Great. Expectations.

I’m reading Great Expectations again, having had my interest reawakened in the wonderful Dickens novel as I tried (and failed—twice, having started too late in the evening on consecutive Thursdays—) to watch a BBC show that discussed some of Dickens’ rewrites, including a second, more bleak ending. Dickens and Austen are two authors who I can read over and over again, and it had been awhile since I pulled a Dickens paperback from the shelf.

And what a while! I found a bit of unexpected ephemera—a monthly rail ticket for April 1991 for Kingsland station, on the Main line of New Jersey Transit. When I lived in Lyndhurst I would take the train to work in NYC, then at 11 Penn Plaza, just across from Madison Square Garden. I must say the ticket gave me pause—it is 23 years old, dated the 13^th of March and stamped with a fee of $95. The ticket would only get me as far as Hoboken, New Jersey, and then I’d have to pick up the PATH service to the office in midtown Manhattan. These days you can get through to NYC, and the fare to Hoboken is actually cheaper now than it was in 1991—just $89. That was certainly unexpected.

Perhaps more predictable was how it started me thinking about that time of my life. I was 30, married, and living in a condominium, the proud “parent” of a fluffy black kitten called Mirepoix (some of you may remember she migrated to the UK in her very late teens). I quite liked working in the city; it made it easy to go to the Met for opera, which I loved then and still do, or see friends in bands who had gigs at places like Inkwell in Greenwich Village (which still exists, and Rina still plays on), or have a beer after work at the local bar, O’Reilly’s. Oh my. A flood of memories held in a single, small rectangle of a ticket that floated out when I opened the pages to begin reacquainting myself with Pip and Magwitch.

In fact am still working for the same parent company. I am still in touch with wonderful colleagues from that era, though many have moved on to other places and other adventures completely different than what they were doing in 1991. Some of us have changed partners, or cities, or both, LOL. What haven’t changed are the ties that bind.

The original manuscript of Great Expectations, by the way, is held at the Wisbech and Fenland Museum near Peterborough. In fact, you can visit with it any Saturday; given I am still wanting to see Catherine of Aragon buried at Peterborough Cathedral, I sense a double-header in Tim’s and my future!

What I do recall of the BBC programme was the sheer size of the manuscript’s volume—like a huge dictionary, and of course all handwritten with the usual blots of ink and scratches. Does anyone still write in long hand these days? The woman in the BBC programme donned gloves to carefully turn the page, much to the delight of the host and those of us watching. What a remarkable thing to see in person; I suppose those days are long behind us as we hunt and peck and click Save!

Speaking of Dickens, Tim and I recently saw Simon Callow, a British national treasure, at the Isle of Wight Literary Festival. Callow was there to talk about Dickens’ “other” career in the theatre. Apparently Dickens was a compulsive performer who was obsessed with the stage, so much so that Callow suggests the passion led him to an early grave. I haven’t read Callow’s book, nor did we queue up for a signed copy, and I’ll admit I was disappointed that Callow didn’t mention Great Expectations in his forty-minute monologue to the crowd that gathered at St Mary’s Church, Cowes, to hear him. In fact I had this odd moment of thinking, well, I’ve just started re-reading this book, could I possibly be having a senior moment and it’s written by someone else? PS my fellow Americans, Callow had a part in Four Weddings and A Funeral. He played Gareth . . . yeah, I didn’t remember him either!

Speaking of the IOW Literary Festival, well, there was an unexpected pleasure! This was the festival’s third year, and the first that Tim and I were able to make it to the IOW to join the fun. We chose four speakers—Callow, Monisha Rajesh, Tristram Hunt, and David Barrie. (I know, who?) Monisha has written a novel about her four-month journey travelling the India railways, and she was quite articulate and engaging. Afterwards I asked her what her next adventure would be, and she confided it would be around the world, and in a longer period than four months! I think rail is a wonderful way to see any country, and someday I do hope to see some of India the way Monisha did, but with a more reliable companion . . . I know Tim would like to return to India, so watch this space. Tristram’s novel focuses on ten cities that made the British Empire; Boston, and its Tea Party, is one of them. Barrie’s novel, entitled Sextant, provides the history behind the instrument that offshore navigators used in very unchartered waters before the advent of GPS.  The topic was probably nearest and dearest to the audience of Cowes—a sailor’s town if nothing else—and there was a small show of hands when Barrie asked how many had actually used a sextant, my handsome husband being one of them. I quite enjoyed Barrie’s discussion of celestial navigation and liked his way of presenting and speaking; Tristram was probably a bit more lecture-y, but no less fascinating—I think it’s the politician in him!

How thoroughly enjoyable the festival was, spending some time on the IOW and seeing some familiar faces in the small and appreciative literati at the venues that held most of the 100+ authors, poets, etc. I quite liked that there were sessions for young adults as well as the rest of us. I will endeavour to keep my calendar free for next year’s event, and pop into a few more talks.

Shifting to a London weekend, what a wonderful November weekend Tim and I spent navigating through London, sans sextant but with GPS in hand, first to see the ceramic poppies gracing the moat at the Tower of London and onward to the LEGO exhibit by the American artist Nathan Sawaya at the Old Truman Brewery on Brick Lane followed by a browse through Spitafields Market. (Even a tried-and-true Londoner like Tim occasionally needs to glance at a map!) 

I wanted to see the poppies for weeks, but we hadn't been in London, and come the 11^th the last would be laid to commemorate the lives lost in the first World War and then would be removed. You can’t help but take in just a bit of breath as you approach; in the sunlight the moat is a stunning shade of red against the backdrop of the dramatic Tower of London. And of course there is the solemnity that comes with the meaning of why volunteers are “planting” each of these 888,246 poppies. A pause, a silent prayer.

I am so glad to have seen it, and frankly a bit surprised at how easy it was to make our way to the gate and spend a minute or two to commit the moment to memory and then leave to let the next person have a place at the gate.

The rain on Sunday almost kept us home, but we braved it to travel by bus (front and centre on the 38, of course) to the Royal Academy to see two very different exhibitions—one of a relatively unknown Italian Renaissance artist called Giovanni Moroni, and the other of a German artist, Anselm Kiefer.

Moroni had the wonderful gift of painting very realistic portraits; I found most of his work pleasing and detailed, particularly his depiction of the lustrous fabrics of the women who sat for him and the aristocratic faces, gazing directly at you, in astounding detail.

Kiefer, on the other hand, is a bit more abstract. Clearly influenced by being brought up after the war being born in March of 1945, his works are dark, foreboding, huge floor-to-ceiling canvases that filled great walls in the galleries. While I would not have chosen to see his work if it were not exhibited in the same venue, I will admit there were a few that gave me pause, like his very un-Gogh sunflowers: black, stark, brooding. I could not help but think how this young boy’s experience in war-ravaged Germany may well have made him obsessed with blackness and gloom.

 What can I say? London, always an unexpected pleasure.

I may not find the time to post again until after what I expect will be a lovely visit “home” soon. It is the first time I will be back in New Jersey with my family for Thanksgiving since 2008. I am sure there will be an abundance of laughter and a share of tears, reminiscing for hours on end; quiet talks and boisterous meals; furtive smiles across the table that say how so very happy it is to be in this moment. It’s all those things I am particularly longing for, and most grateful for with my family, in what has always been an introspective time of the year for me.

Great expectations? Loads. After all, it’s been a while since Robyn and I have revisited the same memory and not needed to finish the sentence before we both burst out laughing, knowing exactly what the other meant to say. It never fails to confound others who can only shake their heads at our one-mindedness.

 You can only imagine how I am counting the days.

"Pilots"

It’s not what you think.

“Pilots” is what Tim calls Pilates, so when I arrive home after a session he’ll ask me “how was Pilots?” It’s usually a lot better than flying—there is a bounce in my step when I leave the class and head toward the bus--yet I have to admit I struggle with the routines that require balance. I have none.

Coordination has always been a slight issue for me. I’m the one who walks along and for no particular reason turns her ankle. I recently fell up the stairs at the office (fortunately no one saw me) and skinned my knee. At my age! I (somewhat fondly) recall walking along West Side Avenue in Jersey City with my two sisters and for absolutely no reason at all finding myself on the pavement on all fours rather than the standard two while a gentleman walks by and says “Hello ladies!” Robyn and I still use that line decades later. I laughed then, I’m sure, and I still laugh now, but gosh I wish I could manage one of the exercises with a bit more . . . grace.

Put all of your weight on your right leg. Go ahead. Now, when you’re ready, put the toes of your left leg on your right knee. If you need to, extend your arms or place hands on hips. Are you there yet? Now, move your toes from their position on your right leg to first point forward, and then make a circle around to the back and come back to the starting position, toes on knee. No touching the floor with those toes!

Oh, by the way, that’s the easy one.

After the second or third session I walked up to Amanda and asked for advice on maintaining my balance. She suggested I try different positions with my arms to help me gain my balance . . . and practice. No doubt good advice, but months later I’m still on the fourth rep while everyone else is switching weight to their other leg. And she’s kicked it up a notch with more challenging exercises because we’re a more advanced class.

I’ve tried arms akimbo, arms straight out, arms like I’m flying. Nothing seems to keep me stable long enough to get through the reps. When I’m at the photocopier at work waiting for my copies to spit out I practice. And I don’t give up in class; I touch my toes to the mat and start again while Amanda steps the rest of the class through eight reps and then switches legs. She executes perfectly, and while I do notice a few wobblers in the room, everyone seems to manage with the occasional toe tap to the mat. 

How do they do it?

There’s some science to it, of course—inner ear and vision both play parts in stability, I read. I can try to focus on a stable object in front of me (I tend to look at Amanda and try to mimic her, silly me) or I can try to close my eyes, though that feels risky as I suspect I may find myself back on all fours hearing the voice from the past greeting “Hello Ladies!” before I have time to catch myself.

Fortunately the balance routines are only a small part of the workout Amanda has for us, and it changes every four weeks. I quite like the class, which I started earlier this year to strengthen my core and stretch my muscles to keep that occasional sciatic pain at bay, and only miss a session when I’m working through a pizza in Italy or kayaking in Mecklenburg. At least I can get that balance somewhat right!

One of the things I like about this Pilates programme is that it’s all very low-key; the classes are held in school halls and not Pilates studios (and the difference in cost is amazing--£7 a session to £30 and up in London). I can attend any session on any day of the week outside my usual near Angel station, as long as I email the coordinator so the instructor knows to expect me. I’d say I’m probably near the oldest in the group who go to the Tuesday class, and by far the oldest in the Monday session which is near Old Street where everyone else is under 30; must be the neighbourhood. We all wear tee-shirts (mine is often the one provided free from the company who sponsors the classes) and some sort of athletic trousers (Lycra favours heavily except for me) and sport ankle socks. I have to admit when I first started I thought I might have to spend on athletic gear because I didn’t really have much, but my tennis socks are fine, the tee shirt was a nice bonus and I have a couple of pairs of ¾ or full-length stretchy bottoms that I don’t use for tennis (mostly because they don’t have enough pockets). 

And I fit right in—no one comes to the session dressed in high-tech gear and it’s a lot of the same outfit as last time . . . in fact last week one of the women showed up in mismatched socks, which Amanda said she quite liked and to which the woman replied that neither partner could be found after the last wash.

We can choose to place our mat anywhere we want in the large room which is generally devoid of furniture except the Old Street “studio” which has a baby grand piano tucked in one corner. I usually choose the back row (there are usually two, as classes are held to 10-12 participants) so less people are noticing my toe-tapping, arm-flailing balancing woes. Those of us who are regulars have sort of fallen into a pattern of where we choose to unroll our mat (or in my case, mats—the floors are wooden and the mats are thin; I did it at Amanda’s suggestion and have started a trend, LOL). 

There’s sometimes a bit of chit chat before the session begins—about missing the last class or having a substitute teacher when Amanda goes home to Trieste for holiday. We tend to say hello to each other or smile, though we don’t actually know each other’s names (certainly I don’t) and we don’t hang around and shoot the breeze after class—it’s generally a brief greeting to Amanda and then we all file out the door, some heading toward parked cars and the rest of us in scattered directions.

I don’t mind that, though I’ll admit I’m surprised—you’d likely be amazed at how friendly London is. Last week at the end of the session one of the women remarked how relaxed she feels after the class, to which I agreed, and then asked which bus I was taking; I guess she’d noticed me hopping one previously. Still we didn’t introduce ourselves and we wound up taking different buses, cheerily saying see you next week.

I’m tempted to peek at how well she maintains her balance and solicit advice!  No, no, must look forward at an immovable object . . . ! 

Planes, Strains, and Autobahns

I am still a bit bewildered when I look at the calendar and see that it’s . . . September? When did that happen? It was just July and we were enjoying a brilliant summer in London.

Perhaps August whizzed by because it was crammed with “stuff,” and don’t we always say that time flies when you’re busy (and having fun)?

This year I skipped most of the August Cowes Week activities—I joined the fun for the first weekend, attending a champagne party here, a dinner there, drinks at the pub . . . but diligently went back to work in London on Monday. Come Friday Tim was back in town and in the early morning we headed to the airport to fly to Hamburg, day-trip through Lübeck, and then drive through the northeast German countryside to meet with some of the family in Schönhausen. Facebook friends would have seen our selfie at the Holsten Gate in Travemünde, a lovely sea resort just outside Lübeck. The gate dates back to 1478, and had a rather “appalling” lean (so says the city’s website) until recent repair works.

And the churches, of course. St. Catherine’s. Lübeck Cathedral. St. Peter’s. St. Jacob’s. All lovely. In Rostock we wandered into St.Mary's where one of the oldest astronomical clocks is still ticking--since 1472 and with its original clockworks. The medieval clock has a calendar which is valid until 2017.

Astronomical clock in Rostock.

We decided on a quick lunch at Travemünde, having found our way to the fish pier where several market stalls were showing the day’s wares. I had a lovely hot-smoked salmon while Tim managed a large helping of prawns pouring out of a roll before heading to the schloss. The building is an old farmhouse on Lake Hauser, and we were treated to the holiday loft, a 200 sqm apartment with beautiful views of the lake from all the large, front-facing windows. We joked that the kitchen alone was the size of one of the floors of the house in London, but honestly, it was no joke! It made for wonderful meals arranged and/or cooked by any number of guests, including a special morning of “pancakes” made by the eldest nephew which were delicious! I tended to stick with setting the table and clearing the plates, as too many cooks . . . Evenings found us relaxing together in the 40 sqm dining hall (because room isn’t quite the right description) deciding what to do the next day.

Dinner is served! Great view of the lake.

Many of the days were spent exploring the lakes, rowing, kayaking, swimming, and otherwise taking in the lovely scenery and then having a hearty lunch at a nearby pub. Having not rowed or kayaked in ages, I took some instruction from Tim so we could take turns going up and down the lake . . . it can be quite hard work! (I just looked down at the thumb on my right hand to see whether I could still spot the area where the blister was—now just a faded red circle.) The children enjoyed the swimming and I noticed that most of the time the parents were doing the paddling . . .

I was so pleased to take a day trip to Stettin, also known as Szczecin, with them. When we rented our car in Hamburg we were told we would not be insured if we drove across the border to Poland (apparently too much thievery) and so we piled in the family car and headed east to a city first mentioned in history in the first century. More recently it was one of the birthplaces of the famous Solidarity movement.

I wasn’t surprised by the city as we entered—it looked urban and gritty, with some run-down buildings and graffiti among the more well-kept surroundings. It probably didn’t help that it was a grey, wet day. In fact it was raining when we arrived. Tipping down.

Tim in Sczczecin; note M in background!

Having found a place to park we started our journey, only to be temporarily sidelined as the rain got heavier. We all tumbled into a bookstore and browsed while waiting for the rain to let up a bit. Tim bought some postcards and a map of things to do in the area, and our next trip between the raindrops was to the nearby post office to send the cards on their way. I was excited to write on the cards that I was in Poland, my first trip to the country where both sides of my family have history. (I keep thinking I ought to find the time to do the ancestral research . . . one of these days.)

Szczecin is still a busy port city, and we did walk around and followed the map, spotting key landmarks near the Odra (aka Oder) while keeping an eye out for a place to have a traditional Polish meal for lunch.  There weren’t many other tourists, despite the fact that there is an airport with flights direct from London, Berlin, and Warsaw. But I didn’t mind the lack of crowds, and when the sun came out it was really lovely—some of that original gritty feel seemed to have disappeared, and the city was green and pretty.

And we did find a lovely restaurant and wine bar called Bachus where the staff spoke English and the pierogi were delicious! I took a picture of the menu, printed in three languages, but needn’t have bothered as they have a website. Who doesn’t these days, eh?

Waiting for the water to spout!

On another day Tim and I took a short trip to Stralsund where we wandered along cobbled streets filled with medieval churches and lovely architecture, and then took a ringside seat at the fountains in the old market square with St Nicholas Church across for a wonderful view for lunch. Children would rush up at the small geysers of water in the middle of the square and then giggle with delight and run away; occasionally an unbeknownst tourist would wander too close as the water spouted up, setting off laughter from onlookers. It was a lovely way to spend a few hours in the afternoon.

Before leaving we drove to the island of Rügen to see the white chalk cliffs, but alas missed the last bus to get there. The city is lovely, very much a posh seaside resort; I’ve only just learned that the beaches are mainly clothes-free.  (I have also discovered that in this part of Germany, that’s pretty acceptable anywhere, including the lakes we visited). Your history lesson for today, then, from National Geographic: these ancient structures are made nearly entirely of the skeletons of calcite-covered plankton called coccolithophores, deposited by the trillions during the Cretaceous period. Sediments like these actually give the Cretaceous its name: Creta means "chalk" in Latin.

I’ll admit I didn’t drive on the autobahn. It’s scary. Tim, a most admirable driver, was happy cruising along at 180 kph (112 mph) and had to often head into the “slow” lane to make room for cars coming up quickly behind at something closer to 220 kph (136 mph). For most of the highways in Germany there is no federally-controlled speed limit, though in some urban areas limits are posted. Anyway, I didn’t feel left out . . . speed is not something I’m keen on.  Give me 50 mph on the Isle of Wight where I can round the curves gently (often not seeing what’s coming) and I’m happy; that’s enough thrill for me!

We didn’t stay put long once we returned home, as we spent the bank holiday in Cambridge and St Neots visiting wonderful friends who recently moved to the area. I had not been to Cambridge before, and now having seen both major university towns—Oxford being the other—Cambridge is my favourite. The area has a less crowded, more picturesque feel to it than Oxford, with lovely architecture, green spaces, and of course the punting along the Cam. We paid our pound each to wander through one of the quads, at Trinity College, and also strolled through Pembroke, home to the first chapel of Christopher Wren (educated at Oxford) who you may recall created a few architectural wonders  such as St Paul’s in London and the Royal Naval College, along with rebuilding 52 other churches in London after the great fire.

Student at Pembroke. NOT.

One nice treat was finding Harriet’s Tea Room down one of the cobbled streets in Cambridge, just in time to get a lovely table by the window to watch the world go by and have some tea and lunch. The highlight of the weekend, however, was staying with Leah and Andrew at their lovely new home in St Neots, about 20 miles west of Cambridge. We spent the weekend eating, chatting, Skyping with their parents (whom we’ve met), playing Trivial Pursuit (where Leah managed to get all the pies ahead of us, but it was close) and taking in an air show in nearby Little Gransden. Andrew barbequed his Aussie heart out, with piri piri chicken, steak fresh from the farm, and two kinds of fish perfectly timed on the outdoor grill while Leah made delicious salads of all sorts, with guacamole and mango and beans (not all in the same salad). Tim and I got to simply sit back and enjoy it all! In the morning they took us to a local farm where we had a lovely breakfast with a view, and bought some delicious bread and some wild birdseed to take back to London.

The air show was a hit with all of us, though I suspect more for the boys, who would occasionally talk between them about Lancasters and Mustangs and Spitfires. After walking through the crowd and taking a slightly closer look at some of the planes that were to fly later that day we found a space big enough to alternately sit and stand during the show, which featured a bit of aerobatics along with flybys of some of the well-known aircraft from the war. I quite liked the small planes trying to break helium-filled balloons or ducking under the wire, limbo style. The show raises money for a charity called Children in Need, which I think is wonderful.

Note to Tim: we missed the Vulcan, but you can check it out here.

Lancasters? Mustangs?

The last week in August had me visiting a dear friend in Lingfield for dinner and a catch-up with her sister in town from Munich—lovely homemade soup and schnitzel, Birgit—a true treat for a weeknight! We also had the pleasure of Tim’s mum for company in London, which means a bit of music and dinner on the town. We caught the talented Belmont Ensemble for a candlelit evening of Vivaldi, Bach, and Mozart which was delightful; St Martin-in-the-Fields is a terrific venue for music. I am always so enraptured by violinists and the magnificent strains they can evoke from their instruments; it’s one thing to hear it on the radio, and quite another to watch the musician angle her bow and release strains of soft, lyrical sounds or bracing vibrations. (I say “her” but should say that there was one gentleman among the eight violinists.) We began the evening with dinner in the Crypt, which I always find a good, simple and very convenient choice before a concert there—not a long menu, but never have I not been able to find something I like.

And so it was with J Sheekey, on the agenda for a birthday celebration of the eldest Mrs D. My first trip to this well-known oyster bar and restaurant in Covent Garden, I expected it to be crowded and was not surprised when the couple sitting next to me had American accents. I smiled when I overheard them wondering what courgettes are, and decided to lean over and tell them these are zucchini, to which they were delighted to hear and promptly ordered.(We then moved tables so I don’t know if they met expectation!) I had the tuna tartare to start and a lovely square of hake for dinner, both of which were delicious. I half thought to have oysters, but I’m a bit picky when it comes to them and kumamotos weren’t on order . . . I think I need a trip to Elliott Bay.

We also took a trip to the Imperial War Museum, now artfully known as the IWM, where we went to see an exhibition called Truth and Memory, exhibiting paintings and sculpture from the First World War.  Across three galleries, there is evocative art to suit many tastes—some abstract, some large and imposing. My very favourite, the piece that gave me pause, is one called Youth Mourning, produced in 1916 by George Clausen. Sixteen million military and civilian deaths . . . and here, in this painting, the pain of one woman who lost someone is so exquisitely captured. I’ll let you in on a secret; perhaps it’s the real reason why this piece resonates with me—it is the pose, that very same pose I found myself in seven Augusts ago.

And the world moves on. The summer is declared “over” in England and school is back in session. I don’t believe it; I predict an Indian summer where there will be at least one more evening in the garden with a glass of rosé and a handsome man across the table from me, and we’ll chat about each other’s day’s efforts and decide what time to have dinner.

Yes, I think that will be a perfect way to spend some of September. The dahlias are still blooming, after all.

Summertime

If I had to choose which of the seven summers have been the best I’ve had in London, weather-wise, I think the summer of 2014 wins hands down -- and it's only mid-August!

The summers can be brief and forgettable here; I fondly recall sitting with Robyn and Jimmy in Covent Garden in the summer of 2008 with button-down sweaters pulled over our shoulders and scarves round our necks waiting for the rain to abate, sipping cappuccinos. That was a fine summer, perhaps ranking second of seven; it was only August that was a bit rubbish. But oh how glorious the last few weeks have been this year—I dare use the word “hot” to describe some of these last few weeks. Septembers are lovely, in general . . . something to look forward to, fingers crossed.

Street art!

London in the summer is great to do things out of doors; I recently went to an Alternative London walking tour with colleagues on what started as a cloudy day that morphed from cloudy with a chance of rain into a beautiful, hot (there it is again) sunny afternoon. Now, I have done some of the London Walks and both of the Shakespeare walks sponsored by the Globe, and have found them fascinating primarily for the guides' knowledge of the city, the architecture, the history, etc. Our guide for the alternative walk was sadly a bit too self-promoting and political . . .  he spent more time telling us about his websites and who he knows than about the streets in east London we strolled down. That was a disappointment. 

Then again, Alternative London walks are meant to be “free”--you show up and if you want at the end of the walk you are asked to give a small donation (the recommendation is £5) to the guide. To be fair, our guide was quite knowledgeable about the street artists--Roa, Jonesy, Banksy (“don’t pronounce it Bansky”), etc--and had some knowledge of the history of the area and how it has been gentrified over the years. I just expected more of what the other walks were like; I should have realised that it was billed as "alternative" for a reason! At a certain point I just disengaged my brain from his blather and took in the art and enjoyed the stroll through Shoreditch and Spitafields, east London way.

The day got even better as we went to a nearby traditional Punjabi restaurant called Tayyab’s in Whitechapel for a team meal after the walk. It was a late lunch, 2:30 pm, and we started in the usual style for Indian food with poppadoms for all and a mixed grill (think a lot of meat). Frankly that would have been enough, but there were mains to come. I was happy that I'd ordered a small king prawn dish; even that was a minor struggle to finish (and thankfully wasn't more meat)! By the end of the meal everyone looked a bit . . . stuffed. There were even some leftovers going home. And I can see why the place is quite popular--our walking tour guide was recommending it as the best Indian in London--as the food was perfectly cooked, delicately spiced, and quite tasty. I’d offered to buy a round of drinks at a nearby pub for the team, but only half joined; the other half limped away holding their tums.

 

Mixed grill at Tayyab's.

The visit to Tayyab's had me recalling another recent adventure with food in Richmond, just west of London. Imagine numerous small plates from a menu the chef chooses (and doesn’t share) that begins when you arrive (which for us was 7:30 pm) and culminates at 9:45 pm with something spectacular--in our case a whole roast pig brought out to the cramped dining room for all of us to admire. Yes, there was clapping and picture taking.

I paced myself, knowing what to expect at Al Boccon di'vino ("a divine mouthful"). The menu is meant to be Venetian, but having never been to a Venetian wedding feast I wasn't entirely sure what would be presented; I was hoping for a bit of fish. The parma ham and melon was a wonderful starter for a warm evening. I recall a grilled eggplant followed by a trio of mouthfuls of baked aubergine, meatball, and a fat but tender asparagus sprinkled with cheese. There was a scallop and a king prawn in red sauce. A delightful beef carpaccio on salad drizzled with truffle oil followed. Two pastas, one with mascarpone cheese, made their way to the table. All this and two bottles of red wine before the main event. (I suspect I may have even missed detailing a course—perhaps there was a white fish?!)

I had a bit of room left for the pork, served with roasted potatoes. I was disappointed to find the potato a bit too salty to enjoy—truly my only complaint of the evening. The pork was lovely, moist and less innocuous on the plate than its earlier presentation. Until one of the guests requested some crispy bits. She was presented with the head on a platter.

Oink!

Did I mention dessert? A lovely pannacotta. I am not a dessert person, but did give it a go, and it was lovely and silky as you would expect it to be. The limoncello to finish was, however, more than I could manage . . . that and at 10:45 pm with our last direct train back to North London in under 20 minutes, Tim and I decided to take the much needed walk back to the overground.

Was it very good? Absolutely. And the food, if I recall correctly, is not outrageously priced. The wine, of course, depends on what you choose. The hostess, Simona (apparently a Romanian and not a Venetian), will tell you she has bottles for £25, £40, £50 and above, and will gladly give her opinion if you ask. These are displayed all around the small, dimly-lit restaurant, but again, no list to choose from. We started on the low end and enjoyed the house red, then moved to something a bit more pricey that was good but not that much better than the first, and finished with something back under £40. 

Certainly a place to try, but perhaps not to re-visit all that often. After all, there are a lot of wonderful food choices in or just outside London . . . and this is more of a food “experience” to bring people to than a place to dine regularly.

And what will the rest of this London summer bring? Well some time away from London, to Germany, and as ever a bit of time on the Isle of Wight. It's Cowes Week and I've left Tim and the crew at Number 12 to enjoy the revelry. I was only mildly worried when Tim mentioned a BBQ, given his history (recalling again, fondly, the summer of 2008 when I was serving tea to the fire brigade at 3 am after a small fire from a BBQ the previous evening ignited the ivy at the back of the garden). 

Fortunately no repeat performance! 

Listen up!

Waking up this morning, I was reminded how much I like the sound of rain. Not the pitter patter of drops against the window, but the other sound . . . do you know what I mean? There’s a certain low, persistent cadence, perhaps a collective of the raindrops coursing through the air. A bit of white noise. I don’t know how better to explain it; I only know I hear it, therefore it exists, and it soothes me.

This morning it was particularly noticeable; the house still, just me trying to sleep in a bit. Tim is away at a training course until this afternoon, so there was no one breathing quietly and dreaming beside me. I like getting up early when I’m on my own; Tim’s mum would say something along the lines of not missing the best part of the day. I’ll admit I was actually disappointed that it was softly drizzling; I wanted to make coffee and have it in the garden, having spent a very brief time between returning home from visiting my friend Kate in Chesham (which was brilliant—beautiful day, great conversation) and watching the World Cup at 9 pm. Fortunately it was light and warm when I did get home, and I was able to do a bit of weeding and tidying. And yes, I wanted to pause and admire my handiwork with a cuppa!

I did open the French doors to let the air in, and stood in the doorway with my coffee, watching the rain fall and bounce off the leaves of the awning of rose branches. A few yellowing tongues from the palm tree near the doors caught my eye, and so secauters in hand I went out in the light rain and trimmed. And paused. And barely felt the rain, it was so soft. It was lovely. I walked down the short path and decided to pluck a rose, drooping heavily with the evening’s rain, to put in a vase on the table.

 No one in sight, no noise but that sound of the gentle rain.

Sounds. Noise. Talk. I’ve been exposed to a lot of chatter about listening of late. It’s mostly been work related but it has had crossover to life outside the nine to five. I attended an enlightening workshop given by Dick Mullender, a former Metropolitan Police officer who spent years in hostage negotiation. What was wthe key takeaway? You need to listen (and mostly to the rambling, where key words often emerge) and not ask questions. The 150+ of us in the room all left with our new Plan B – to be a hostage negotiator! (Sixteen people got a chance to try out their skills—I didn’t volunteer—and I think all of them found it tremendously hard.) Shortly after I was introduced to a book called The Chimp Paradox. Seriously. In one sentence, the premise is that we all have an inner chimp, five times faster than our human brain, that we can learn to nurture and control before it blurts out something embarrassing. Now don’t you want to read it?

I will. Because while it’s been a glorious three years married to Mr D, I want to, as I said to Tim, add a “0” to that. (His response at doing the age calculations was, well, hopeful!) And even the best relationships need effort to thrive. (You may have noticed that.) A recent anniversary date found us at the lovely Bleeding Heart Restaurant to celebrate. I chose the Bleeding Heart because years ago when we were first courting, we were ambling about the area after having a glass of wine after work, looking for a place for dinner. Tim suggested the BH, and I’d never been and am always up for a new experience.

 In fact we sat in the same room, near the table we sat at in 2009 when we conspired over positively wonderful food and wine to go to Boulogne-sur-Mer the very next day. Decadent of us, but we were carefree and enjoyed each other’s company, so why not. It was my first trip to France outside of Paris, and I recall it was a bit chilly—it was February—but sunny and we had a marvelous time walking and talking and having lunch at Le Welsh Pub. In fact, I rummaged through my technology to find our first selfie—always ahead of the curve!

Tim and I disagree on the order of events, but the dinner and the trip in 2009 did happen and it is a fond memory for both of us.

Now four hours later the sun is trying to peek out. I’ve sent birthday wishes to two of my lovely friends Jill and Taron, eaten breakfast, have read the Telegraph, watched Andrew Marr, and texted with Mr D to enjoy the rest of his course and to shout out when he’s close to home. I think, as Anne would say, I have in fact delighted in the best part of the day, with so much more left to enjoy. And listen to. 

I molti volti di Italia

I shouldn’t have been surprised that each region of Italy that Tim and I visited recently—Sorrento, Naples, Capri, and Ischia—had their own distinct vitality; after all, even my home state of New Jersey has different personalities from north to central to south!

I won’t bore you with the details of our eight-day adventure—my first time to Italy—but there are a few things worth sharing . . .

First, it’s true; the food is good no matter where you go (as long as you stay away from the tourist-trap port locations in Naples). The way the pizza is made seemed slightly different in Sorrento than in Naples (or perhaps it’s just the owner); sometimes a thicker crust that makes a slice more the foldable New York style, and always delicious.  Two of my favourite food experiences were a chance visit to a small osteria on a cobbled street in Naples, and the waterfront view of our last night in Ischia where fish and veggies were finally back on the menu. It’s the little things you miss.

On our first night in Naples we didn’t have a plan for dinner—we had walked the winding streets for hours in the morning, strolling by shops filled with limoncello and/or gigantic lemons and dozens of lemon products, statues of the Pope and footballers, and assorted tourist tat. We shared an early taxi from Sorrento with friends who had a flight back to Heathrow so our hotel room wasn’t quite ready upon arrival; with map in hand from our host Franco, we found an outdoor café, sipped a coffee, and found enough energy and direction to start exploring. It was a beautiful, sunny morning and everyone in Naples had their laundry hanging from the balconies. The traffic was chaotic on the main streets, but once we wandered into the quarter where small shops and restaurants lined the narrow lanes it was easier to walk and admire the architecture and the people.

Yes, Naples is a bit grimy—we observed minutes after leaving the hotel that that when the bin men came they focused solely on emptying the bins and ignored any spillage or neatly-piled trash next to the bins. If it wasn’t in a container, it was left behind. There is graffiti is everywhere, too; I occasionally found myself frowning at the scrawls at eye level on beautiful old buildings. Fortunately there seemed to be a lack of stray animals, although we did see the occasional feline.

As we meandered around the Centro Storico, the old town, we’d spotted several options for dinner along the way, but hadn’t settled on one in particular. There is a place which claims to be the original home of margarita pizza called Brandi, but we’d already had a pizza for lunch and I was looking for something else a bit lighter. In the early evening back in old town we found ourselves fighting the motor scooters for space instead of people—the bikes seem to come to life at night. Having dodged a few coming down a hill, we spotted a small restaurant called Osterio Il Gobbetto that put a sign at the corner, and quickly decided after a glance at the menu that it looked worthwhile.

Tim went to open the door and, surprisingly, it was locked. The proprietor immediately came and let us in, and motioned to a table for two that was available of the dozen or so in the place. He promptly locked the door behind us. I suppose with a small space it kept people from wandering in where there wasn’t really any place to stand and wait for the next available table. At least I’d like to think that’s why it was locked—by the time we left there was a queue out the door; I think we were fortunate to wander toward Vico Sergente Maggiore.

I decided to order a glass of wine; Tim was having a beer and I didn’t want more than one glass. And oh, what a glass. I ordered the house white, and within minutes a nice-sized empty glass arrived with the bottle and the lovely waitperson poured. And poured.  And poured. She kindly left enough room at the top of the glass so that I could bring it to my lips without spilling it. It cost 3 euro. And it was delicious.

As was my spaghetti con vongole; it was in a light, lovely olive oil and the clams were fresh and the pasta delicious. Tim was thinking longer and the proprietor suggested his favourite—a curly pasta in pomodoro with a bit of cheese. I tried it. Perfect flavours. Oh, and Tim decided on a glass of red. Same glass, same pour, same 3 euro.

And the atmosphere! Lots of Italian chatter around us, and the proprietor took a turn dancing with one of the patrons, I think for her birthday. It was so convivial and comfortable, a real delight to end the day. I’d have most certainly returned if we were to spend more time in Naples.

I think it was the atmosphere that made my second favourite food experience special—a table near the waterfront watching boats arrive as the sun set. This one we’d planned, a choice from the rough guide as the number of restaurants on the waterfront, side by side, is in the dozens. I was looking forward to some fresh fish, and as we were strolling by taking our long walk along the pier before dinner the gents at Gennaro’s were just setting out the day’s fare on a bed of ice. A lovely salmon, some plaice, tilapia.

We took a table in the centre of the outdoor area, not quite at the edge but set back just a little for a bit of privacy from the near- endless stream of walkers. We were recommended an aperitif—prosecco with a tangerine liquer, which was quite refreshing. We sipped and took our time looking at the menu, watching the yachts, just taking in the atmosphere. With the evening just beginning the restaurant staff were happy to have us enjoy it all slowly.

I decided on the salmon, and Tim on an assortment of fish, and we both ordered a rocket salad, mine with prawns, Tim’s with prawns and veggies. I also wanted a vegetable with my fish, and having worked down the list of what was on the menu only to be told it wasn’t available or wasn’t in season, the waiter paused, excused himself, and came back with a huge bunch of “asparagi” to which I remarked “belissimo”!

Having not had much green food in the previous week, I was glad the rocket was fresh and peppery, lightly dressed with olive oil. Both salads were huge, but so was the price—10 euro—and we probably could have shared. But there was no rush to our meal, and we took our time savouring it, ordering wine to heighten the experience, as wine does.

To be honest, the salmon was very good—not outstanding, just simply grilled, and the asparagus nicely steamed and finished with a bit of butter. It was the atmosphere—the out of doors, the passersby, the waterfront, the last night in Italy—that made it special.

But isn’t that often the case—that it’s the combination of sensual delights that makes the moment special, memorable. What I can say is that should you find yourself in Italy, and particularly in Naples, be prepared!

And be prepared for the crush of the underground and the trains to travel—it’s wonderful to have the option to not take a taxi, though the train ride to Herculaneum was a bit, well, hot and cramped. Once there though, even with the long queue and the number of tourists already there we were able to wander up and down the streets and marvel at the ruins, said to be the best preserved from the Vesuvius eruption. Looking at the remaining walls of shops, homes, and even a hotel, it is truly amazing how some bits and pieces survived the intense heat. I felt guilty walking on some of the remaining tiles of the floor, thinking these should somehow not be tread upon hundreds of thousands of visitors!

Sorrento, too, was lovely—pretty shops and prettier views, and we enjoyed a wonderful, delicious dinner with friends at a place they’d chosen having been there before. I really liked the Lacryma Christi, wine from the red grapes that grows on the slopes of Mt Vesuvius. It is said to be the nearest equivalent to wine drunk by the ancient Romans.

And the island of Ischia, well, is a very different atmosphere. We stayed at a hotel that was on the beach which was lovely, although the water was a bit too bracing for a swim. The lounge chairs were set inches apart, and there was a constant chatter of Italian around us; not quite the peaceful experience of lying on the beach with a book that I’d expected, but it didn’t matter; I was enjoying the sun and breeze, and managed to read a few pages of my guilty pleasure (one of Phillippa Gregory’s historical fiction novels).  I had to say “no, grazie” quite often to the vendors hawking costume jewelry, scarves and tunics from lounge to lounge.

There are lots of lovely shops in Ischia, some posh (but not as posh as Capri where I spent a day while Tim was in his conference), and the pedestrianised walkways in Ischia made it a nice experience to walk leisurely and not have to dodge scooters or cars. And of course, there are lots of restaurants. For lunch on our first day we found a place with a view and the food was lovely and the waiter spoke perfect English—he was from the Phillippines. He also spoke Italian quite well, and most of the clientele was in fact from Italy; we occasionally heard German, and very little English. It was a decidedly older crowd in Ischia—I can count on one hand the number of under-50s we shared the beach with, and it wasn’t much different anywhere we went on the island. I am glad we went, and particularly at the end of the week, as it gave us a chance to unwind and relax after spending most days walking for hours to take in as much as we could.

I won’t go back to Naples, or Sorrento, or Ischia—but don’t get me wrong, it’s not because they’re not wonderful cities to spend time in. They most certainly are, and I think Naples is my favourite for its edginess, its architecture (truly a church on every corner), its friendly people and its vibrancy. No, the reason is that there are other cities to conquer in Italy—Rome, Florence, Venice—that are on the list.

By the time I’m finished, I may figure out how to properly use “prego”! 

Only a Number

I am probably just as guilty as others who say “age is just a number” and then whinge about my age. Yes, it is a number, but it still defines us all in some small way. Doesn’t it?

I feel good about my age; part of the whingeing comes down to not being able to do the same things today that I could ten years ago. Such as, you ask? Well, I certainly can’t get to the tennis ball as fast as I used to. I am sore in places I never used to be after a few hours of gardening. My eyesight seems to change dramatically every year and, at £200 per lens for my glasses, it’s costing me a small fortune to keep reading the small print. And oh those £$&*(£! wrinkles—I don’t consider myself terribly vain, but I do frown upon my frown lines.

OK, enough whingeing! I really wanted this to be about this minor revelation I’ve had about age, and particularly about how it relates to my family. I have two brothers and three sisters; the number of years that separates the eldest from the youngest is 11—from 1956 to 1967. (Yes, of course, I’m the one born in 1967). In 2017 five of the six of us will be in our 50s, with my eldest sister just tipping over into being a sexagenarian. I found that fact, well, not so much shocking as a bit astounding.  As in, we can’t possibly all be approaching that number . . . can we? We’re young, we’re vibrant, we’re not middle-aged!

You don’t always see it coming, do you? J

As a number, age is mostly unremarkable unless you’re reaching the Queen-will-send-a-card range. Life moves on, we all add a few years and a few pounds. What is remarkable, though, and perhaps not a terribly big surprise, is that the years seem to be less meaningful the older we get. Some of my siblings have become closer as friends than we were growing up. Case in point: the difference in seven years when you’re 17 and your little brother is 10, is, well, huge. You have very little in common, very little reason to travel in the same circles or have the same conversation or read the same books; you simply don’t enjoy the same adventures. Yet, at the age of 53, having a 46-year-old brother means we have some shared experiences and we even, gasp, have some things in common—almost unthinkable back when I was going to my senior prom and he was, well, who knows what he was doing; I certainly didn’t care.

I think my recent contemplation about age has been prompted by the Facebook phenomenon known as #TBT—Throw Back Thursday, where FB regulars post old photographs on Thursday of themselves. I have done it, just once, finding a grammar school picture (thanks to the 46-year-old previously mentioned). And I’ll admit to wishing I had more photographs of when we were young, though not necessarily to post. Most of our childhood pictures seem to have disappeared, or perhaps we just didn’t have many, and while I have one or two cherished ones it’s not representative of our collective childhoods as we all aged together. Even without the physical reminder of a photograph, though, isn’t it wonderful how the yawning of the years has diminished over time among us? Yes, I think so.

I’ll admit to another “reality check” about my age—the arrival of and now frequent companion to my daily life, The Hot Flush. (American readers will recognise that as Flash). I am mostly afflicted in the evening, and I radiate a broiling temperature that brings Tim closer in the cool nights and drives him away to his own side of the bed when the temperature in the room is mild. I don’t blame him—I have to kick off the duvet and turn over the pillow because the heat they absorb in those few minutes I am exuding a scorching heat is unbearable even to me. My friend Jill suggests not eating meat; I think that has some weight to it as (I read that) most Japanese and Southeast Asian women don’t have vasomotor symptoms (yes, I looked that up), and their diet is far richer in fish oils than mine.

That said, I had a wonderful fillet steak (aka filet mignon) for dinner on Saturday night. Well worth a bit of tossing and burning in the wee hours.

Apparently I have a lower tolerance for small changes in core body temperature—this doesn’t surprise me, as I’m always the first to feel the cold. I have done my own bit of research, which is to say I Google  terms and randomly read what studies are saying and discover some natural remedies that may help. I have started drinking more water during the day to keep myself cooler, and dress in layers for when a jumper needs to come off, go on, come off . . .

I have decided that pine bark is worth a try. While a popular natural remedy, I’ve ditched the idea of yoga. I could never get into it, possibly because I am rather uncoordinated and too many of the yoga positions require more poise, grace, stamina, and coordination than I could possibly muster up during an hour session. And Hot Bikram? My goodness in my current state I’d faint to be sure, LOL. Everything in moderation, I say. Trying to hold some balancing pose in 40 degree C temperature (quick calculation brings me to 100-ish F) is not my idea of moderation.

Instead, I have started Pilates again; I have always been a fan of the controlled, smooth movement between positions, and while there are some Pilates exercises I haven’t yet mastered—yes, ones that involve standing on one leg, knees soft, and doing some near-impossible circles with the foot—I still enjoy the hour with the locals in Islington who, to my joyous surprise, aren’t dressed in posh gear, have mismatched tops and bottoms, and don’t generally give a hoot about whether they were wearing the same kit last time. (I think this comes from joining an online program that costs just £7 a week though you have to sign up for four sessions at a time and it auto-renews until you cancel). I had seen a class in trendy Angel, less than ten minutes away, for literally five times the price, and that doesn’t include the wardrobe I’d have purchase to fit in.

I will now cease whingeing; I hope that wasn’t too unbearable. I am actually quite comfortable with my “number”; in truth it is quite a nice place to be, and particularly because I have a partner in the same bracket who finds me “nifty at . . . .” I find, too, that I have different role models now—ones who are 10-20+ years older than me who are thoroughly enjoying life. I think to myself, much like I did years ago in my thirties looking at an old photograph of my mother, that’s what I want to be like when I’m her age. I do cherish my slightly older friends, some who have retired and all who are vibrant, busy, happy, and whinge less than I do about age. They remind me that at any age, life can be quite good. You just have to live in the moment.

Resilience

I have a dear friend who in less than three years has lost a sibling, a child, and a parent.

I wonder if that made you take in a bit of breath; I know it would for me. It is a bit overwhelming to even think that much sorrow could happen to a person in such a short period of time.

Most of us have known loss, and loss that is close, painful, and deeply sad. The anniversary of my mother’s death only recently passed, and even though it was 16 years ago I remember it all quite well and I am still sad at not having her. I think she’d have liked visiting London, and I know she’d have loved Tim. And the loss of a spouse, even years later, still has a sombre resonance. Not every day or every week, but now and then, gently reverberating with a note from an old friend or some event that drops a reminder at my feet to pick up, pause, and then replace back into memory. It’s a very different feeling now—not raw, loud, and persistent; just slightly heavy, a bit muted. The gift of time, no doubt, has lightened the burden.

But this post isn’t meant to be about loss, but rather more the title. When my friend lost her father, I thought to myself, how is that she is managing, having yet another significant loss in a short period? But then I think, I know—she has resilience. I admire her at the same time I feel for her; even with all the support, it cannot be easy, particularly in the quiet moments we have with our own thoughts. Yet I think I know her well enough to say that she’s not putting on an act of courage; she has found enough strength to sustain her and been able to, once again, recover.

And yes, she has a wonderful partner, someone who has been with her during each heart-breaking event. She has good friends, of whom I’d like to count myself one, who don’t have to say a lot but are just there to have a coffee and a conversation and make life seem a bit normal.

A university friend posted a note on Facebook commemorating the anniversary of her husband’s loss of siblings in a horrific fire when he was quite young; another friend posted about whether it was time to shred some papers after losing her husband a few years ago. If Facebook has done nothing else it’s given people a community to express themselves, to reach out and find solace, and also to remember, to honour. It’s not a substitute for the comforting hug from someone, it’s in addition to; another form of emotional healing. I posted a photo of my mom on the anniversary of her death, and had the loveliest responses back, one from our across-the-street neighbour growing up. We always felt like we had two sets of parents watching over us back then, keeping us on the straight and narrow (which was actually not a bad thing). What a wonderful way to remember her, through him.

Reminders of others’ pain can often reminders of my own, and each time I want to reply, be strong, it gets easier.

I wanted to write this because it has been on my mind and while it may be a bit awkward or perhaps morose, I couldn’t seem to clear it out of my head to write anything else.  You never forget completely; the actual date may become hazy, and the anniversaries that had significance before may go by without acknowledgement, eventually. When a moment of recollection does happen, I experience a bit of contemplation, relive the particular memory in my mind, and experience some emotion that befits the recollection.  (For me, I find now it is often a wry smile.) And I count my blessings and carry on with a bit more determination to make the most of each day.

I like to think I am resilient. I know I am fortunate. Some people might even say I am lucky. Whatever it is that brought me to today, happy and buoyant, I acknowledge as a gift. And it makes every day matter that much more; makes every friend, every relative, everyone who has touched my life that much more important and worthy of some of my time and some of my heart.

May your Easter be filled with family, friends, fun, food, and love.  Crème eggs optional. 

Delira and Excira

Well, now, the day has arrived . . . and have all builders, decorators, plumbers, and electricians been banned, like St Patrick chasing the snakes out of Ireland?

View from the stairs

We are . . . almost there. It’s little things—only half the blinds arrived for the two sets of French doors—one for each door, in fact—and the new carpeting for the stairs going up hasn’t yet arrived (although the stairs are still carpeted, thankfully). There’s a light in the new bathroom that needs to be fixed. We haven’t found the perfect small writing desk to go into the new room, and it’s currently borrowing a side table and lamp from another room. There’s a wall in the upstairs sitting room that needs to be repainted. The new walls are still quite bare—Tim and I are planning to take stock of what we have and think about what fits best in the new space.

New room--kitchen through the doors

That’s all. After three months of dust, disruption, and delay, our home is very much ours again, and it is lovely. I must say I am still a bit surprised when I walk downstairs to make a cup of tea and find myself in a gleaming white kitchen with green and cream tiles and a red cappuccino machine. I don’t have to pinch myself—I know it’s real, it’s ours—but I still can’t help but smile. Tim is happy I’m happy. And, oh, he’s happy too; I think we’d both agree it was well worth the effort (and cost). Despite any number of contractors drifting in and out, there was quite a bit we both had to do to keep the house liveable and in order. The Volvo became a moving dumpster; the charity shops in the area proudly display some of our cast-offs. And the mileage we both put on constantly climbing stairs to first move and then re-home all of the glasses, dishes, kitchenware, and even some furniture was enough to burn off all the takeaway food we ate for weeks while the cooker sat forlornly in the middle of the kitchen floor.

In fact we hosted guests this weekend—Tim’s mum, who was attending a party in central London and stayed with us for a few days, and one of his sisters-in-law, visiting from Germany to get some material for her book at a few archives here.

Bliss

On the day before their arrival there was a moment’s dilemma—without blinds for both sets of French doors, the new room would be a bit too exposed (one set faces the lovely new kitchen, the other the garden). We have a second bedroom, previously stuffed to the gills with things from other rooms being refurbished though now delightfully uncluttered, and the sofa bed in the living room often used before the new room came into existence, so we had to make due with those and keep the spare room for the next time.

The new bathroom, however, did see a bit of activity. Tim was the first to shower in the new space—only finished on the day before the company arrived on Thursday. I was third in the queue, and I must say I did enjoy the experience. The water temperature can easily be adjusted to varying degrees of hot, hot, hot (Tim prefers the slightly cooler setting), and it flowed for as long as you stood under the adjustable shower head. 

Bliss, a good hot shower is.

We are still adjusting to the rearrangement of appliances and therefore dishes, pots, spices, and other cooking items in the kitchen. I regularly fumble between three drawers before I find the corkscrew, and Tim is no better, opening at least three cabinet doors before locating the right saucepan. LOL, we’ll get there.

Kitchen with light from the front of the house

Now that it’s done, I barely recall the frustration of having been through it all. There are certain points in the three-month “process” that resonate more than others, like making space on the table to eat breakfast only to find the next day it was occupied with builders’ equipment, which often irked me. Or being without the second toilet for a bit—just a slight inconvenience, but I did miss it now and again.

Enough. It’s done, it’s positively gorgeous, and I am looking forward to our first gathering of friends for a spring fling. Most will remember the downstairs as a bit dark, a bit in need of attention. I can’t even conjure up what the old space looked like; the transformation is so striking, with walls and doors and things in different places, it bears little resemblance of the place that was. And that is most certainly a good thing!

New bathroom, old orchid!

I am certain, too, that a little luck of the Irish saw it all magically come together in time. When I first said “March 17^th” it felt like ages away, and yet the weeks passed and time flew so quickly that I hardly recall February at all.

We haven’t cracked open a bottle of bubbly to celebrate. Perhaps a green beer is in order?

Happy St Patrick’s Day to you all! Oh, and, by the way, the title is, I am told, a Dublin expression for delighted and excited. I haven't checked with my Dublin-born husband, but I can also hear him say it in a bit of an Irish accent!