Hot runnings

 In training for the Tour de France?

Summer seems to be racing by. The boys are now halfway through their six week summer camp, and come back tired, filthy, ravenous and reeking of chlorine at 5pm each day. Their hair is bleached blond and straw-like from the pool and their pale arms and legs are slowly becoming olive brown, despite the masses of sunscreen I apply each morning. But they are happy, and healthy, and (I hope) having a summer that they'll remember for years to come.

Their day is actually now longer than the school day, so I suddenly have a couple of hours more child-free time in my day, as I finish work at 3. I had hoped this would mean I could do a little more running. The trouble is (and yes I know, I know I'm at risk of offending everyone in England, so, sorry) that it's been roastingly hot for about the past month, with no real let-up. We've got to the stage now where even the early mornings are about 77 F (25 Centigrade), and it's humid too. However, with another 10K race coming up, and having (perhaps foolishly) signed up for a half marathon in the autumn, I can't give up entirely.

So, I set off with my water bottle, returning later with a face like a beetroot and unbecoming red blotches that don't even disappear after an ice-cold shower. Honestly, how can those professional marathon runners look so sleek and un-sweaty? Some of them even wear jewellery - if I did that, it would probably disintegrate due to the salt content of my skin. Even after five minutes, I look as if I've done an hour of 'hot yoga'.

This morning I decided to try something different from my usual circuit and go running instead at the beach. I thought the breeze here might cool things down, and it did, slightly - but I hadn't reckoned on the fact that there is absolutely no shade. Even at 9am, the sun was beating down on me and I ended up just as scarlet and sweaty as ever. The only other people there were pensioners gearing up for a day in deckchairs in the shade, and they looked at me as if I were a madwoman as I pounded up and down the promenade.

Perhaps the best thing when it's this hot is just to watch sport on TV from the airconditioned comfort of my sofa, rather than partake in it. And what a summer it is for sport. Having moved on from Euro 2012 and Wimbledon, we're currently glued to the Tour de France of an evening. Roll on the Olympics - and if the British weather continues in the same fashion, at least those athletes won't have to worry about the heat......

New York in style

As I mentioned a few posts ago, the last time The Doctor and I spent a night in Manhattan was in 1995. En route to stay with his relatives in Virginia and on a student budget, we stayed at the YMCA, sleeping in bunk beds and breakfasting on blueberry pancakes downstairs. Our evening meal out was at a greasy diner off Times Square (which was still quite run down in those days); all I really remember about the meal is spotting a cockroach cross the floor.

Fast forward almost 20 years (gulp) and I still have a relationship with the YMCA (or the Y, as you call it round here. And you definitely don't start singing the Village People song when you mention it - that joke is far too old). But now my children go to summer camp there, and when I was booking a night in the city for my husband's fortieth birthday, I thought I'd go slightly more stylish.

Ever since seeing an episode of Sex and the City in which Samantha (I seem to recall) tries to get access to an exclusive rooftop pool, I've had a yearning to take a dip in one of these. So I picked our hotel on that basis - the James, in Soho, whose rooftop splash pool becomes a trendy bar by night. Both experiences were equally memorable; sipping cocktails overlooking the roofs of Manhattan as the sun set over the Hudson, and taking a surprisingly cool plunge the next morning on a steaming day when temperatures topped 95 F.

I loved the hotel and would thoroughly recommend it to anyone planning a trip to NYC as a couple. (It says it's child friendly, but I'd have liked to see what our fellow guests would made of us had we pitched up at the chilled-out pool with the Littleboys). As usual with boutique hotels, the room was small, but beautifully decorated. The dark wood bathroom, complete with organic toiletries, and the square, light filled bedroom with its huge windows opening onto the Cityscape (see below - with Wimbledon on the TV) appealed to me far more than a massive Marriott bedroom (although eating our room service breakfast on the teeny table the next morning was quite 'cozy'.) There were other good touches such as free wine or coffee in the lobby, and bike rentals.

For our evening meal, we went to the Union Square Cafe, a real New York foodie destination recommended by several friends. From the superb bread and olives, to my soft shell crab and the panna cotta we shared for dessert, all was utterly delicious.

Walking back downtown to our hotel, we sauntered carefree past tree-lined residential streets, hip boutiques and cool bars. As walks through the city for us normally involve trying to coax Littleboy 2 to walk, and preventing Littleboy 1 from ordering a hotdog from every street cart, this was one of the highlights of the evening, right up there with the rooftop margarita.

We had less than 24 hours in the city, before rushing back to Long Island to pick up the boys from their sleepover, but for once, we had done New York in style. And, while he may be turning 40, (and it's not long for me either), for a moment it was as if we were both wide-eyed twenty year olds again.

American maladies

Summer always comes with its dramas here, whether it's trees falling on the house or one of the Littleboys having an attack of poison ivy. So far, this summer has been no less deadly; The Doctor has been diagnosed with Lyme Disease.

For those not familiar with Lyme, it is carried by deer ticks and initially causes a rash, a flu-like illness and fatigue. For those left untreated, it can lead to serious health problems, but luckily in his case it has been caught early and the treatment, which hopefully cures it, is a three week course of antibiotics. It is common in the northeastern US and apparently, what with the mild winter, there are more ticks than usual this year.

We think he was bitten by the tick on Memorial Day weekend, when we went 'out East', as they say around here - not, in fact, Japan or outer Mongolia but the Eastern End of Long Island. We did some hiking in a state park where there were deer, and that is almost certainly where the tick was. This was followed by a rash we initially thought was an allergic reaction to mosquito bites, and he has felt tired and lethargic ever since.

Having started the antibiotics, he's starting to feel better, but it's a reminder of how deadly summer can be in America. Suddenly I can see our planned summer holiday -  a week's camping in rural New Hampshire in August - turning into a paranoid week of reapplying insect repellent and forcing the kids to wear long trousers.  But, when I'm not slathering my children in suncream and mosquito spray, making sure they don't walk in anything green when we're somewhere rural, and checking the weather report for tornado warnings - summer's quite fun. And at least we can say that, healthwise, we've had the full-on North American summer experience.

A tribute to Nora Ephron

When I heard of the death of writer Nora Ephron at the age of 71 this week, I felt really quite sad. Perhaps partly because she died of the exact same disease my mother in law died of 12 years ago (acute myeloid leukaemia); perhaps because it seemed as if it had struck so suddenly (as I know this devastating disease can do). But mainly because I admired her work, and feel as if it's been a part of my life since my teenage years.

I first saw When Harry Met Sally at the cinema when it came out in the 80s, and it's still among my top five films. Whenever it's on TV (which is a fair amount) I'll watch it, and even though I've seen it at least 10 times, the dialogue still feels fresh and funny. It's still the ultimate romantic comedy, even though Billy Crystal isn't your typical leading man by any means and Meg Ryan, though pretty, has the most atrocious 80s hairstyles throughout. That's a testament to Ephron's writing, which is natural, entertaining and never patronising. It's so superior to any romantic comedy to come out of Hollywood in the last 10 years - those forgettable movies, starring Jennifer Aniston or Kate Hudson or suchlike, pale in comparison. My favourite scene isn't the orgasm scene though, notorious as it has become. I'd rather post something like this clip below, where Harry and Sally try out a first-generation karaoke machine.



While I wasn't quite so enamoured of her 90s comedies, such as You've Got Mail and Sleepless in Seattle, I also loved Heartburn, starring Meryl Streep, based on Ephron's book about her breakup with journalist Carl Bernstein. It led me to read the novel, which is searingly sharp, funny and sad at the same time, and I began to feel like I really knew this woman. She didn't mince words; she was honest about her life; in fact, a bit like a really great female blogger. No wonder she later got into blogging and even made a film about a blogger (the excellent Julie and Julia).

Two years ago I took my sister to see the off-Broadway production of Love, Loss and What I Wore, written by Ephron and her sister Delia. A series of monologues about women and their relationship with their wardrobe, it was fabulous and confirmed my heartfelt admiration of her writing, sense of humour and ability to encapsulate what it is to be female.

Reading her obituaries this week (and there are many; this was a woman revered by the New York intelligentsia in particular), I was struck by how she managed both to be a nice person with tons of loyal friends, about whom no-one had a bad word to say, and a feisty woman who succeeded in the a male-dominated worlds of first journalism and then film. She set the agenda for women in media; when she first worked at Newsweek, she had to take a job as a mailroom girl, because they didn't allow women to write for the magazine. Now, Newsweek has merged with Tina Brown's Daily Beast and Brown is editor-in-chief of both titles.

So, RIP, Nora. A great writer, and a great female role model.

Littleboy language

School came to an end last week - a rather sudden and abbreviated end, thanks to a freak two day heatwave, that meant they were sent home early on the penultimate day. (Only the final day, they attend only for an hour, then come home, due to some strange New York State rule that only serves to infuriate all working parents). For the last few days, the boys came home laden with all manner of artworks, notebooks and creations from throughout the school year. Pieces of pottery; a papier-mache elephant; lots of drawings of Angry Birds (the teacher must think I do nothing but let them play iPad games).

But most interesting of all to me were their daily composition journals. These were not only very revealing in terms of what they chose to write about (who knew that having hot dogs would be more memorable than whale watching?) but also showed just how much their writing, spelling and general ability to express themselves has improved over the year. Littleboy 1's writing in particular has become much neater, although much of his spelling still flummoxes me (and makes me laugh - 'Virginia' rendered as 'Bug-inya' was a particular favourite).

Littleboy 2's spelling is still very phonetic and often puzzling, not helped by the fact that sometimes letters are back to front. But, bizarrely, the boys seem to have an intuitive grasp of each other's spelling. Take Littleboy 2's picture/essay, above. Any idea? I could work out that it included the words 'brother' 'on' and 'the', but was otherwise none the wiser. As I was looking at the book with him, Littleboy 1 marched over and took a look. Bear in mind it had just come home from school, so he had never seen it before. He translated effortlessly: 'In Smugglers' Notch, I saw my brother on the chairlift'. (Once you've got that, the picture also makes sense. Smugglers' Notch is the ski resort we went to at Christmas).

Clearly they share a language I don't understand......

The Gallery: Family Reunion

Our family might seem as British as they come, but it is a little-known fact that my husband has American roots. His grandmother was from a Virginian family, but grew up in Japan and eventually married an Englishman. She, however, had many brothers and sisters who remained in Virginia and so he has a whole cohort of second and third cousins down there.


It also turns out that the Virginia family was related to James Madison, the fourth president of the USA. And this weekend, a group of Madison Family descendants got together at Madison's Virginia estate, Montpelier, for a reunion.

A few weeks ago we received an invitation via email, and decided to go. It's a long journey just for the weekend, but it sounded too fascinating to miss. Besides, the Doctor and I love Virginia. We first went there on holiday when we were still students, and met his family; we took the boys there when we first arrived in the States. His relatives mostly live in a relatively small area, between the college town of Charlottesville and the Blue Ridge Mountains; the scenery is stunning, and the welcome is always friendly.

So on Saturday morning, (after a manic drive that involved roaring through rural Virginia due to closed roads and traffic jams), we arrived at Montpelier just in time for the 'family photograph' on the steps of the grand Southern mansion. There were people there from far and wide; Virginia, further South, the Northeast and even New Orleans. Elderly ladies with charming Southern accents; kids running around. Apart from the relatives we'd met before, we didn't know any of them, yet it was strange to think that they were all somehow related to The Doctor and also to the Littleboys. There was also a distinct family resemblance between some of the men; one distant cousin came up to The Doctor and said she knew it must be him, because 'you look like everyone else'.

The weekend continued with lunch, tours of the house (which is now open to the public, and styled in the way Madison might have lived in it) and gardens, and a lecture on Madison by a man who had written a book on him (which I had to miss because there was no way the boys would sit through it); The Doctor went, and learned more about his illustrious ancestor, who was integral to the writing of the US Constitution. The evening consisted of cocktails on the lawn before a delicious Southern-style dinner (while the boys got babysitting, pizza and a movie - perfect). We spent the night with some of The Doctor's cousins, before returning to Montpelier the next day for a final lunch.

It was odd, but interesting, to be at a family reunion at which most people were strangers. The boys had a great time, but I don't think they quite understood why we were there (although I bought them a children's book about Madison from the gift store to try and put it in context). I wonder what Madison would have thought of all these people gathering at his home, nearly two centuries on?

This post is for The Gallery at Sticky Fingers; topic, family.

Manhattan madness.

I love living out on Long Island, but sometimes I wish that we made more of being close to Manhattan and went into the City more often. But over the past few days I've had a really good dose of New York moments, enough to keep me sated for weeks.

Saturday morning saw me leave home at 6am with a group of friends for a women only 10K race in Central Park. I enjoyed this more than I ever could have imagined. From the scrum of the start line, where 6,000 women waited to begin the race listening to someone sing The Star Spangled Banner; to the fabulousness of running round the entirety of the Park, cheered on by supporters with placards, as well as random dog-walkers; running past such New York landmarks as the Museum of Natural History and the Met; to the final stretch towards Tavern on the Green, where the race ended with bagels, Gatorade and ice lollies. It was truly inspiring, and the whole experience filled me with such extra energy that I managed to record my fastest average pace ever (although Paula Radcliffe need not worry for the moment).

Afterwards, seven sweaty women headed off for brunch at a nearby hotel (having changed into sundresses and squirted ourselves with lots of deodorant and mist spray in the loos); gorging on Eggs Benedict after an hour's run made it all doubly worthwhile.

Later that day (having finally showered at home) I was headed back into the City, this time with the Doctor and his brother and my sister-in-law. We were off to the Metropolitan Opera at Lincoln Center to watch the American Ballet Theater's production of Onegin. As we ascended the subway escalator straight into Lincoln Center it was like entering another world; one of culture, wealth and privilege in contrast to the grimy subterranean world of the subway. The Met building was gorgeously opulent - all red velvet carpets and people drinking champagne in glamorous gowns; in the interval you could stand on a balcony overlooking the Lincoln Center courtyard with its beautiful fountain, or, for the real ballet fanatics, buy used ballet shoes from the Met shop. (I wasn't tempted, but did treat myself to a glass of cava just to feel part of the whole scene). The ballet itself was excellent; I'm not an expert on ballet by any means but the set, costumes and dancing were all incredible and, thanks to watching Ralph Fiennes in the film version some years ago, I actually knew the story of Onegin, which helps.

As if this wasn't enough to feast on, I was back in the city last night for a work-related reception at the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA). Here was a chance to view the great and good of the creative industry in their most glamorous finery, knocking back cocktails and appetisers in the amazing setting of MoMA's bright white atrium.

Ah well. Back to the world of piano practice and grocery shopping for the next few days. But meanwhile I'm plotting something for The Doctor's 40th which will involve Manhattan again - and this time just for the two of us. The last time we stayed in the City as a couple was in 1995 at the YMCA; we ate at a greasy diner off Times Square. Hopefully this time will be just slightly more glamorous.