"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.