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"!