Thankful for . . .

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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"!