets to be the witness for the register. She's exempt from having to give a speech (although I did offer her the opportunity). I hope she and I get a chance to play a little bit--we will certainly have dinner together with Jim and Tim on Friday evening, at a local Islington restaurant called Frederick's, and I have the day slated to take off should they decide to want to do something together in the city. Monday, too, as the 4th isn't a holiday in Britain. It's a short stay for them--they head back on the afternoon of the 4th of July, so we will not have much time to spend, but no matter; the fact that she will be here is quite good enough. And to have all of my London friends all together will be a treat. We have a wonderful mix of friends on both sides and I hope everyone enjoys the afternoon.

What's left to do then, before the big day? Oddly, absolutely nothing. OK, well, I may visit Boots to find a lipstick in a complimentary shade that doesn't smear when I kiss my husband.

Spectacle

2011-06-25T00:02:00.000-07:00

That was the first word that came to mind this morning as I watched the boats gather in the Solent for the start of the 80^th Round the Island race. Imagine 1,908 boats sharing space near the start line, trying to perfectly time their scheduled kick-off. There are several starts, in fact—the crew of Coh Karek had a 7:10 start in the “blue” class with the other Contessas competing. I read there’d be 16,000 sailors in town—the high street last night starting at around 6 pm certainly had its share of them. We found a table at one of the pubs, the Peer View, just under the awning (and good thing as it was drizzly) and the crew talked a little tactic—who would man the foredeck, who would navigate, etc.

This morning I took up my favourite seat in Harbour House, binoculars in hand, to watch her and the other boats go by my window as they headed toward the Royal Yacht Squadron where the canon would fire about every ten minutes to start each of the classes. Last year Tim and I headed down (at the ungodly hour of 5:30 am) to watch first-hand from just behind the cannons; this year, Tim competes with his own boat, having a completely different vantage point (and getting slightly more sleep—he was up at 5:40 and out by 6:00)! I thought to go down to the RYS to watch some of the starts, but with the wind whipping the flags and sails in a grey and dull and slightly damp dawn, I was cognisant that I still haven’t shaken off this cold, which has dwindled to a cough and dry throat but is nonetheless still persistent and annoying.

The view now, as the clock shows 7:15, is a little different—it’s clearer, a bit brighter, and the only boats I see belong to the “green” and “purple” classes, which must have the last two starts. Most have at least one sail up; some are powering toward the start line on engine. There is no doubt a skill to trying to get as near to the start without going over when you’re sailing—you can’t stop dead in the water, and with so many boats around you, well, as a non-sailor I think that must be tricky.

I felt a bit like a sailor last weekend, though—maybe it was just the waterproofs head to toe, but I did manage to sail (rather than ferry) back to Cowes from Lymington last weekend with Tim and Dominic. I took up a post behind the tiller and simply watched the world go by. It was a three-hour journey, with some good wind and a lot of cloud cover. I didn’t do much in the way of helping—Tim asked me once or twice to thread a rope, though mostly I tried to stay out of the way as they tacked or jibed, Dominic pushing the tiller while Tim winched to get the sails to fill.

I sound very nautical, don’t I? I am in fact enjoying the slow learning process. I have no desire to race, but would like to continue to cruise and learn enough to be useful. Let’s face it, in Britain sailing is not for the weak—it’s mostly cold, often wet, and occasionally “lumpy”; it ain’t a catamaran on the Med with bikini-clad girls and bare-chested boys taking in the sun! I think there’s some middle ground where you don’t love it but you don’t hate it—it can be thoroughly enjoyable as long as you can stay warm and dry. I think that’s where I’m comfortably sitting at the moment.

And comfortably seated I am, this morning, as now there are just a few sailboats in the distance. Round the Island is in full swing, all classes heading toward the Needles, perhaps the larger boats already beyond and at St Catherine’s Point. I expect the crew of Coh Karek will take 11 hours to finish—in fact at dinner last night with the crew, we bet a pound each on what time she would finish: captain Tim gave the longest prediction, for 7 pm and I chimed in 6 pm; the others chose from between 5 and 6:30. I’d love it if Ben’s prediction—the shortest—rang true, but I suppose the more important number here is where Coh Karek finishes . . . top half would be lovely!

Time will tell!

Back to America

2011-06-09T23:56:00.000-07:00

While it feels a bit like old news, I thought it would still be nice to share the beauty of Yosemite and some highlights of travels in San Francisco--it was such a delightful trip it's worth (re)visiting.

On our journey to Yosemite Tim and I were faced with having to drive over 150 miles out of our way to get there, owing to eight feet of snow in the Tioga Pass and the next two passes also closed due to ice or snow. Our destination following Yosemite was San Francisco, and when we drove 150 miles farther north than necessary to find an open pass to go west, when we made it across the northernmost passage there was a sign: San Francisco 130 [miles]. We would need to drive south now 150 miles just to get into Yosemite Park, or, we could simply keep heading west and wind up in SF early.

I had never been to Yosemite, and Tim had been once but just for the day, so while we did pause to think about the choice, it was a brief discussion. We didn’t need to be in SF a day early; we’d both been there before. And, who knew when we’d get to that part of the country again? We also had a luxurious lodge waiting for us at the end of those 150 miles . . . and it had originally played out to be our shortest driving day—so what’s another few hours in the car together? We hadn’t had an argument in the first several days . . . I think the pause came out of simply being logical, and/or out of having already travelled close to 1,000 miles by car . . . BUT, onward!

And how glad I am that we did keep calm and carry on. I wasn’t sure what to expect of Yosemite—a forest, yes, with tall sequoias and massive rocks and the serene beauty that comes with that combination—like all the Ansel Adams’ art I’d seen before. I didn’t know about the deep valleys and the waterfalls and the river than ran at our side for much of the car journey.

It was a lovely day—a little cool, sunny, and clear. There were a lot of cars—in fact, as we entered near the sequoias we were quickly turned away; too many vehicles already in that area of the park. No matter; 35 miles in another direction were the waterfalls and El Capitan, and I’d been to see the grand trees in Muir Woods—not to say if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all, but given the choice of hopping out of the car and into a bus or driving toward water, well, it wasn’t a difficult decision.

If you’ve visited my earlier posts then you may have already seen the photos—I’m not a great photog, but some of them are indeed spectacular. The bit of vertigo from having wound round and up and down through the Canyon and Death Valley continued within me, and I was glad to have Tim behind the wheel while I simply took it all in at Yosemite. It smelled green, of pine and fresh air, and my delight for water was well served—the waterfalls, with their spray catching in the sun to appear like a thin veil of smoke, and the vibrant sound of the river rushing passed when we stopped to take photos just made me smile for having made the journey.

And the lodge? It was a true lodge atmosphere, with stuffed heads and lots of dark wood, high ceilings and open spaces, big leather sofas in the lobby to idle on with a glass of wine from the nearby bar, and there was an indoor pool and Jacuzzi for us to enjoy—in fact it was our first stop after dropping off our bags in the room. We had dinner in one of their restaurants—the more quietly upscale one—and the food was delicious and abundant—ah yes, American portion sizes truly are a bit more than England’s, and the service a bit more “chatty” shall we say, but all good.

The trip up to San Francisco the next morning was largely uneventful—save an obstruction in the road on the highway that found me stopping short and slightly swerving to avoid, thankfully with no one around me seeming to notice. It was perhaps the first time we were in traffic on our journey—most of the roads found us on our own or with a few cars behind or in front of us. As we drove from Yosemite to San Francisco we paused at a local diner for a sandwich, and the waitress was quite friendly and asked about our journey, where we were from, etc. I think Tim’s British accent intrigues foreigners. Tim seemed surprised when she left with his empty glass of Coke and returned it full—another supersized portion of cola, and I am reminded these free refills are mostly an American institution. (That and ice, of course, which is generally not provided in England unless asked for.) We managed to find our way to the airport, drop of the Kia with 1,400 miles of journey on the odometer, and hop the BART to the city.

1. I’d chosen the Triton Hotel in San Francisco primarily because I’d stayed there before and knew it was a central location, just outside the gate to Chinatown and a short walk from the Montgomery St BART station. I remembered it being friendly, clean, boutique-y with colourful rooms (some of them themed, like the Häagen-Dasz suite), and serving wine most evenings at 5, too! Well, as it turned out we arrived in time to check in, drop our bags in the small-ish but comfortable room and head back to the now bustling lounge in the lobby for a glass to relax with and plan our evening. We’d asked one of the staff for a recommendation in Chinatown—neither Tim nor I had a meal there before, despite having visited SF often—and then we strolled in that direction to see if we could make a reservation for later that evening at what I think was called the R&G Lounge, just off Commercial Street.

We did make a reservation, adding our names on a list for 8 pm, and the lovely woman jotted it down in pencil on a list, telling us that there’d likely still be a wait . . . when we returned at around 7:45 the place was buzzing with people milling about the entrance and the bar waiting to hear their names called for a table. The system was suddenly very sophisticated—no more paper and pencil, but a lovely young woman manning the desk with an earpiece and a computer displaying a colourful seating chart. This is not your Mom and Pop Cantonese!

We ordered a drink from the bar and waited patiently; within an hour we were seated at a table on the main floor behind the hubbub of the entrance and immediately started skimming the menu. We didn’t know a lot about the food or the portions, though our waitperson did tell us that it was served “family” style—which in my mind means as it’s ready it’s brought to the table. Well, it was presented that way, but apparently family style also means large portions, which we had a hint of when we ordered three dishes—one of them designated a starter—and the waitperson told us he thought that was enough for the two of us. In the end we had a large plate of sticky pork ribs, another of delicious beef, and after a bit of thought to having a vegetable, pak choi which was not a “side” but again a family-size portion. My starter, a delightfully refreshing, cold cucumber and conch salad, was of manageable size and, better yet, delicious. We did manage to eat just about much of what was served—there was simply too much pak choi—and I was happy for my first food experience in Chinatown SF.

We took the ferry to Sausalito the next morning. It’s always been a favourite little hop of mine, starting with a coffee at Peet’s in the Ferry Building (possibly accompanied by a muffin or bagel of some healthy sort), and then off the ferry to stroll along the waterfront, in and around the marina, with a lunch thrown in for good measure. In fact this time it was much like that, only Tim and I paused in the marina, looking for Contessas and eyeing the more luxurious yachts and observing names. American like to call their boats names like Anna Maria and Julia, whereas in Cowes, you’ll find names like Joi de Vivre and Defiant and Corafin and Firefly, with the occasional Connie. (I mention her as her owners, Mark and Kim Oliver, have become good friends.)

We window-shopped in several stores along the high street in Sausalito, Tim looking for that perfect tee shirt while I picked up (and always put back) odds and ends like abalone shells and small jewels. We had lunch at one of the many places along the main street, having paused in an Italian cafe for a coffee and deciding that their menu was a bit too “much” for lunch. It was a partly cloudy day, and as ever the breeze had a lovely smell of pine and sea. Sausalito is just one of those pretty places on the planet that you need to see for yourself and visit for an hour or two. The way the houses are built into the hills, the lovely view of San Francisco just across the way; I suppose in some ways it’s a little like Cowes, with its unique shops and waterfront beauty. I often thought how lovely it would be to live there, just across the Golden Gate Bridge; and now, somehow, I’ve wound up on the Isle of Wight!

On our second San Francisco evening I was craving fish, and while I wanted “local” (as in near the hotel), the recommendations were at Fisherman’s Wharf, and particularly Scoma’s, which also has a place in Sausalito that I’ve dined at before. As we were out and about all day, we popped in to Scoma’s to make sure the hotel had made the reservation, only to find out that they didn’t actually take reservations but the hostess was happy to take our name and have us return in an hour, and since it was early we walked around the area, finding ourselves needing to by light jackets as the weather told a bit too cool for comfort.

While Scoma’s is a bit of a tourist destination, we thankfully didn’t have to wait long and were seated at a table not quite near a window but close enough to look out and see the water. Our waiter was a bit abrupt when Tim asked for a clean bread plate, only to return with what appeared to be the same one. He was, pardon the pun, a cold fish! The food however was lovely—certainly my local cod tasted fresh and we had wonderful crab cakes to start—but Tim was not well the next day, speculating on food, waiter . . .? No matter.

The next day was the reason for being in California—Jess and Mark’s wedding in Berkeley. We arrived early to stroll a bit in Berkeley before hailing a cab to the venue, a beautiful , green, woodsy setting hidden away in Tilden Park. It was slightly chilly in the late afternoon, and while it threatened rain the outdoor ceremony was blissfully dry.

Jess looked gorgeous—glamorous in her just below the knee, tiered white dress with a blue ribbon around the waist that matched the bridesmaids’ dresses; it was simply perfect. Mark looked handsome—and perhaps a bit more nervous than Jess—and both of them spoke beautifully, in their own words, about the meaningfulness of their relationship and how happy they were to be together.

There was music and dancing and speeches—Tim and I receiving favour for having travelled the farthest—and, to my delight, an intimate few minutes with both Mark and Jess; knowing how busy the bride and groom can be, I was so happy to have stolen some of their precious time and express my delight at being a part of their day.

After the ceremony we all herded in for champers and canapés in the reception room and chatted among friends old and new—I recognised a colleague, Jennifer, and we found ourselves comfortably chatting with her and with others before too long. The dinner was exceptional—paella, not often seen as wedding fare—and the bread placed on the table with olives and various spreads was delicious.

Oh, and yes, there were cupcakes, and while I’m not much of a fan of sweets, the thick chocolate frosting looked too good to pass up.

I loved the low-key, less traditional nature of it all. Tim and I danced a little, chatted with our tablemates, and enjoyed the night immensely. Even the fact that the taxi we’d ordered didn’t arrive and we waited an hour to get back to BART for our trip back to San Francisco wasn’t enough to dampen the evening—just a small hitch in an otherwise perfect night.

And in fact, a perfect trip to America. I’ll admit it—I was happy to be back “home.” I enjoyed Taco Bell. I loved the heat of the sun, the warmth of the people, the diversity . . . well, the latter is found in England, too, and certainly in my travels in Europe, but it just felt good to be back in the states for a bit and to see parts of America like the Grand Canyon and Yosemite that I’d always wanted to see but never made it to.

What a fantastic time we both had, and, perhaps the best of all was having Tim meet some of my family, finally. David was the host with the most, engaging and talkative and happy to have us there. He enjoyed, I think, showing his home and showing Tim his gun collection—I respectfully declined and let the two of them discuss calibre, etc. And Tim has heard so much about Robyn—the Robster—for two years now, so the opportunity to finally meet, well, that was priceless.

I recall the moment as Robyn and Jimmy stepped out of the car while Tim and I were already at David’s home; it was precious for me to see her again. We are close, thick as thieves and still able to know what each other are thinking and finish each other’s sentences. The first hug was warming like the sun. Gosh I’d forgotten how much I miss her. And Robyn, for all she had been through with her cancer treatment, simply glowed. Jimmy, ever her attentive lover and guardian, greeted Tim cheerfully and it was all, well, comfortable. That is how I think of “family”—comfort. There are no words that can capture the moments, the laughter, the brash as well as the quiet conversation between and around us; it’s as if you’re never apart even if you’ve not seen or spoken for ages, and you fall perfectly into step without a moment’s hesitation.

And of course there was also Judy and Carroll, finally making the trip to Texas and also meeting Tim for the first time. Conversation flowed—so much to say to each other and about such wide-ranging topics: yes, the wedding (royal and otherwise), history, family, politics . . . three days filled with joy, words, and as ever, love. What a treat! I think Tim now has the official stamp of approval!

So there it is, eleven days in America over a couple of posts. The memories will go on for a good long time.

While I’m feeling warm from recalling those days, I think I’ll say goodnight.

And Away We Go

2011-06-04T10:47:00.000-07:00

One of the benefits of living in close proximity to “the continent” is that you can travel to Europe quickly and often cheaply from England—it has been the reason why I will soon find myself forking over $82 for some additional pages in my passport, which is not set to expire until 2016 but is already chock full of stamps (as well as three visas which take up an entire page each).

The latest great escape was Greece, and Athens in particular. Tim decided to attend the European Bar Conference, somewhat at the last minute, and owing to the fact that it was being held over the late May bank holiday weekend there was no concern on my part about rescheduling work priorities—if there was a relatively cheap air deal, it was a done deal.

Well, there is cheap, but it does sometimes come with a hitch—this time the catch was a stopover in Geneva for a couple of hours. Having not been to Geneva’s airport, and knowing what was on the other end of the travel, it seemed well worth it. Two short-ish hops and I’d be basking in the sun in Athens, meeting Tim’s BFF (OK, best friend forever) Duffey and her husband Makis, and touring the Acropolis.

Away we went via Swiss Air, where the food items were naturally cheese based and there was always a smile and a small bar of milk chocolate. Once in Athens we stayed in a hotel that, from Tim’s look at the internet, seemed a stone’s throw from where the conference was taking place. Alas, it was a 20-euro pop each time, but easy enough as cabs are plentiful with a 15-minute call ahead. We arrived in the evening, honestly just in time to slide under the duvet, and woke somewhat refreshed for the start of the conference and my tour, with the other WAGs, via the pink bus. Our driver was Nicolas, our tour guide Maria, and between them we had a day-long adventure driving through central Athens, pausing now and then to look through the bus’ large, clean windows or taking a 5- or 10-minute stop to stretch our legs and look more closely at some of Athens’ sites—the Parliament building, for example, or the site of the start of the Olympic torch relay. It was a beautiful day—warm in the sun, slightly cool in the shade.

We went to the new-ish Acropolis Museum first—two years old this June, it is a modern, spacious building filled but not stuffed with lovely relics—statues of Artemis and Athena, the original friezes from the Parthenon, vases and bowls found from various excavations.

Outside the front of the entrance the floor is mostly glass—the museum was built over an excavation site and you can see the ruins clearly below. It is mostly remains of walls or columns, but still a treat to behold. Inside the layout is quite good—there is enough light and space to truly appreciate the statuary on display, even when the museum is a little crowded (and this was Sunday). Maria was a wonderful, knowledgeable tour guide, who rattled off information specific to different periods and was able to answer any question we posed.

The top floor of the museum is dramatic—overlooking the Acropolis, its walls are primarily made of glass to give a spectacular view. It is long and narrow, meant to be laid out like the Parthenon, and the friezes, numerous square blocks depicting horses and warriors, hang above.

A slight pause here to note that the British Museum has some treasured artefacts that, judging from Maria’s commentary, Greece would love to have. She and I had a conversation later about it, and she laughed and said, no, you keep them, as if to intimate that given Greece’s current economic situation the valuable assets would be safer in British hands!

The walk from the museum to the Acropolis is short—perhaps 10 minutes—and then you begin the slow climb to the top. The stones are slippery, polished from years of foot traffic. At first glance the climb looks a bit daunting—it seems high, and it was a warm day. I half thought to return to one of the few kiosks selling water, but had just had my fill at the museum and though that should keep me going—I didn’t want to be burdened with any more than I had, which was a small purse and camera.

It was a well-paced climb—first stopping at the site of the theatre, and then climbing on to the marble steps that were the foot of the Acropolis. We paused there to sit in the shade on the cool marble while Maria gave us some facts before climbing up to the Parthenon. I must say, it is one thing to see these ruins in books, or on postcards, and oh what another to be standing in front of them, thinking back to the time of Socrates and Plato and imagining a completely different world of gods and goddesses.

There is restoration work going on—from a certain angle you can take photographs that don’t include the massive cranes or the steel fences. We all found those in our lens and snapped—blue sky, worn stone, pillars still standing tall. (Doric, Ionic, Corinthian? I do think we saw them all.)

How lucky am I to have had that chance, the quick weekend getaway (and all while Tim was listening to dozens of presentations ). Ah, yes, once again I come away from a weekend that I know I am fortunate to have had in a marvellous place.

Oh, the food! I know my reputation . . . yes, I had a Greek salad. The feta was s semi-hard, rectangular chunk dribbled with lovely green olive oil, with fresh tomatoes and lettuce and an olive or two sharing the plate. Four of us had a lovely lunch together, a few blocks walk from the museum in one of the many outdoor tavernas that our guide Maria said was “authentic.” We shared a bottle of Greek white wine, which was delicious—I don’t recall the grape, but it was similar in taste to a chenin blanc. The conversation was mostly among the other three, who were clearly friends for a while—the bar conference WAGs have travelled to many sites over the last dozen or so years. They were welcoming, and we talked about where we lived and how our gardens grew and there was some discussion about the political goings-on within the bar council. I took mental notes!

The day ended with a wonderful dinner of Greek “tapas” at one of the restaurants in the hotel where the conference was held. It was out of doors and a lovely night, cool enough for a light jacket. Wine flowed, food simply kept coming—yes, Greek salad, and grilled octopus and a delightful piece of fish were among the courses. There was a sweet treat of Greek baklava to end the meal, which found us also listening to a speech or two, and then the evening culminated with fireworks.

My initial thought, I will admit, is that the European bar has a lot of expendable cash!

I enjoyed getting to know some of the members of the bar, all Brits, and even without holding a law degree I could hold my own in conversation—there are a lot of other interesting topics to choose from, after all. It was a lovely, perfect Greek evening, a fantastic weekend all in all. I did sit by the pool for a little bit the next day while Tim went to the conclusion of the conference, but it was a bit noisy and the air was cool, not precisely pool weather, so I went back to our room where we had a lovely balcony overlooking the sea beyond and read a few pages.

I know, I know—I haven’t finished telling the tale of our road trip to the West; I’ll have to sit down and give that some thought and perhaps my next post will provide a bit more detail.

I do recall that the first meal Tim and I had once we landed in Phoenix and picked up the car was Taco Bell. I’m not sure why that fact has stuck with me! There wasn’t another one of those anywhere near Death Valley or Yosemite, as I recall, and by the time we reached San Francisco there were innumerable choices for dining. Honestly, TB was a fast food favourite in New Jersey when I wasn’t in the mood for pizza—I was convinced that a chicken burrito was filled with healthy food!

I should be staying put for a while—I need to give my passport to the embassy to get those additional pages (I was chided in Geneva for only having one left by one of the passport control gents). Then again, there’s always Cowes, and an upcoming sailing weekend in Lymington, and before you know it a trip down the aisle . . .

Grand Defined

2011-05-19T14:43:00.000-07:00

Tim and I often agree that words like "iconic" and "awesome" are horribly overused. Having travelled now to some of the well-known destinations in the great American West, well, there are a couple of places I'd slap the adjective on without a second thought--

Vegas? OK, many people love Vegas. It's got glitz. It's absolutely over the top. Is it awesome? Not to me. Is it iconic? Well, one definition I found online is "an iconic image or thing is important or impressive because it seems to be a symbol of something." Vegas, then, could be iconic if you think of it as a symbol of ostentatiousness. I have never been a fan; I thought my first visit was coloured by having been stranded there for a number of days when I found myself there the morning of 9/11 and couldn't get a flight out until three days later. The casinos were running, but everyone looked sad; the shows were dark; there was no ambience. Having returned, well, I am still not a fan. I'm not a gambler, I don't like waiting in queues and I don't like crowds at every turn. Tim was right to remark that the Strip was akin to Oxford Street--hordes of tourists looking up and down and all around, cameras in hand.

Then again, we went to Paris and Venice together, or at least I joked that we can now say we've been there. We had some very good food, but not fabulous service. We stayed at Caesar's Palace where the shops and the pools and the rooms are more than anyone could ever need. I'm glad Tim can now tick the box.

Grand Canyon? Yes to both (Iconic and awesome). What surprised me first--very little traffic along the way. At one point I asked Tim if the Canyon was possibly closed since there wasn't a car in front or behind us for miles. The next thing that I found a surprise was the landscape--I expected desert, and yet there was a density of trees and, a real shock, snow in May. We had only arrived to find ourselves in the middle of a hail storm, and then snow flakes later. Given the elevation, I should have expected a variety of landscape; having only flown above the Canyon and seen the rocks, I hadn't expected all the rest.

We stayed at the South Rim in one of the area lodges that was spare, but functional--a comfortable bed, coffee in the room, a short walk to the Rim, and heat for the chilly night. I was glad we'd stayed in the park; it gave us a chance to see more than perhaps we would have on our adventure across several cities/states in a short period.

You may recall that I have a bit of a discomfort with heights. I have come to think of it less as a fear--if you saw the drive up to 8,000 feet and back down with the winding, narrow roads and often no barriers, well, you'd say if I was afraid I'd have pulled over and let Tim do the driving. I managed, perhaps a bit more slowly than Tim would have, though it gave him a chance to really view the landscape that I would have otherwise found a bit, well, overwhelming. I did sense vertigo when looking over the Rim and deep into the valley; it is breathtaking. The strata formed from when the Colorado River flowed through the Canyon is truly awesome. The canyon looks quite expansive from a plane, as I've flown over it dozens of times; to stand at the rim and look down, almost a mile, and have a closer look is something I now feel quite privileged to have seen.

And the entire area is lovely; lots of little gift shops and places to dine within the park. We opted for the cafeteria-style diner near our lodge, where the food was ample and it was more functional than romantic or cosy, and then treated ourselves to a lovely breakfast, Canyon view, at the El Tovar Lodge, a rather luxurious little spot with animal heads on display, high ceilings with dark beams, and shops stocked with dozens of tee shirts and expensive turquoise. Note: much of the cheap goods were made in China.

I read somewhere that the tourists are 83% American, and just 4% from Britain.We did see quite a range of visitors on our journey. Oh, and, a factoid--only 53 of 600 deaths have been due to falls. More have perished from airplane/helicopter crashes. Terra firma, terra firma.

Two cities shared, and a few more to go. I'm taking this one easy; I'm still jet-lagged and Tim has acquired a horrid cold. Right now we're in different cities--he still with Mirepoix in London, and I am in Cowes getting ready for the weekend. It's the Manches Cup, where lawyers-cum-sailors compete in races on Saturday and Sunday.Coh Karek, Tim's beautiful Contessa, will participate, and this time with Tim as captain. A fancy dress (costume) party awaits us on Saturday evening . . . with any luck, we'll have a photo to share.

Did you see my last post? The photos (with captions) we took are posted on Snapfish, here. Do enjoy.

Go West, Young Man (and Woman)

2011-05-17T14:20:00.000-07:00

We did it. We survived it! Four states, many cities, five days. (Spring, TX; Grand Canyon, AZ; Las Vegas, NV; Death Valley, Yosemite, and San Fran, CA.) Originally scheduled for 1140 miles, the snow at Yosemite found us driving about 150 miles farther north than anticipated, then taking the only open pass west only to head back south to get into Yosemite's wondrous park. Total miles traveled: closer to 1400. Views? Priceless. Still engaged? You betcha. Take a look at the photos, and keep an eye on this site--I will tell you more about each city as time allows! We did fly from Houston to Phoenix, by the way, and started our journey from Sky Harbor International Airport in a Kia Optima after a bit of indecision on my part about whether a "full-sized" vehicle was really worth it (and in the end we decided no, and traded down).

I will start by telling you how wonderful, how truly (oh, my) special/magnificent/fabulous/awesome/etc it was to go to Spring, Texas, to begin the journey by seeing my brother David's family--my funny, sweet, handsome brother David (OK, "Dave"), his lovely, warm wife Elena, their handsome boys Andrew (9) and Chris (13?!), and their extended family--the petite, sweet grandmother of the boys whom we all call "Abuelita"; Elena's gregarious, welcoming brothers Miguel and Louis, and communing with my BFF and sister Robyn and her most wonderful partner Jimmy and my most special cousin, friend, heart of my heart, my dear Judy and her wonderful husband Carroll. There aren't enough superlatives; this was THE event of the season and I was thrilled to make the trip. I've been to Spring before, but not in a few years, and this was Tim's opportunity to meet some of my family without use of a webcam between countries; he was ready for the "full-on" gathering, agreeing to stay at David and Elena's beautiful home and being surrounded by/subjected to a foreign onslaught! And how did he do? Well, naturally I'm a bit prejudiced, but the early returns have Tim being fully accepted into the fold . . . I think it was his charm, dry wit, and intelligence.

We were there for Andrew's First Holy Communion, an event celebrated with gusto at Chez Kusman. The church service was lovely; the children embodied the solemnity of the occasion as they looked a bit pensive and certainly devoted to the day. The church, high-ceilinged, modern, lovely, was standing room only. Parishoners around us sang with enthusiasm, participating with every prayer, every phrase of song. Afterwards, photos of course, and then a crowd awaiting us back at D&E's home. There, short, meaningful speeches about the gathering of friends, family, and the meaning of the day. And then, my, the food! Elena's brother Louis is a fabulous cook, and plates were piled high with traditional Peruvian fare prepared by him and a few others. I recall delicious tamales, Peruvian chicken we saw Elena and her mother, the lovely Abuelita, carefully shred in the morning, rice, salad, and wine. Lots of wine. Fabulous. The kids, mostly boys, splashed in the pool around us, trying to entertain (they all knew Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, but not much else). And as the night wound down, hugs, quieter conversation. Intimacy.

Here's a link to the photos--you can view as a guest .Please do look at the captions, as they provide a bit of interesting/useful commentary.

Come back again; I promise to tell you--hopefully, perhaps, enthrall you--with stories of Tim's and my journey to the snow and beauty of the Grand Canyon, the over-the-top splendour of Vegas, the long, sparse, quiet drive through Death Valley, some of it along the fabled Route 66, and on to the serenity and beauty of the falls, mountains and tall trees of Yosemite before finding our way into San Francisco and Sausalito for a wedding of my dear friends Jess and Mark.

The pictures do tell some of the story--enjoy!

Of walks and sails and royal weddings

2011-05-01T06:55:00.000-07:00

Ah, the best-laid plans . . .

I always take a look to see when I last post, and then usually pull out my diary to see what’s happened since so I can capture the highlights/lowlights. I was disappointed to see that the last time I’d posted was 9 April—a full three weeks ago. The disappointment comes in my wanting to post more frequently, yet I can’t seem to find the time to simply sit down and do it. I should ask my friend Taron, a frequent blogger on a fantastic site called Mind, Body & Scroll, how she manages to find the time! She works full time, has just recently been married, and has an active social life. Perhaps the trick is to simply get into a routine; I seem to find time for my tennis lesson, and now play twice a week when my colleague Sarah is free. I recall when my friend Beverly was writing her first novel how she would get up a few hours early each morning and poise herself in front of her computer/notepad/writing instrument and get to it.

So I suppose I need to just do it. And I suppose, too, I need to play a bit of catch up since the 9^th. Work has been very, very hectic (which is my current excuse for not writing more often, though truly it’s more about making it a habit where nothing will get in my way), and owing to a few “bank” holidays we’ve had some short weeks. The weather has been beautiful, and the longer weekends in Cowes have been blissful—sleeping in a bit, taking long walks to Gurnard, just west of Cowes, or watching the boats float along from the roof terrace—it’s been those kinds of weekends. Well, except for the one where Tim’s brother Peter joined us with two of his children, Imogen and Ludovic, for some sailing.

And by that I mean still blissful, just in a different way!

The visit was also Easter weekend, which meant that Tim and I had the Good Friday and Easter Monday as holidays. We set off to the Isle of Wight on Thursday and made the place ready—not exactly kidproofing (Gini and Ludo are 7 and 9, or something along those lines) as the house in Cowes is not filled with breakables, but getting beds ready and putting anything remotely dangerous (like the charger for the boat’s VHF radio) out of reach of small hands. We also shopped for kid-friendly food—or at least what the German contingent was used to having—muesli, yogurt, chicken, milk, and (from Uncle Tim) small chocolate Easter treats and hot cross buns. We were expecting them for a late dinner on Friday, to be followed by a day of sailing on Saturday and, weather permitting, more on Sunday.

Ludo was keen to get on Tim’s boat, but Gini was less inclined and so the females were relegated to the beach—not a bad thing given the warm sun and very light breeze; in fact, the weather was a bit too mild, wind-wise, for a good sail. But the boys made the best of it while Gini and I picked stones and small spiral shells from the pebble beach, taking time to clean them in some sea water (with the help of rubber measuring spoons Gini simply had to have from a high street shop). We also spent quiet hours back in the house, much to my surprise; I expected to be run a bit ragged! Gini is quite content playing on her own, perhaps because she has two male siblings who I suspect don’t care to have a tea party with her stuffed friends. I was genuinely amazed at how she managed to find things to both amuse and enjoy—she simply opened drawers and cabinets, collecting bits and bobs. The basting brush, with its lime-green, flexible silicone bristles was a hit. Gini also found pretty Oriental bowls, my small glass sake cups, all of the teaspoons, and two empty plastic milk containers from the morning’s breakfast to set the scene for her afternoon tea.

I worked around her, cleaning up the breakfast dishes, tidying up beds, and doing laundry while Gini rearranged the nested wooden tables for the tea party setting. I cautioned her, nicely, to be careful not to spill water on the wood; she immediately found all the dish towels (I have just three) and used those as tablecloths. When the party was over we headed to the pebble beach and combed through endless rocks for tiny spiral shells and shiny glass bits whose edges were well worn from the sea. We carried the booty back to the kitchen, where Gini set to work washing up all the stones and shells, using generous squirts of antibacterial soap and then putting them out to dry.

And the sailing, it would seem, was successful. Despite a lack of strong wind, the boys did manage to get the sails up and get on with it, though after the first day Ludo did complain that they hadn’t gone fast enough (and fortunately there was a bit more wind for their second outing). I think a good time was had by all, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a return to Cowes and Coh Karek in their future. And, having pouted through the purchase of appropriate deck shoes, Ludo was not willing to give them up at the end of the weekend!

We ended the Easter afternoon after a late lunch of bread and cheese, farmer’s pickle and cold chicken with a long walk uphill to look at the Solent from Castle Road, and then took the winding stairs, half hidden by trees, back down to the beach where rocks were skimmed, seaweed was tossed, and we all gazed contentedly at the sea as sailors returned from their day’s outing back to the harbour. It was a delightful weekend and I was most pleased that the weather stayed warm for our visitors. Gini took some lovely snaps on my mobile phone that I only recently remembered to look at, almost a week later, and I must say they did make me smile in recalling the weekend. Here’s one of Gini’s creations on the beach—quite a good photo!

I have another photo to share with you . . . this from another weekend, before Easter, when Tim and I joined our friends Pauline and Chris to take the annual sonnet walk. The walk is sponsored by Shakespeare’s Globe and is held near his birthday—23 April—each year. (He’d have been 447 this year, born 1564.) We chose the walk that begins at St James’s Park—future site of the beach volleyball when the Olympics come to London in 2012—and winds its way through different areas of the city before ending at the Globe on the Thames Path.

You may recall that last year I was accosted—LOL—by one of the sonneteers who professed his life on bended knee and kissed my hand. Well, Tim was the “God of Love” this year, where many of the female sonneteers chose him from our group of 10 to recite their lines to. And, as with last year, it was wonderful—it was a lovely, warm day filled with sunshine and poetry. We went through several gardens, some of which I didn’t even know existed, in our two-and-a-half-hour walk. We found ourselves at the Embankment Gardens and the Temple, anticipating a sonneteer.

Fourteen lines each, 154 sonnets . . . well, sonnet 99 apparently has 15 lines . . . all lovely when spoken by these actors. They require the delivery of someone who can interpret the phrase, provide some context by their gestures and dress. The sonneteers were all wonderful—a range of ages, all in modern dress, performing to our delight. If you are in London in mid-April, it’s worth the £18 to be a part of it—it’s always quite fun to watch the reaction of onlookers who have no idea what’s going on when suddenly there’s an argument on the street or a woman wearing a bright red tutu-like outfit (albeit under a demure grey coat) sidle up to Tim . . .

. . . notice the smile on his face! ;) (And the onlooker in the background—this is at Victoria Embankment Gardens.)

After the walk we had a lovely, leisurely lunch at Tas Pidi, just off the Thames Path, and caught up with Pauline and Chris—they’d been to Borneo since we last saw them, and we met friends of theirs recently at Taron and Neil’s wedding, so we had lots to chat about. And as if the day wasn’t filled enough, we headed to Soho in the evening for dinner with Tim's brother and his wife at Yauatcha, an upscale Chinese dim sum restaurant that I’d been wanting to try. I was hoping it was a good choice, and it turns out they’d been before though not in years. We ordered several rounds of different dim sum delights and shared across the table, though we let our guest enjoy the chicken feet on her own . . . they didn’t look that unappetising, but, I suspected they’d be bony and wasn’t keen to give it a go. It was all quite good—a bit pricey, as dim sum can be, but given we had two bottles of wine and some sparkly water, the bill was £45 per person and we certainly had our fill. Afterwards we strolled a bit and found ourselves in a pub sharing a bottle of bubbly to continue the evening, with talk of their upcoming trip to China and our developing wedding plans. Always a treat to spend time with them and a good excuse to try a restaurant on the list!

Yes, I did watch the Royal Wedding . . . I honestly hadn’t intended to though I was curious about Kate’s dress. We were in Cowes, where there is no television at Number 12, so Tim headed off to the local pub where it was being shown rugby-style on the large flat-screen TV while I tidied myself up to join him. I arrived just as Kate was leaving the hotel for her trip to the Abbey, and we stayed until their coach pulled into Buck Palace—yes, I declined waiting for the anticipated “kiss” because the commentator said it would be an hour, it was a lovely day in Cowes, and I wanted to walk along the sea, have some lunch, and enjoy the day. I did go to CNN when we returned and watched it . . . or shall I say them . . . and declared them a bit, well, ordinary!

And no, I didn’t get any ideas. I loved Pippa’s elegant dress, far too dressy for The Other Wedding This Year, but quite beautiful. I was imagining Kate in something a bit more modern, rather than “classic,” though the dress was lovely—it flowed beautifully and while I was originally pouting about the train, well, it wasn’t outrageous. I had to laugh when I went on Facebook later in the day and read a few comments about how Alexander McQueen would have never designed something so . . . well, I saw the word “ugly” used. Frankly, I’d envisioned something a bit more updated, fitted at the waist and then in a mermaid-style silhouette . . . but then I had to shake myself back into reality—this is the Royal Family, LOL!

I enjoyed it, I did; I didn’t cry, but I oohed and aahed at the event; what splendid pageantry. The coaches were gorgeous. The crowds were wild! There is nothing like this in America; it is a pure, true, British phenomenon, and I was glad that I did in fact perch on a bar stool with a Buck’s Fizz (aka a Mimosa, courtesy of the Fountain Inn) to celebrate the occasion.

Yes, I know you want to know: the drink is named after London's Buck's Club where it was invented as an excuse to begin drinking early, and first served, by one of its barmen, McGarry, in 1921. The Mimosa cocktail, invented four years later in Paris, also contains sparkling wine and orange juice albeit in equal measures to each other. (Thank you, Wikipedia.)

In the evening our neighbours Wendy and Walter threw a small party, just steps from our back door, which were were delighted to attend. Our friends Kim and Mark (also Contessa owners) were coming, and I wanted to meet some of my neighbours whom I’ve seen but not spoken to. It was quite fun—Walter was busy chatting and carrying around three or so bottles at a time to top up his guests’ pleasure—prosecco, rose, etc—while Wendy offered trays of finger food. She finally relaxed for a few minutes to sit with Kim and me and talk about the wedding—we all agreed that Kate’s brother James did a wonderful reading, that Pippa outshone her sister in some ways, and that Eugenia and Beatrice looked a bit out of place where their oversized fascinators (which is what those silly hat-like ornaments are called) and odd outfits, looking a bit bored with mouths slightly opened as they sat behind the Queen.

We did have our own pre-wedding excitement, Tim and I: a trip to the town hall to officially announce our intention to marry to the registrar. Having secured my Certificate of Approval from the Home Office (which, by the way, will no longer be required come mid-May), Tim and I had to bring the certificate to the town hall and be interviewed—separately—by a registrar before they’d let us tie the knot. The questions weren’t difficult—partner’s full name, current marital status, and relationship to self (which should be none)—more just a formality for us, and to ensure someone will show up on the date at the appropriate venue and time and help us exchange vows and sign the register. For £400. We were both a bit shocked by the fee for what is essentially 20 minutes of work on a late Saturday afternoon for the registrar—the cost of renting the town hall is separate. Having said that, Tim still whipped out a debit card and paid . . . ahh, true love has no cost! So, it looks like we’re going through with the plan. Next big purchase: appropriate attire. I have a few ideas from browsing on line at a few designer (NOT wedding) shops.

It’s the Sunday of the second four-day weekend here in Britain (Easter having been the first, with Good Friday and Easter Monday being “bank” holidays) and I’m getting ready to take a long, leisurely walk while Tim and Dominic are out giving Coh Karek her final run before she races next week at Itchenor—sans its captain: we’re off to America for a trip to Texas to visit with David and his family, and then continuing with a whirlwind five-city, five-day drive across 1142 miles of the great west to see the Grand Canyon at sunset, the Rat Pack’s hang out in Vegas, Death Valley at dusk, Yosemite at sunrise, and, finally, the Golden Gate Bridge. About 20 hours of driving, averaging five each day. I promise to write; the question is, will it be during, or after?

I hadn’t planned on bringing a computer . . . but I will at least jot down the highlights and post some photos and commentary as soon as I can. We have a new camera to capture the sights, a rented Oldsmobile Alero queued in Phoenix where we start the journey, and, with any luck, good weather and smooth sailing ahead.

Until the next time, then, enjoy the longer, warmer days and the cool nights that remind us it’s still spring, though the May flowers are blooming and we anticipate those lazy, hazy days not far off in the future.

Shall I leave you with a sonnet? Well, perhaps just a few lines:

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date . . .

You can find them all, with wonderful explanations of the meaning of the sometimes obtuse language, here. Do enjoy.

2011-04-09T07:22:00.000-07:00

I'm feeling introspective. I stood in front of the window, looking out at Market Hill--dark, quiet--and asked myself, for no particular reason, "how did I get here?"

I don't know what surfaced the question. Perhaps it was a note from a colleague who knew I was soon to be headed to Northern California and, would we be able to catch up? Or maybe it was writing a note to Karyn, back in New Jersey, about trying to talk this weekend--Karyn is the catalyst for having met Tim (she is married to Tim's cousin, Pat). Or maybe it was just getting lost in the moment of being here, and here being in Cowes, on the Isle of Wight, in my little slice of heaven, wondering how I am so privileged to be here. Now. Today. Happy.

We alll have those moments. I think it's why Twitter is so popular. The moment may not necessarily be an epiphany, but it's a personal realisation that has weight; it feels special, important. You want to first hold it close, like a prized possession, but then you're ready to share it with the world.

I will admit to having many of those moments on a double-decker bus--moments of simple, pure joy. Sometimes it's a moment of recollection--a twinge of sadness, or a bit of longing. I can't expect to have lived in another country for most of my life and not occasionally ache for it. It's fleeting; by the time the bus has crossed Waterloo Bridge I'm generally taking a deep breath and thinking about the wonder of my life here in London.

I've discovered that a must-see view is from the Number 4 as it approaches St Paul's Cathedral. It is a beautiful, breathtaking, unobstructed view. In the early evening, especially in the spring when the sky just feels darker, well, it has made an impression that I will not ever forget, no matter where this life takes me.

Welcome, then, to my blog. It's a lot like that (above). My old site is being taken off line at the end of April and I needed to find a new space, and here I am. Welcome back, I ought to say, for some of you--it is a warm feeling to know that I have regular readers who follow me through London and beyond, eating and drinking and traveling and visiting museums and theatre and occasionally pausing with some history lesson or musing between paragraphs that form the chapters of my life.

I am sitting in my most favourite place at home in Cowes watching the sailboats that partcipated in the Nab Tower offshore race return, dodging the humongous Red Funnel car ferry and the smaller but still daunting Red Jet high-speed passenger boat. It's a cool, windy day--great for the sailors, but a bit too chilly to sit for long waterside. I was out earlier taking my usual stroll on the Esplanade toward Gurnard, expecting to and in fact running into Senay and her two children--her husband David is out with Tim on Coh Karek sailing to Gosport to get her measured for racing. Senay's daughter Bo is the third hand on deck--she's not that keen to sail, but she gamely borrowed my waterproofs and is hopefully enjoyinig herself a little. I declined to go--a bit too windy and cold for my thin-skinned self; I want my first outing on Coh Karek to be memorable not for the wrong reasons! The sailing season has just started; there will be plenty of outings to choose from.

It has been a blisfully uneventful period since my last blog, which you can find here if you're so inclined. Work has been incredibly busy, but my social calendar has been mostly quiet outside of the now regular tennis game with Sarah on Mondays and lesson on Tuesdays. I did have a wonderful reunion on the 29th of March with a university friend, Laura, who was in London for a single day and carved out three hours for us to have an early dinner, having last seen each other--Facebook excluded--about 30 years ago.

Friends, it was wonderful. I saw Laura approaching and she saw me, and I thaink we both put our hands up to our cheeks in sheer delight and surprise at having pulled it off. She hasn't changed at all--truly; I looked at her and suddenly felt all of my wrinkles. No matter. There was hardly a pause in the next three hours of conversation to catch each other up with our lives--she with three kids and still married to Butch, whom she started dating when we were at NYU. Me, well, some conversation around third time lucky and the joys of living in London and exploring Europe. As we headed back to the Eurostar to send her back to Paris, we flagged a young woman to take our photograph only to discover that Laura's camera had run out of battery. I whipped out my mobile and, naturally, the memory was full--the young lady was patient while I deleted two photographs to make room for one.

Hours within posting the photo on Facebook came comments from the rest of the girls--Haydee, Mabel, Angela--about how wonderful it was that we were able to meet. There is a reunion of our group--Alpha Phi Delta--in June, but I don't think I'll make it; with so much other activity between now and The Wedding (and I don't mean Kate and Wills), stealing a weekend is unlikely. But you know what? That's fine--I am happy to have had the opportunity to see Laura and I'm certain we'll all stay in touch via Facebook--you may not embrace social media, but I must say it was Facebook that helped reconnect Laura and me, and I am truly happy for that.

I think I'll close here; I've been saying for the longest time to myself that I should write less and more often, rather than trying to carve out hours to play catch up--perhaps this is the start of something different. I find that I can do "different" well--well, at least I'm not afraid to try. Wishing you wind in your sails.