The Art of Relaxation

Let me start by saying I am no artist.

Last weekend I had hours of free time to myself; Tim was away teaching law students the art of advocacy for two days and I decided to stay in London and, well, relax. Sleep in. Be leisurely. Be carefree.

So how’d that go?                                                                                                                                           

Well, the epilogue is that in fact I had a very enjoyable weekend despite not having Tim around to spend the time with; weekends are our time to really catch up, and we look forward to the opportunity to sit together and read the paper, take long walks, and linger over coffee and conversation.

I’m not sure most people would read how I spent my weekend and label it relaxing . . . then again, we all have our paths to tranquillity, and it may not include eating popcorn from a big bowl (because it’s easier than having to dig down when you get to the bottom of the bag) while stretched out under the duvet watching Audrey Hepburn movies (though that would certainly be one of my definitions).

On Saturday I found myself up early—7-ish—and ready to start my weekend relaxing. (OK, first problem, but I tend to get up early no matter what the day of the week.) Quite honestly I didn’t have much of an agenda for the weekend other than dinner out with friends . . . but then as I brushed my teeth I thought that it would be nice to do the laundry, as Tim often does that, so I sorted the basket and started with that task. Taking my coffee to relax with to the living room, I realised I didn’t like the way the new TV was set up; there was “stuff” on the shelf behind the TV that was now mostly inaccessible. I cleared the cupboard below the shelf of a few miscellaneous items to re-home the DVDs and re-shelved the books. Oh, and I alphabetised the DVDs by title. As you do.

Earlier in the week I found that the new “smart” TV wouldn’t play DVDs from one of the USB ports that attached a portable player. Second cup of coffee in hand, I moved to the computer and researched why, and when I couldn’t find a good answer I contacted Samsung. The lovely woman on the other end told me “it won’t happen”: the USB player was not meant for such media. I needed to use an HDMI port to connect a Blu-ray player. And the complete set of Breaking Bad I’d bought Tim for Christmas was waiting to be watched. Something had to be done!

Second cup of coffee still being sipped, I browsed to the John Lewis website, found a reasonably-priced Samsung Blu-ray player, and ordered it via their wonderful Click and Collect service to any local Waitrose shop. There’s a store at the Angel, a short 15-minute bus ride away. Purchased and ready for collection the following day (yes, on a Sunday) after 2 pm. Perfect for me to buy groceries for dinner at Waitrose.

I headed upstairs to get dressed, pausing in the spare bedroom. An opportunity stared back. It was not lovely weather-wise on Saturday, so why not sort which photos will go into the multi-frame (4 horizontal, 8 vertical, one 8 x 10) still shrink-wrapped and needing attention? We bought three of the same frames and decided one would be for the two of us and one each for family photos. I’d already completed my family frame, but thought I could find some photos and make suggestions to Tim for our frame. I went back to the computer and started looking at photos I had over the last few years, keeping in mind what I needed to populate the frame. It didn’t take long to find ones I liked—some from our trips to Vietnam and Sri Lanka, and recent selfies along with a few of my favourite wedding photos. I downloaded them on to a USB stick; before collecting the DVD player I could pop into the Snappy Snaps on the same street as the Waitrose and make prints. Sorted.

Fortunately my enjoyment of Six Nations Rugby made me sit down and watch 90 minutes of Scotland v Italy before heading out to dinner—and I managed to sit relatively still, though I did use the opportunity to catch up on some personal email (mostly during the half). Hurrah.

One highlight this “solo” weekend was certainly having dinner with friends, which meant getting out of the house. I have found that in particularly cold, wet weather it’s easier just to stay in and be creative about what’s in the cupboards for meals. I’ll admit I did some of that, choosing to have oatmeal for lunch instead of, gasp, walking around the corner to the 24-hour shop for anything else.

Sunday morning arrived and I was up early; I never perfected the fine art of lying in bed by myself, and have always been “a morning person.” That and, well, I have things to do, places to go, purchases to acquire from my relaxing Saturday! I had a leisurely breakfast, spending time with a cup of coffee while gazing out to the garden and noticing there is no bird seed in the feeder. Mental note made.

At about 10 am I decided that I can head towards the Angel, get off the bus a few stops early to get some exercise and then rock up to Snappy Snaps when they open at 11 to get my prints done before my click and collect is ready down the road at Waitrose. I get there a bit too early and decide to stroll Chapel Market and make two unexpected purchases—shiny red baby plum tomatoes from the Isle of Wight tomato stand (a real surprise and a wonderful treat because the tomatoes are delicious) and bird seed from a guy selling a variety of household goods. For £1 each for a decent-size plastic bag it was well worth the weight to carry them. I buy two and put them both in my own carrier bag and head back toward Snappy Snaps, looking at each of the stalls. One of them was selling techy-type stuff. Like HDMI cables. I think, do I think the player I bought comes with one? Probably not. But I’m not sure . . . I asked the gentleman what time his stall is open until, in case I got home with my player and realised I need one. He blandly tells me 4 pm, unimpressed that I’m not actually buying anything, and I make another mental note.

It’s still early and I notice that Butler’s is open. It’s a great shop filled with household things like dishes and candles and paper napkins and furry animal heads you can hang on the wall—in other words a fun place to kill some time. I came across some lovely artificial orchids that, at a distance, look quite real. I decided to purchase one for the spare bedroom where once there was a live orchid that has since shed all of its flowers. £3.99 well spent!

I finally stroll up to Snappy Snaps for 11 on the dot and the door is unlocked and the shop is thankfully empty. A lovely young woman approaches and I tell her I have these photos on a stick and have never used their kiosks to order prints. She smiles, says “no worries” and walks me through choosing the 4 x 6 matte photos and displays for me the one I want enlarged to 8 x 10, which looks lovely. In a few clicks I have placed my order, paid for it, and have been given a receipt to return in 20 minutes. Tick!

The card store is next door and I pop in to buy a few cards for upcoming events. This is turning out to be a successful venture out. Not completely relaxing, but there’s only minor stress with trying to find two cards I like (I am SO particular about cards; I can take hours / multiple visits to choose.)

It’s still too early to go to Waitrose to collect, but the Sainsbury’s next door is open and I think I may buy a newspaper or just stroll to kill a few more minutes—having recently picked up a purchase I know that I cannot have it before 11:30 as there’s some rule about providing a “service” before then, even when the shop is open for browsing. In some strange bit of coincidence as I wander through Sainsbury’s I pause in front of an aisle that is selling . . . HDMI cables. I decide it’s a sign—not only that, but if I buy it now and don’t need it I can always return it to Sainsbury’s whereas it may not be so easy at the Chapel Market vendor. Tick!

Waitrose is now open for service and I approach the customer service counter with my phone displaying the email with the order number, and the helpful woman suggests I do my grocery shopping and come back to the desk to collect my purchase. I am happy to do that, and find my list of things to purchase, basket in hand. I quite like Waitrose because they have an interesting selection of food items—wonderful breads, a great assortment of cheeses and olives, and a nice selection of fish, which was Tim’s request for dinner. I decide on some lightly-smoked salmon, some cannellini beans to sauté with garlic and herbs, some leeks for St David’s Day and a few other bits and bobs we need around the house (there never seems to be enough wasabi). I use the self-check-out register and return to the customer service window for my collection.

The lovely young lady hands me a box I instantly know is the wrong one. It’s the wrong size, and sure enough the name on the box is Devine. So close, and yet . . . not quite. She apologises profusely (it’s a John Lewis / Waitrose trait to provide exceptional customer service), re-takes the order number and disappears behind the Click and Collect door with the secure keypad.

While I am waiting patiently at the reception desk, she calls down to the woman at customer service reception to request that I repeat the number; I once again show the email on my phone. Apparently the order has been flagged as already collected. Mrs Devine has my package, I presume. I am now beginning to think that I am going home without my Click and Collect purchase. That John Lewis has let me down.

But then the door swings open and there it is: a package with the right surname. I manage to get it into my other carrier bag brought exclusively for the box size I knew it would likely be, accept her additional profuse apologies, and head out the automatic doors toward the bus, laden with goodies.

What to do first? I decide I will set up the DVD player in case there needs to be a call to Samsung or some research on Google. It is, however, a very easy plug-and-play set up and I find the settings on the Smart TV to integrate the player into the remote. I’m not thrilled with the set up of two boxes resting below the TV stand, but I decide to leave it that way for now until Tim comes home. I gather up the packaging and put it with the recycling to go out in the evening.

I then have a moment of panic when I read the booklet to find that it won’t play “HD DVD.” What are the Breaking Bad discs? I begin my search for the box set, having absolutely no idea where Tim has put them. He opened it upstairs on Christmas morning, so it is likely still lurking up there. Not under the bed. Not by the bed. Not with the other DVDs. Not in his desk. If I were Tim, where would I put it?

One of the two dressers in our bedroom is a family heirloom of Tim’s, its front feet resting on two small pieces of flat rock to keep it balanced. You have to exert energy to close any of the drawers properly, otherwise they look askew (a fact that has sometimes eluded small, curious children). It is primarily filled with old photos, gadgets, and those things Tim hasn’t otherwise gotten around to chucking. It should have been obvious, but it took me a while to open each drawer and finally find the box set. No HD DVD label. Relieved, I take the set downstairs to try at least one. It works. Phew.

Next? Well, I’m so pleased with my photographs that I may as well fill the frame with my purchases. It doesn’t take long, and I arrange and then slightly rearrange a few of them. I place the frame in the spare bedroom where it’s hard to miss. Tick!

The clothes that have adorned the multiple radiators in the house are also now dry, so time to tidy those up and fold and put them away.

It is now time to relax. England is playing Ireland in Six Nations, and I have popcorn at hand, decide to open a bottle of white wine, kick off my boots and put my feet up on the couch. Tim won’t be home for a few hours and dinner will be a collaborative effort, so there is nothing left to do but watch the hail thrash against the window pane, enjoy the lightning and thunder, and watch as Ireland enjoys a bit of thrashing England.

There is something quite relaxing about being indoors while the weather rages out there and you can watch without a care in here. Except I’m worried about Tim driving home in such terrible conditions! I won’t be able to relax until he walks through the door . . . 

Love among Rouen’s . . .

Yes, it’s Valentine’s Day. Tim and I exchanged cards and he presented me with a box of chocolate hearts before heading off to give Coh Karek some attention. (I'm not jealous of her!)  He’ll be back in time for rugby (my idea of a romantic afternoon) and we’ll have a lovely dinner at one of our favourite restaurants—Number 12, aka home on the Isle of Wight. The menu still to be finalised, but there will be a lovely bottle of something red in honour of the day.

Magnificent architecture!

We had our little romantic escape earlier in the month, having had plans fall through on a weekend we were meant to be in London and finding ourselves yearning for a bit of French food and wine. How lucky we are to be 90 minutes from Dover to hop the car ferry abroad! (And even luckier that I paid the checking fee to hold on to my passport while my citizenship application is being considered!)

I’d never been to Rouen, and while it’s a slightly longer journey from the port of Calais than our usual last-minute, need some French wine stop of Boulogne, it is still close enough to make it a weekend fling. We hadn’t anticipated the snow along the way, which was quite pretty and fortunately only marginally accumulated on the road, and once we arrived in Rouen it was a bit dreary and wet, but of the above-freezing kind that meant we were never without an umbrella as we wandered through the town.

Cross at the site of Joan of Arc's execution

And oh, what lovely sites! The architecture can occasionally make you gasp; the history will make you pause. The cathedral is lovely, dark and cold but majestic both inside and out. Its construction began in 12^th century. There is a painting by Monet at the Musée des Beaux-Arts de Rouen that struck me as beautiful; it is the one postcard I left with. There are buildings that survived the war, bullet holes gashed into the stone.

Joan of Arc was executed in Rouen in 1431; I wanted to see the site, where now stands an enormous cross on the exact spot of her burning and, I must say, one of the less attractive buildings in the centre, a chapel of modern design built in 1979 that seems incongruous to the rest of the city’s history. The Seine, where her ashes were thrown to prevent any taking of relics, runs through part of Rouen, though it does not evoke the same romance as the river does in Paris, I must say. We did stroll down to take a look at the river and the boats docked, but it was cold and windy and we didn’t stay long.

View from our hotel room

And yes, the food was fabulous. We had two wonderful lunches, both at brasseries that served traditional French food and lovely carafes of wine, and dinner at one of the more popular spots according to Trip Advisor where, given a cold, wet, windy evening in February, was empty but for one other couple who knew the staff (and so Tim joked that they were called in to fill seats). We started with some fresh, slightly briny oysters with chenin blanc, and then I had wonderful coquilles Saint-Jacques (scallops) while Tim chose a steak and we drank a lovely red. We ate and drank slowly and savoured the night.

So an early Valentine’s celebration for us; and while tonight will be a bit less extravagant, in a city a bit less known (unless you’re a sailor), it will be no less romantic. Enjoy yours.

Happy Valentine's Day!

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Well, hopefully not to this!

I’m not one to make New Year resolutions, and in hindsight the quest to rid my inbox of unwanted email merely coincided with it being the start of a new year rather than it being a declaration to begin 2015 differently. I know how it began, this quest to keep my Inbox down to the precious few: being away from mail for a number of days where all those vouchers I signed up for and all those contests to sun in Montenegro or explore St Petersburg were stacking up among the important stuff. And oh how easy it is just to click Delete and watch it disappear off the screen, momentarily forgetting that there will be yet another fantastic sale or two-for-one offer in the next month. Or next week. Delete, delete!

Ah but for a few extra clicks I can Ctrl End to the bottom of the screen, scan for the Unsubscribe link, click, verify address, and click again. Some sites want one more verification, to be absolutely sure I don’t want to know about how to nurture my inner beauty, where to enjoy a 2 for 1 pizza, or learn the five “must see” health resources.

Are six clicks better than one? You betcha. And since the beginning of the year I have been (almost always dutifully) following the six-step programme to rid myself of unwanted flab in my Inbox. What’s there now can’t yet be archived, probably requires a response or some activity on my part, or acts as a gentle reminder of upcoming events, etc.

My Google mail Inbox, conveniently bucketed by my friends there into Primary, Social, and Promotion, which contain 32, 2, and 3 items respectively. The promotional emails are all from Prevention Today (and about exercises), and the two Social items are from LinkedIn—people I want to respond to in the future. The Primary mailbox is a mish-mash of things I need to get to, things I want to be reminded of, and an odd assortment of recipes and links to products I might like to buy someday when I’m finished papering the offices of the British government with pounds collected for various and sundry visas, certificates, etc.

Speaking of which, I have saved the appropriate fee and have made my appointment with a nationality checking service (for a much smaller fee of £55) to have my application for citizenship reviewed by someone at the local council, who will verify all the original papers—including Tim’s and my passports—and allow me to leave with them while the Home Office decides whether or not I am an upstanding enough person to be given the privilege of citizenship. Time will tell . . . they allow themselves up to six months to decide, though I suspect that I will find myself voting in the May election. Exciting times!

And, with my tidier inbox, well, I’ll see all the emails that come in about the progress of my application! Oh, wait, they don’t actually do that; Royal Mail will have to do. I think I will start anticipating the postman’s drop about mid-March, and hope that by St Patrick’s Day I’ll be invited to the ceremony (for which there is a small fee).

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!