Pier Pressure in Chelsea 19/2/15

Exercise and I have always made for uneasy bedfellows. 

Being very small, my schooldays were marred by always being one of the last two girls standing when teams were being picked for hockey or netball. No matter how well I did during any game – and I really did try so hard – it never changed the pecking order next time it came to choosing teams and, again, being small, I was never picked by the games teacher Mrs Davies to be team captain and pick/punish my own choices. 

Mrs Davies didn’t help in other ways, either. During one hockey game, I scored all three goals for my victorious team and was pulled aside afterwards and admonished: “It doesn’t pay to be too competitive in life.” As someone who was doubtless competing with other babies on the maternity ward to escape the womb first, this was never going to be advice I would come to heed.

   

During my youth, I was a competition ballroom dancer and, believe me, it’s tough exercise. At university I played badminton and squash and, in later life, I have walked thousands of miles in the cities I have lived in, and also joined local gyms, where I work out and swim.

   

The group classes in these gyms have never gone well. I can’t bear the people breaking wind in front of me in yoga when they are in Downward Facing Dog (what do these people eat? Frogspawn?), and, in Boxercise, I was put off during my first and only session when the punch-bags swung round on an overhead conveyor and one hit me in the face.

   

But I need exercise. I no longer feel that I have to compete in order to reach Olympic standard, but I like to compete against myself, pushing myself to the limit that is appropriate for my age.

   

To this end, I’ve been auditioning gyms in New York – Manhattan, to be precise. In LA, I was a member of Crunch in West Hollywood, where I was the Only Straight in the Gym, if not the village. The ridiculous high level of dreadful music there made workouts and sessions with my personal trainer unbearable, but as I had sessions left over when I moved, I transferred them to a NY Crunch.

   

I have discovered during the boxing part of these sessions that I pack a mean punch (non-contact with humans) and, as I love boxing (watching, too), am looking to continue this part of my cardio workout. But those training sessions end next week and, as there is no pool at Crunch, I need to move, and have narrowed my options down to three.

   

The New York Sports Club in the Crowne Plaza in Times Square is the closest to where I live, but I quickly discounted it on the grounds of its being . . . well, how do I put this politely . . . shite. A small overcrowded gym below ground level, a tiny, scruffy pool that also takes reservations from hotel guests (meaning that you have to switch lanes all the time), and I have butter dishes bigger than the changing room.

   

The Mercedes Club, a slightly longer walk away, has a 25 yard pool that is largely empty but, like the West Hollywood Crunch, has incessant bang, bang, bang music in the gym that, even when you have ear-phones on, penetrates your skull. My shower panel was hanging from the wall, a woman was singing nursery rhymes to a baby in the shower next to mine, sellotape was hanging from the labels marked “shampoo” etc., there were no bags in which to place wet swimming costumes, and loud women were making social arrangements with each other and on their cell-phones. 

Worse, the entire place has been constructed of those tiny one inch tiles that are grossly unhygienic in their grouting’s ability to capture every speck of dirt and toe of athlete’s foot. The floors were grubby, there was no one mopping up, and the highlight of the whole experience was the Mercedes House market downstairs, where I comforted myself by spending way more than a month’s membership would have cost me.

   

And so, to Chelsea Piers. It’s a 1.3 mile walk away from Hell’s Kitchen where I live (I used to walk 1.5 miles each way to one health club in LA), but if I can’t be bothered, there are buses that can drop me at the door.

   

It’s hard to know where to start with this place. It’s wonderful. Glorious. Fantastic. The stunning location on the Hudson is just the start of it. With views of the Freedom Tower, the Statue of Liberty and the Brooklyn Bridge, the feeling is one of being in a top resort. There is a large deck with sun-beds where, in the summer, you can sit at the water’s edge and dream of faraway climes. Muscle Beach in the heart of New York City.

   

The facilities are like no other. There are two running tracks, a sand volleyball court, a rock climbing wall, machines whose buttons and knobs are on a par with the excitement of Thunderbird 2 . . . I could go on.

   

And will. The pool is a 6 lane, 25 yard, mini-Olympic pool, and on my guest day I managed 40 lengths. From the Jacuzzi in the same area, I watched the sun go down over the Hudson – one of the most beautiful sunsets in the world that I also happen to see from my apartment window.

   

So, Chelsea Piers it is and, as a member of the private members’ club Soho House, I get a substantial discount that also makes CP the best value for money. There is also a skating rink next door, so expect to see me writing my next blog from traction. If I’m in a coma, you’ll know I took the boxing way too seriously.

   

A major plus is that I can also walk 10 of the 25 blocks along the High Line, the disused railway track that is now an elevated walkway, complete with greenery.

   

People say that New York is a tough place and, I imagine that if you spend your life travelling to and from work, dealing with traffic, subways and crowds, it is. For me, I have the solace of home and now the comfort of Chelsea Piers.

   

You see, Mrs Davies? It wasn’t being content to sit on the subs’ bench that got me this far.

      

  

     

It's a Dog's Life - Literally 9/2/15

What a strange week. A blizzard, a massage that almost involved the police, and saving a dog’s life.

   

The blizzard that hit North America and promised three feet of snow in Manhattan turned out to be little more than a flurry. I was out walking the streets in it and it was really rather beautiful. That didn’t stop New Yorkers adhering, to the letter, to the Mayor’s State of Emergency declaration. Supermarket shelves were emptied, the transport system shut down, and bars and restaurants closed early.

   

My social networking communication went into meltdown with worried family and friends from the UK checking to see if my head was still above snow level. No amount of reassurance on my part – that New York is a very big place, that Connecticut is not in the next street, and that I’ve seen worse weather in Wales (on an almost weekly basis, come to that) - gave them confidence that I would survive the blizzard of all blizzards.

   

I happened to be out in it as I had just had lunch courtesy of my good friend and brilliant lyricist Sir Tim Rice, who was in town on business. We went to a local Italian and, despite his efforts for his taxi to get me home, I decided to hoof it in order for him to get to his next meeting on time.

   

There is something incredibly invigorating and exhilarating about walking in falling snow. Put it down to childhood memories of Christmas, or the memory of unexpected days off school, or just the sheer wonder when one’s world turns white, it’s just a weather condition I have always loved.

  

The massage was supposed to be just as enjoyable, but very nearly wasn’t. I have been suffering from lower back pain for over a year now, not helped, I am sure, by lugging enormous bags around various countries of the world. This week, though, the pain was so bad I decided to go for some deep tissue massage at a venue advertising itself as a spa specialising in certain kinds of Chinese body work, rather than one of the places with dirty net curtains and a luminous red sign saying MASSAGE in the window.

  

My masseur looked like a Sumo wrestler, but I had very deep knots and, if anyone was going to unravel them, it was going to be this guy. So, I lay down in the little cubicle, relaxed and prepared my body for attack.

   

From my area, I could hear another voice from beyond the curtain – a man’s voice wanting a massage. In the cubicle next to mine, I heard him ask first if they had a shower, then if they had a hot towel. Then he asked for a hot towel again, shortly before the words “Don’t touch me!” came from the screaming masseuse.

   

I’m not sure what happened next, but my masseur apologised and left, there was some discussion with the touchy feely man, and what was clearly an altercation with the threat of the police being called. “Sorry about that,” said Sumo, returning, followed by the masseuse, who then insisted on showing me exactly what had happened, grabbing my hand from where I was lying on the couch, and pressing it to her leg and rubbing it up and down. Yeah, yeah, I get the picture. Now get back to my knots.

   

Now, to my new role as the New York Dog Whisperer. One of the reasons my knots had been worse was because I had agreed to be a dog walker for 10 days when my good friend and neighbour was away, and one of her regular dog walkers was no longer available. I took the lunchtime shift, but on walk number three noticed that Keela was limping. She had great difficulty walking and kept falling over, until she finally gave up and sat on the sidewalk, her back right leg doubled up under her body. I had to carry her home – and, at 16 kilos, that was never going to bode well for my knots.

   

I have grown up with dogs and told the holiday carers they should call the vet. “She wasn’t limping this morning,” was their response, making me feel like the dog abuser of the scenario.

   

I know a dog in pain when I see one and, after contacting the owner (who, quite rightly, worships this adorable dog), the carers were instructed to take Keela to the vet the next day if the situation hadn’t improved overnight. It didn’t, and she was whisked into doggie emergency.

   

It transpired the poor little thing had a herniated disc, which required urgent surgery by a neurologist. They didn’t think she would survive it (I learned that she was paralysed when she was taken in) but, thankfully, she did. I have been to see her in the hospital twice and she greets me as the mighty saviour I undoubtedly am.

   

It’s heartbreaking to see animals in pain, and I feel quite wrecked, having gone from abuser to saint in the space of just a few hours.

   

I’m hoping for a less eventful week today, although there is the promise of more snow. In Manhattan, it ain’t gonna happen, trust me. 

It’s not only dogs I understand.

I’m the New York Weather Whisperer, too.       

    

The Trial of Mr Biggs - Key Witness (Me) for the Defence Speaks Up 5/2/15

I’ve never been what you’d call a big committee person. 

Don’t get me wrong. I like committees; I just don’t like anyone other than me being on them. It’s why I wouldn’t like to be on a jury. I know I’d enjoy the law side of it, but unless I was the foreman (do people say forewoman? You see? I’m arguing already), I’d have to plead sickness, else go for a quick “They must be guilty if they’re in court in the first place” approach that would get us all out of there damned sharpish.

   

But last night, I found myself part of a very big committee indeed – well, a “community board”, to be precise, CB4, which represents the Hell’s Kitchen area in which I live. I’d been asked to attend by one of my favourite local bars, Mr Biggs, as the owners want to open another place close by. They asked those of us who are fans to support them and, if possible, speak.

   

I never need any encouragement to speak, especially when it’s in public. In fact, so much do I enjoy speaking, I am sure I will be punished in my next life by being sent back as a deaf mute.

   

The meeting took place in a conference room at Mount Sinai hospital and I immediately signed up for opening my gob on the subject of opening a bar. The only subject on which I could ever be even more vociferous would be that of never closing a bar.

   

There was a lot to get through before the rent-a-gobs got to take their place at the microphone. I learned a lot about free astronomy courses at the Intrepid museum (oh, please stop me from rushing out to buy a telescope before I’ve even tried a class), and even more about stairwells in new apartment blocks. They now have to be wide enough for eight people and, I discovered, the World Trade Centre had stairwells that were wide enough for just two.

   

Several people who appeared to have signed up to Stairwellgate declared that they had put their names on the wrong form (why would anyone want to talk about steps when there are bars to be opened?). Then, a woman who had signed up properly for something else decided that she had rather a lot of say on the subject of stairs – so much, to be honest, that had there been a nearby flight, I would happily have pushed her down them.

   

Another woman was very unhappy that a building was going to be pulled down; another that a building was going to be put up. Geez . . . it was going to be Last Orders at Mr Biggs at this rate. Move it, people!

   

We were called in groups of five to the microphone and, as always happens in these circumstances, I had to stretch my neck to giraffe like proportions to reach it. I said my bit – fulsome praise of the bar, the owners, the management, but nerves encouraged some really weird things to come out of my mouth. Come on, it was the first time I’ve ever spoken in the US, and while it might not be Congress, it’s a start (give me time).

   

At one point, I found myself saying “Of all the worlds I’ve lived in . . . “ before realising that I have, as far as I know, lived in just one. The correction provoked a laugh, and I talked about the importance of a woman (and one of a certain age) feeling safe in a bar environment.

   

Loads of other people spoke up in favour of Mr Biggs. Heck, it was so encouraging, I thought they would be granted permission to build a hundred new bars, let alone convert just one.

   

Then the women with cardigans got up. I know from the UK that where there’s a woollen cardigan, there’s going to be trouble. Suddenly, there was an army of cardigans. Would there be cabaret? What about the noise? How would local residents sleep? Could they enforce a 2am rather than 4am closing time (even the latter is waaaaaay too early for this European)? I tell you, I reckon we were a hair’s breadth away from talking about how wide the stairwells would be.

   

I left the meeting before the vote and went to Mr Biggs where, it turned out, I later learned that the application had been turned down. I hope it wasn’t because the committee didn’t think they wanted aliens from other worlds inhabiting their planet.

   

It was incredibly disappointing for the owners, who really are a great bunch of guys who, given the success of their other places, I, and their other supporters, know would do a terrific job.

   

I’ve no doubt they’ll take it to the next level, at which time they will have to put their case to the State. Just point me in the direction of that microphone. 

Failing that, just tell me who I have to sleep with.