CLOSE TO THE EDGE (I get up, I get down)

Anybody who was invited along on today’s walk and chose not to go missed a real doozy.

I left the flat at noon and boarded a number 13 bus north up Finchley Road. Destination: Golder’s Green, London, NW11 location of my old 1978 flat and a particularly fine park that is connected to Hampstead Heath. The weather forecasters had predicted a fine, sunny day, with temperatures slated to reach all the way to 19! I don’t know what that is in Fahrenheit, but suspect it is pretty warm.

A looooong hike was planned, in order to get me into shape for a scheduled, guided walk through the scenic bluebell woods of Buckinghamshire on May 6th. As I have been having foot and ankle problems ever since I fell flat on my face on the pavement in Feb, and then again after my flight over to the US created a severe case of shin splints, I thought I had better test out the old pins and see if I could really attempt a nine mile hike. The Heath is a good place to hike, and besides, if I had to bail out at any point, there is easy bus access back to NW8 from several locations around its perimeter.

I headed out-of-doors in my new hiking cropped-trousers, a long-sleeve cotton shirt, and a fleece. My backpack contained wallet, phone, water bottle, “oyster card” for bus fare, umbrella (although there was not a cloud in the sky, I’ve learned not to trust that particular sign) mp3-player, Proust’s Swann’s Way (see previous posting) a guide to walking tours of Hampstead Heath, my knitting, and my new sketchbook and charcoals.

As soon as I was on the bus I realized that I had forgotten to move my orthopedic arch-supporting insoles from the new sneakers into the old walking shoes. “No problem!” I thought. “I’ll just pop into the Boots the Chemist (think CVS) up in Golder’s Green and buy another pair of insoles. After about twelve minutes, we rolled into NW11 and I was disappointed to see that the interior of Boots was pretty dark. “Oh well,” I said to myself. I’ll just walk until the feet start to hurt and then sit and sketch/read/knit for a while.”

I went back “down” Finchley Road a few cross-streets, popping into the local Sainsbury’s Supermarket to see if they had the required foot-gear. They had a full complement of hosiery, but no insoles. I went up to West Heath Ave. and walked up the long drive into Golder’s Hill Park. After a minute, I saw a tantalizing wooden gate. Aha!! The secret back entrance I have been looking for since I moved to London a few months ago. I had remembered that there was a short-cut from my old flat which took me down a tiny path and into the park, and there it was. The path was bordered by a riot of Forget-me-Nots, looking up at me with their clear blue eyes, and lined with the fallen blooms of a red camellia-bush. Spring is in full force here!
I walked back out to the main road so I could find my way in next time, then retraced my steps into the Park. It was now 1 pm, and I started “the clock” on my walk.

The Park was teeming with hundreds of people, and thousands of blooms. Purple azalea, pink camellias, orange azalea, pink rhododendrons with white throats and crimson rims, beds of unknown purple flowers, and the first bees of the season were being admired by people and dogs alike. The tea café was absolutely loaded with people. I decided to make a preventive visit to the loo, and it was a good thing I did, as it allowed me to walk further than I ever have before.
Before taking off again, however, I decided to rest up on the grass. The sun felt so good warming the earth. I could feel its warmth on my skin, but it wasn’t too hot. It was just right for taking off the fleece and watching the tots for a few minutes. Then—onward and upward.

A helpful sign pointed the way out of Golder’s Hill Park and into the Heath proper. Another one pointed me in the direction of the Hill Garden and Pergola. I had seen this area in December when the St. John’s Wood Women’s Club did our walk of the Heath, when nothing was in bloom. I was looking forward to seeing it in its late April clothing. This is a garden that used to belong to the grand house nearby: a HUGE pergola with multiple terraces, steps, and hidden garden knots. It may be the most beautiful garden in London. Back in “the day” (1978) it was derelict and closed and one was advised to avoid the area. The corporation of the City of London renovated it in the 90’s and it was reopened in 1995, I was informed by a sign.

I had deliberately left my camera at home so that I would not waste precious walking time taking close-up photos of colorful blooms. Why then, you may ask, did I bring my sketchbook? There is no good answer to that question. A nice bench near a reflecting pool beckoned and I decided to sketch for a bit. I haven’t drawn in several decades and felt more than a little rusty, but enjoyed it thoroughly. My sketch of the area around the reflecting pool does not show the clumps of children who were attempting to scoop out tadpoles with their nets, and the toddlers who were vigorously whacking the surface of the water with long sticks. These activities held their attention for at least half an hour, so who can blame the parents for wanting a little down time? The pool was only four inches deep so no one was in any danger of much in case they fell in, unless it was a coating of green algae.

After a while, I decided to press on. I passed into some more familiar territory, recognizing the path I used to take to skirt around the formerly dangerous pergola area. Soon I was crossing North End Road near Jack Straw’s Castle (a pub) and stopping at an ice cream truck on Spaniard’s Road, where I learned that the proper name for sprinkles (i.e. “jimmies”) here is Hundreds and Thousands. My soft-serve vanilla cone (the only option) was pierced with a Cadbury’s Flake candy, dipped in the multicolored sprinkles, and drizzled with chocolate syrup. The only thing that could push me into a more fully ecstatic state would be my favorite music, so I whipped out my iPod and cranked up the Yes. (More on my musical ecstasy later)
Duly fortified, I entered the main part of Hampstead Heath on the bikeway. This is part of the route I used to take between Golder’s Green and Highgate back in the day. A brisk pace for about ten minutes, which I matched with brisk licks to my melting ice cream cone, brought me to the highest point in London, where a lovely view of the village of Highgate stretches out. The grass on that lawn was about eight inches high, and will not be mown all summer. I went to the fenced-in area that is apocryphally known as the burying place of Boudicca, ancient Queen of the Icenii in pre-Roman times. It now contains a grove of relatively young cypress trees. The entire fence is encircled by benches, and I was able to sit for a few minutes and “tune in” to the energy of the place. “A sacred grove” is what came to me, although evidence of recently charred wood in a fireplace means that my impression may have come from some modern-day Druids.

I continued down the hill through an allee of beech trees, and over to Parliament Hill, from which a lovely panorama of the London skyline can be seen. There were about a dozen para-sail type kites being flown by children and adults, and the area teemed with hundreds of people and dozens of dogs. The Heath is certainly THE place to be on a fine Sunday afternoon.
By this time it was about half past three, and I decided to descend back into civilization via the Hampstead side of the open space. From there it would be easy to hop aboard the number 46 bus and be back at the flat in relatively short order. The music, however was communicating directly to my feet, and instead of going down Well Walk (NW3) toward Rosslyn Hill Road and a certain rendezvous with the number 46 bus, I kept on going.

Google Earth informs me that I took the following route:
South on Parliament Hill, passing Nassington Road, which jogged something in my memory bank, but I could not figure out why. Now I remember it is where NH-Sis-in-Law lived for a few weeks after her own Junior Year Abroad adventure at the University of Warwick in the year _____ please provide via a comment, Beth.
The next portion of the walk was designed to connect the dots in my mind between the locations I knew on EAST Heath Road with those on WEST Heath Road (not to be confused with West Heath AVE as traversed at the beginning of my hike.) I headed Northwest on EAST Heath Road, crossing Well Walk, Well Road, Squire’s Mount, and Heath Street. Next, west past Branch Hill, passing Hermitage Lane, Elm Walk, Westover Hill and Eden Close. At “the T” in the road, I turned South on WEST Heath Road, and followed it along until I got to Finchley Road. I figured I’d walk south on Finchley Road until my iPod ran out of juice or my feet gave out, whichever came first. I passed the Scuba-Diving store (really! In London, of all places!!) passed Burgess Hill, and decided to cut over to the 139 bus to Abbey Road via Fortune Green Road. I passed the Hampstead Cemetary (I never knew it was there) and shortly found myself on West End Lane, where I waited ten minutes for a bus the rest of the way.
The Google Earth “ruler” application allowed me to plot all these twists and turns in detail. From stepping off the 13 bus in NW11 to getting on the 139 in West Hampstead, I clocked 5.89 miles. From the throbbing in my right knee and foot, I’d have put it closer to 8 miles, but computers apparently don’t lie.

Why was I able to keep going after thinking I’d give in after about four miles? I’ll give the credit to the music of YES, my favorite music of all time and space (in this lifetime, at least, in addition to the Beethoven, Schuman, and Hildegard music on which I grooved in other lifetimes) Several years ago, I was interviewed by my mentor and friend Kurt Leland for his 2005 book Music and the Soul: A Listener’s Guide to Achieving Transcendent Musical Experiences. Kurt’s interest and experience was mostly in the realm of classical music and jazz, not the rock’n’roll that has been the soundtrack to much of my life, although he and I are about the same age. My goal was to expose him to music that I use deliberately to change my level of consciousness. He was able to describe in esoteric and energetic terms exactly how my favorite music moves through the levels of the energy centers. During today’s walk, I listened to Close to the Edge, which I have always used for “energetic smudging”, i.e. clearing out stale or stagnant “vibes” and moving up and down through wakefulness into transcendence, in which one feels connected to a higher state of consciousness than one’s own individual mind. Also on today’s playlist: “Awaken”, from Going for the One, which Kurt Leland describes as “beginning in the visionary realm…and soon cross(ing) over into the sublime realm. Most of the fifteen-and-a-half-minute song is a luminous macrorhythmic wave that gently undulated through each of the levels of the seventh (expanded consciousness) center, providing one of the longest periods of exposure to the expanded consciousness of this center that I’ve heard in rock music. In the yoga of listening, “Awaken” provides an excellent object of meditation to open the seventh center for those who are more attracted to the sounds of rock than classical music.”
The third piece of YES music that was propelling me forward on the final stretch was “The Gates of Delirium” from their 1974 album Relayer. Kurt Leland reports that “The remarkable thing about this song is that it not only moves through the crisis zone of irrationality, but eventually achieves the grace” of the energy center he refers to as “cosmic consciousness”, “one of the few examples…that I’ve so far encountered in nonclassical music.
So, I was in an altered state, you might say, of expanded consciousness, feeling both at one with the world and apart from my body, while feeling connected to my soul and the wisdom and energy of the universe. Kurt quotes me in his book as saying the following about the music of YES:

Marjie “ tells me that some Yes fans use drugs while listening to their music, but she has never done so. She emphasizes that the consciousness-altering aspects of Yes’s songs are in the music. Drugs are not required to become aware of or be affected by them.” (p. 251) Who needs drugs when you have musical ecstasy combined with movement through a mystical place on a sunny day?
And you thought I just went for a walk!! I was really attending a service in honor of the Divine Source while moving across that portion of the world we call “Hampstead Heath”.

You can read more about Kurt Leland's ideas about how music affects us at his Music and the Soul blog: www.musicandthesoul.blogspot.com

I'm So Tired/Golden Slumbers

Hunh? What time is it? What day is it? On which continent am I located? Is there a Starbucks nearby?

Answers: 1:35 am, Saturday April 18th, Western Europe, Yes.

TeenE and I left Boston at 9 am on Wednesday, which necessitated getting up at 5:45 am. Although I was only in the US for ten days, I had completely adjusted to Eastern Daylight Time and had gone a bit overboard with it, staying up past midnight and sleeping until 9 am towards the end of the trip. The beginning of the trip was filled with tossing and turning produced by excruciating leg pain, so I guess the sleep deprivation and jet lag would catch up with me sooner or later.

Wednesday night, after a 12 hour trip door-to-door, I slept from 2 am to about 10 am. It is much easier to sleep without hot pain shooting up and down your shins and ankles. Thankfully, I did not have a repeat experience of the high altitude-induced shin splints, so was able to walk off the plane and hike the two miles to the immigration desk without having every step produce agonizing pain.

Thursday night I tried to go to sleep on the sofa at 12 midnight, but was unable to turn off the brain. I got up and wandered to the kitchen, found a snack, and tried again. It was 2 am by the time I was finally lulled into dreamland by the number 139 Night Bus chugging past the window at regular intervals. I vaguely remember waking up and seeing it was light out, and registering that Hubster was leaving the flat. "Have a good one!" I managed to mumble perkily from my perch on the sofa.

The next thing I knew I was lying there thinking "It must be around 10 or 11; I should probably get up." I wandered back into the kitchen, where I found to my surprise that it was one o'clock, as in the afternoon. I had been stretched out for almost eleven hours. The last thing I dreamed about before I woke up was that I was on a bus tour to Ipswich. In my dream, I remembered having been on that same tour several years back, but this time, they didn't have my name on the list, so I wasn't supposed to be there. "But I remember it; it's IPSWICH, like the clams." I'm pretty sure it was a tour to Ipswich, England, not Massachusetts (where the clams are from). Maybe that was my port-of-entry back from the dream world.

It surely wasn't Ipswich, but St. John's Wood. I tried in vain to wake TeenE for about a half an hour, then had success. After having lunch and puttering around, I headed out into the drizzly day.

First stop, the pharmacy in the hospital to pick up a prescription. The pharmacist, whom I call by his first name, told me what the price was "after your discount". "What discount would that be?" I asked him. "Don't you work here?" he asked, and was surprised that I didn't. I reminded him that I Volunteered at the hospice, but that they could pay me AND give me the discount if he wanted to... I guess that's what happens when you have your volunteer gig in the same place as your NHS doc, you therapist, and your front-desk reception buddies for whom you bake and with whom you stop by to chat as its on the way to everywhere else you need to go.

Next stop, Starbucks, for my first and only cup of coffee of the day at 2:30 pm. I was happily reading Proust (an assignment from the therapist) and copying down inspiring quotations on the nature of novel-writing when I spotted that ubiquitious medic making a cameo appearance. He came and went with alacrity, having things to do and patients to see.

When the hard rain that was falling drifted back into drizzles, I wandered back to the flat, where I made the Irish beef stew I had planned for dinner, and turned it down to simmer for a few hours. Then, a quick call to a friend in Massachusetts, and was so exhausted that I decided to stretch out for a bit. The bit turned into almost three hours. It was 8:15 and still light out when I got up. Hubster had come home somewhere in the interim, so I knew the stew hadn't burned.

I sent TeenE to bed at around 11pm, but I know she is still up as she just passed me in the hallway at 1:30 am. A quiet evening of TV,Facebook and knitting brings me back full circle to 2
am.

Facebook, you ask? Yes, one of life's pleasant time-wasters. Is it any worse than endless hours of computer solitaire? No, it's probably better, as you can actually connect with real people who are your friends and relatives. What a kick to be "chatting" with Annie, one of the inner circle from Wellesley College days! I also managed to use one of the applications that randomly generates different alter-ego names for you.

For example, my Italian name is : Marietta Ferrari.
I like being named after a fast car!
My Super-hero name is: The Invincible Enigma, or,
as Annie called me, IE Woman!
My Barbie name is: Bad-Taste Barbie. Enough said!
My Drag Queen name is: Leslie Licorice. Lick this!
My Witch name is: Jairia the Not-so-Ugly Witch. cackle cackle!
My Angel name is: Harachel the Angel of Knowledge.

And... for the piece de resistance, my Stripper Name is...
wait for it...
Ginger CherryDeep. SPICY!

It's 2 am. On that note, I'm going to sleep.

Leaving on Jet Plane

Hello dear readers. I am back at the flat on Abbey Road, after having been away for almost two weeks. As you can read below, my father-in-law passed away on April 2nd and all of the family gathered in New Hampshire.

It was a difficult time of greiving but it was heartening to see the three generations of Hubster's family sharing the loss together.

I was able to deliver "Nana's sweater" in person to my mother-in-law. It is also known as Shiri Mor's raglan-shaped swing cardigan knitted with multi-colored short rows, pattern #19 from page 86 of the winter 2007/2008 issue of VOGUEknitting (US). I substituted a silk/wool/cotton blend for the wool in the pattern, and made it in shades of larkspur blue.

My trip also included a trip to see my sister "NeedhamSis", who is staying upbeat during her post-surgery radiation treatments. We had a wonderful visit in the springtime sun and I got to hear all about her son's acceptance at Villanova in the class of 2014.

I also visited my dear friend Melissa, who is receiving chemotherapy for Lymphoma. In her care-coordination blog, she wrote that she was developing a super-hero alter-ego to enable her to better deal with her journey. She calls her alternate-self the "Pred-a-nate-Her", due to the massive amounts of Prednisone she must take along with the other chemo drugs.

Never one to sit idly by when I could be creating something, I took her journal entry as a personal challenge. A length of hospital-green tencel cloth had been left by me in my in-laws' garage since last summer, and Nana was eager to move it on out. I brought it to Mary Ann at the Knittin' Kitten in Cambridge, MA, and we discussed possible ways of embellishing it and turning it into the Pred-a-Nate-Her's Cape. Two days later, we had a completed cape, which contained a green batik heart being supported by magenta people, and rows of circles containing cats, who of course are Reiki Masters in their own right. What else would they be doing when they sit all over us humans and purr? They are sharing their healing vibes...

Here is a photo of Melissa aka The Pred-a-Nate-Her. Please send healing wishes and prayers to her and to NeedhamSis. Thank you.

FEELING HOT, HOT, HOT

Two weeks ago, I had the privilege to visit Istanbul. TeenE’s high school music group was doing their spring “music tour” there, and some of the parents decided to tag along.
I made my own air and hotel arrangements. I wound up paying more for the air fare on BA, rather than Turkish Air. TA had just had an “incident” with a plane down, and I felt more comfortable flying BA. My hotel room wound up costing considerably less than the ones that the kids and chaperones were in, so I more than made up for the difference in air fare. I stayed at the Hotel Ibrahim Pasha, and although my room was small, it was just me in it so it really didn’t matter (see photos).
The location of the hotel was about as good as it gets: on a hill overlooking the Blue Mosque and the Hippodrome. The hotel’s roof deck was a great place to sit in the sun and take photos of the Blue Mosque. A huge “Turkish breakfast” buffet was served every morning. The choices included fantastic coffee, a baked spinach pastry, a potato pastry, plain yoghurt, several flavors of preserves, white and brown “French” bread, four kinds of cheese, some kind of pinkish cold cut, probably “head cheese”, olives, dried apricots and dates, muesli, fresh squeezed orange juice,
Highlights of my trip were visiting the 6th century AD Roman underground “cistern” or reservoir, having dinner with the other parents at the Restaurant Beyti (thank you, Hassan and Farrah), and having a Turkish Bath at the Cemberlitas Hamam, a 16th century bathhouse. This was in addition to visiting the Big 3 Historic sites of the Blue Mosque, Hagia Sophia, and Topkapi palace.
You can find photos of these sites here and in many other places on the web. What you cannot find anywhere else is a description of my two hours in the Turkish bath.
WARNING: The following passage contains descriptions of female nudity and should be avoided by anyone who might be easily offended or who knows the writer personally and who cannot stand the thought of nudity happening, such as the writer’s children or brothers-in-law.
My guidebook mentioned the Cemberlitas Hamam as one of the Top 10 things to do in Istanbul. I would concur.
The bathhouse was constructed in the 16th century by the wife of a Sultan as an investment vehicle. Of course, she got a wonderful place to bathe, as well, in the days when no one had indoor plumbing.
The facilities for men and women were separate, but equal. I bought a token for the bath part, and another for the oil massage. I figured I may only be in Istanbul once, so I’d better get the real deal.
After paying and buying a chilled bottle of water, I was ushered upstairs to a modern spa-like locker and changing facility. The guidebook had said that after renovations, the women’s area lost space so that women now changed in a corridor. I did not find this to be the case. There were small private areas of lockers where one could change out of street clothes and into the flimsy cotton sarong that was issued. The biggest decision I had to make that day was whether to go commando or not. What is the point, I thought, of going to a Turkish bath to get all steamy and scrubbed clean if you’re going to wear your underwear? In a very un-American move, I chose to go with just the sarong. (I note that American women, for all their obsessing about their bodies, are not as comfortable with their own nudity as European and especially Scandinavian women. I learned this in the Blue Lagoon changing room in Reykjavik, Iceland. )
“Crocs” were also issued, and were mandatory, although they created a hazard for those of us with narrow feet. Half of my feet stuck out of the toe area of the Croc sandal. It made going down the spiral staircase quite difficult. One passed through the “Cool Room”, where a cool marble slab was surrounded by seating areas. Women sat in small groups, sipping their freshly-squeezed pomegranate juice out of clear glass tumblers.
I couldn’t wait to get into the steamy part, so I skipped the “Cool Room” entirely. I made my way boldly into the “Hot Room”, which was octagonal in shape, vaguely steamy, and contained a large raised octagonal slab of marble in the center. Arrayed around this slab like the petals of a flower were women of all ages, shapes and sizes, in various phases of undress and in various “trim types”. The ones that had been there for a while upon my arrival looked well and truly sweaty. One could tell, because in order to lay on the hot hot marble slab, one had to remove the flimsy cotton sarong and spread it out underneath. The stone would have been too hot without that thin layer of cloth between it and skin, and so modesty was sacrificed for safety’s sake.
Most women would rather reveal their backside to total strangers than their front side, so new arrivals would eventually peel off the sarong, and depending on how brave or oblivious they were feeling, spread it out and lay face down upon it, without revealing so much as a glimpse of anything below the bustline. Surreptitious peeks around revealed that most of the women who were there when I arrived were either American or Scandanavian. Some women, like me, had come alone, but most were in pairs and their chit-chat revealed their nationality. Later on in the proceedings small knots of Turkish women arrived, and would be addressed in Turkish by the Bath Attendants.
Around the rim of the room there were marble “sinks” on pedestals that were fed by spigots. There were also several more private gated “niches” where one had a choice of three sinks, containing cold, warm or hot water. Each sink held a silver bowl. You could pick up the bowl and pour its contents over you to adjust your body temperature.
After a while of laying on the stomach-side, I got just too hot. Even sitting up and sipping my cool water in a modest pose would not allow sufficient cooling, so eventually each of us had to come to grips with the idea of turning over and laying there frontally exposed on the slab. And you know what? It was so much more comfortable than propping your head on your hand while laying face-down. I wondered why I had thought it would be so psychologically uncomfortable. At some point you just get so hot that you forget you don’t have anything covering you, or if you do remember, you are glad of it. You also cease to care who may or may not notice your six-inch scar from gall-bladder surgery.
Being an observant person, I could tell who had come into the Hot Room before me, and who had arrived after me. There was the opportunity to check out the other bods and do a few comparisons. This one is older, that one weighs more, this one weighs less, that one is hairier, that one surely needs to eat more, and why the heck does she still have her bra on? Surely most of us are never going to see each other again. I’m also a bit of Type-A, and started to become indignant when the Washer Women would take someone ahead of me who had CLEARLY come into the room after me. I decided that it was just time to “Chill” and let them do the choosing.
When it was my turn to be washed by an attendant, one beckoned me over and showed me how to lay out my sarong along one of the edges of the octagon. Good, I got the one who was wearing a bra in addition to her panties. I had been taking mental notes during their previous washings, so knew that if I had been assigned to the other one, her pendulous Earth Mother breasts would be swinging about me as I was washed. One less distraction to have to attend to. First, my Lingerie Lady poured a bowl of cold water over me. Waaah! Then she unwrapped my personal bath mitt and proceeded to scrub the living daylights out of my skin with the rough side. I could feel streamers of dead skin being exfoliated off of my upper arms and legs and, well, you get the picture.
I was led to a side niche and rinsed with several bowls of warmish-hot water, my sarong was rinsed, and the slab where I had been so thoroughly exfoliated was rinsed off, too. I was then led back to the same spot and spread out on my sarong face down while the bather used the mitt to work up a huge ball of lather. I don’t know how she did it, but within about a minute she had formed a foamy lemon-scented mass twice the size of a basketball, and then distributed the lather over my entire back side. I was completely engulfed in bubbles, and had to clear a space near my nostrils in order to breathe comfortably. The heavenly-scented lather was then massaged into my skin. Normally I can take a foot massage without feeling tickled, but somehow the addition of slippery bubbles made it unbearable. The poor woman had to skip my feet as I was writhing with tickles. A few bowlfuls of really hot water rinsed the suds off the back side and got me ready for the front. Boy, did that front get really clean. That’s all I’ll say in that regard.
My washer then asked “Shampoo”? Yes, of course. So, she stood in front of me and pulled my head forward until my forehead was resting on her ample bosom, thankfully encased in white polyester, and I received a shampoo and rinse. One more trip over to the niche for more bowlfuls of hot water, and I was released back to the slab. My washer pointed out the deep baths for soaking: one warm, and one hot. I read the sign which proclaimed “Bathing nude is prohibited”, and guessed that was why some of the women still had on their panties, so they could take a dip in the deep bath. Without the use of any English on her part or Turkish on mine, my washer and I had the following conversation:
“Do you have your panties with you?” “No, I left them upstairs in the locker”. “Well, you can just wrap your sarong around you and go in anyway.” “No, thank you, I’d rather not if stuff is going to be floating around in there…”
So I laid back down on the slab (face up, in case you were wondering) and waited my turn to be called for my…. oil massage. The masseuse eventually arrived and beckoned me into a separate room. There were four massage tables lined up assembly-line style. Three of them held glistening women with towels draped strategically over them. I was invited up on the fourth massage table, and was soon in the capable hands of “Anna”, who worked every last kink out of my tourist-weary frame. Pure bliss.
Getting back into the Hot Room in oily Crocs was a feat in itself. By now two thirds of my feet were sticking out the front of the plastic sandal, the toe area of which was eating into my arches. But is was forbidden to remove them!!
I had to soap up three times and re-shampoo once to remove even a tiny portion of the oil slick that I had now become. I repaired to a private niche and took my time, as I knew I wouldn’t have time before the parent-group dinner to go back to the hotel and shower. Who would want to shower off a Turkish Bath, anyway? So I slithered my way back up the spiral staircase in the wide Crocs, laughing at almost certain death. I was relieved of my damp and clingy sarong and issued a towel. The changing facility even had hair dryers, so I attempted to fluff and buff the hair, although the roots still had a bit of oil there. A quick stop in the gift shop (of course, there had to be one, right?) allowed me to score a couple of bars of scented olive oil soap, and I drifted back up to the street level in cloud of lemon fragrance.
That night on the bus to dinner, I described my experience to the other mothers who were riding near me. The cry was universal: “Oh honey, did you hear that? We have to do that tomorrow!!!” I’ll never know whether the husbands were embarrassed by, or grateful for their wives visitation to the Cemberlitas Hamam the next day.

In memory of Bob Harrison, 1931-2009

To my loyal readers: I have had to fly from London to the US to be with my husband and his family following the death of my dear father-in-law.

I am posting this in remembrance of Robert J. Harrison, whom I knew for two years as "Bob", two as "Dad", and twenty-one as "Grandad".

He was born in St. Charles, Missouri on June 21, 1931. He grew up in Muskogee, Oklahoma, and earned a bachelor's degree from the University of Oklahoma in 1957, after serving in the US Air Force from 1951 to 1955. He lived in Manchester, New Hampshire for over 50 years with his wife Monique (Gilbert) Harrison, to whom he was married for 54 years.

He retired in 1988 as Chief Executive Officer of Public Service Company of New Hampshire, the state's largest electrical utility. Previous to that he had served PSNH as assistant to the president, vice president, treasurer, financial vice president, and, penultimately, as Chief Operating Officer and President.

Bob served as member of the board of directors for PSHN, Maine Yankee Atomic Power Company, Vermont Yankee Nuclear Power Corp and Yankee Atomic Electric Company. He also served as a director of Numerica Financial Corp, Numerica Savings Bank, American Heart Association, Easter Seals Foundation of New Hampshire and Vermont, and Federated Art of Manchester, as well as the United Way of Greater Manchester.

He was a communicant at St. Catherine of Siena Roman Catholic Church in Manchester, NH.

In addition to his wife Monique, he leaves his four children, David Harrison and his wife Marjorie of London, England; Gregory Harrison and his wife Kathleen of Okemos, Michigan; Elizabeth Cutliffe and her husband Laurence of Bedford, New Hampshire; and Thomas Harrison and his wife Christen of Andover, Massachusetts, as well as six grandchildren, Douglas and Elizabeth Harrison, William and Noel Harrison, and Jessica and Jennifer Cutliffe, as well as many dear friends.

I will remember "Grandad" as a loving patriarch who was devoted to his family and who was beloved by all. He had a quick wit and an exquisite sense of comedic timing. Many family occasions were punctuated by the laughter and banter of all present. He developed a love of travel during his business years, and especially enjoyed travelling with his wife Monique then, and during his two decades of retirement.

The family spent many happy summer days with Grandad and Nana at their second home in Rye Beach, New Hampshire. Beach outings, family dinners, visits with cousins and out-of-town relatives and friends were a big part of these happy days. When his oldest grandchild was working at a summer camp in New Hampshire, he would sometimes arrive with a group of young adults who were all enjoying their day off by travelling to the beach. Grandad was always there to welcome the crowd and engage them in lively banter.

A quick study on any topic, his statistical training and memory for detail came into play when he memorized the probability table for a 5-deck Blackjack shoe, enabling him to beat the house on a regular basis. This resulted in a level of profits that more than paid for his visits to casinos in Las Vegas and Foxwoods, Connecticut with his wife and friends.

Although he had many professional achievements during his many years in business, in my opinion his Lifetime Achievement Award would be granted in the category of Loving Family Man. His wife, children, children-in-law, and grandchildren would testify that the blessings of love that they received from him will be carried forward into the generations. We love you, Grandad. Thanks for all the love and wonderful memories.