Author: Sonja

On Wellbeing/

Running in London, more than meets the eye

I’ve been running again. And though I haven’t signed up for the next road race, I’m up to 12 miles per week, even if a little old lady is faster.

Never mind her, the younger runners or the cyclists whizzing by, I’m in my own world and rarely come out for anything less important than crossing the road. That’s one of the things that I love about running; it’s just me.

On the rare occasion when I do come out of my thoughts, I catch some interesting sights. This week I saw a barefoot runner, life on a luxury houseboat and calm commuters making their way to the river bus.

Bear with; there’s more to this than meets the eye.

First things first, when I was a kid, I thought barefoot running was great. No better place for it than the Georgia countryside, vast plains if you will, and warm red clay underneath my feet. Never mind the odd thorn, bramble or rock.

But fast-forward forty something years and I wonder ‘why on earth’ or shall I say ‘why on concrete’ would anyone do it, especially on a frigid, damp day in London. No wonder the fellow in question was sprinting.

Still, he seemed to be having a blast. Maybe there was more to it than I could see. All the same, I’m not up for it. But I’ll tell you what I am up for—the river bus, but I’ll save that for last.

For now let me tell you about the luxury houseboats, which are moored between Battersea and Putney. According to one estate agent, the boats have two reception rooms and four bedrooms. Not your average narrow houseboat with a low ceiling, is it? Quite surreal to be honest, which is why I chalked them up as permanent exhibitions or river homes for the rich and famous.

This week, however, I caught a glimpse of a person on one of the floating luxury apartments. And suddenly, it dawned on me that this could be a regular person who had carved out an ideal lifestyle—idyllic views, fresh air and their own river bus. Yes, the river bus.

Just then, I heard it, tooting a rather composed horn. I looked up and watched it near the port. Meanwhile, very orderly commuters gathered and then made their way down the gangway.  What a vast difference to London’s train stations and bus stops during rush hour.

Breaking my run, I watched in amazement until the last passenger was on and seated. And then observed the bus move off into the Thames and cruise towards central London uninterrupted by traffic or signalling delays.

Though river buses are not as plentiful as trains or regular buses, there are several connections from Putney to Greenwich.

In the meantime, I re-set my running App and got back to the task at hand. Soon I shot past my building and headed towards the heliport, a helicopter coming in for a landing. With serenity in the distance, I remembered another thing that I love about running.

Soon it would be over and it would be coffee time, which is croissant time for me, just me. More than meets the eye? Interesting, indeed.

On Life/

Do You Have a Monster Within?

Crazy question, isn’t it? I thought so too until I got thinking about thinking rather obsessively, in the interest of researching and writing my second novel, The Blindsided Prophet.

Available now in e-book and paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and most online retailers, it launches officially Monday. But what does it have to do with thinking?

A whole lot is the short answer.

Modern-day prophet Isaiah Brown thinks deeply not only for himself but also for the sake of others, too. And before it is all said and done, he proposes to leave people thinking their way out of chaos and into calm and serenity more often than not.

Deep, right! That’s why I’ve dedicated my latest Huff Post blog to mind matters, a subject so big, I simply couldn’t get it all done in one go.

Part I: Negative Thinking, Monstrously is hot off the wire. Check it out? And find out for yourself whether you have a monster within. Scary? But remember, all monsters are not created equally. Some are cute and cuddly like Cookie Monster while others are a bit grisly, if you will, like the Incredible Hulk.

Best to get to the bottom of this, but that comes in part II later this month.

For now, read with an open mind and answer the question for yourself: So, do you have a monster within? Do tell right here, on Facebook, Twitter or the Huff Post.

On Travel/

England, full of tantalizing surprises

I hate to love surprises. You didn’t read wrong; it’s true.  Whenever someone has a surprise for me, particularly Paul, I do everything I can to spoil it. I snoop, I guess, I badger, but thankfully, he’s got my number and turns a blind eye to my childish behaviour most times.

Because when he unmasks the surprise, I love it.

This past birthday weekend he planned two grand surprises, as impressive as the time he got me all the way to the airport before revealing that he was taking me to Amsterdam for the weekend. Imagine! The first of the two weekend surprises, I had managed to finagle out of him, long before we set out, but the not the last one. I didn’t find out until we were yards away.

First things first,  a week away from surprise number one, I cajoled Paul until he gave in and arranged a guessing game. He would answer ten yes, no questions of my choice. 1) Are we staying in the United Kingdom? Yes! 2) Is it somewhere we have been before? Yes! 3) Is it Babington House? Yes!

Fireworks! I got packing and Paul got relaxing. He had planned the holiday well in advance to avoid disappointment. On the Friday before my birthday we drove to the English countryside in Somerset.

Long before we got there, I remembered that I hadn’t packed my toothpaste, my robe or a face cloth. I always take the latter because hotels in Europe don’t always have one. Well, well, well, I needn’t have worried. Luxury is the word at Babington House. Feasting my eyes upon the tree-lined driveway and then the grand house, I remembered.

Yes, they had all these amenities and more in our room. We didn’t have to ask for a thing, except a glass of champagne. Anyhow, the room was just as I remembered. Paul had arranged the same one. Spacious and attractive, it had a freestanding, elegant bathtub in the middle of the bathroom.

The main house had a few changes such a massive guestroom, off limits unless you were the guest, which used to be a huge relaxation room, where chairs hung from the ceiling literally. The location of the restaurant had changed, but the food, every meal, was fresh and delicious, although not a patch on surprise number two.

I am getting there. Bear with! From enchanting grounds with breath-taking views to a cosy library with the most exquisite and comfy chairs, Babington House is one of England’s best holiday spots.

Now, for the second surprise. The Monday after my birthday, Paul worked as usual, came home and suggested we go out for dinner around 8.30ish. And no matter how much I coaxed, he kept quiet until we arrived in Knightsbridge and even then I had to guess it—Dinner by Heston Blumenthal at the Mandarin Oriental.

OMG was all I could say. And after a wonderful dinner in the most delightful atmosphere, I can tell you that Heston deserves his most recent Michelin Star for this very restaurant. If you go there, get anything! It all looks wonderful and simply must be. But we had the prime rib for two, most uncharacteristic of us, and it was divine, as was the serving of brown bread ice cream. Heaven!

Shame that Heston didn’t actually turn up there, but he does cook, design each and every recipe and test, test, test like only he can, so I am told. What can I say, the man is busy. In his absence, I managed to stash a keepsake—the menu. Shush! Now, I have never been one to behave so ridiculously, but with two major surprises within days of each other, I was feeling elated.

Some might say it was the wine. Good point, but anyone who knows Paul knows that these two surprises, back to back, are to be cherished and remembered for a long time.

Just kidding. The man is full of surprises and so is his England. Oops! Mine, too.

On Life/

Expat writer, coming of age

September 29, 2013 is a big day for 51-year-olds in Britain.  It is my birthday, not an occasion that I usually write about, except last year, when I turned the big 5-0. Only this year, Helen Fielding’s Bridget Jones, now this very age, makes her return to British society, very sadly as a widow but happily as a mother of two.

When I first heard this news, I took it rather badly. Not just because the charming character Mark Darcy had been killed off but also because the new much waited novel comes around the same time as my second novel.

Next week the press release goes out. Gulp!

Then in the interest of positive thinking, I thought better of the situation.  Why not celebrate the return of the 51-year-old. Everyone else is—The Sunday Times has the exclusive on it.

Interestingly enough, I’ve never thought that the clumsy but charming heroine and I were the same age and maybe we weren’t back then. I’ve always loved the idea of the books but remember much younger women than I going for the novels. I did watch the movie(s). Fun!

Anyhow, it could be that I approached the novels from a distance because I couldn’t relate—I was married when Bridget was a singleton. Now, however, we’re the same age, though she is now a widow and I am not, thank God!

I trust, however, that Bridget will deal with lots of coming of age issues and that there will be a happy ending.

And as I come of age, I mourn the loss of two acquaintances around my age, one a man and one a woman whom I knew from my childhood. Still, I’m excited about new beginnings and look forward to many happy endings.

So on this 51st birthday, I celebrate everyone who is coming of age. As the clever birthday card a certain cousin sent a few years ago said: from one hot chick to another–Happy Birthday Bridget Jones!

But if that is you too, whomever you are, whatever day you come into this age this year—Happy Birthday!

On Lifestyle/

Cotswolds: An expats must-know in England

“…When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford.” Samuel Johnson

Samuel Johnson’s rather dogmatic quote happens to be one of my favourite; even it does get up the nose of a few good folks. Like it or lump it, London is a first class city—playground for the imaginative. And I truly don’t tire of the place.

Still, I enjoy getting out of the capital from time to time and seeing what else England has to offer. Otherwise, there is a risk of becoming insular, as if there isn’t anything or any place else in the country.

On the contrary, England has much to offer as is evident in the prolific writing of its many literary greats, including the Brontes, who lived and wrote in Yorkshire; William Wordsworth, who lived in the Lake District; Jane Austen, who worked in Bath; Agatha Christie, who used the English Rivera as a backdrop for her detective stories; William Shakespeare, who is believed to have produced many of his works from his cottage in Stratford Upon Avon; Charles Dickens, who set stories in his birthplace,Portsmouth, and so on.

But even beyond places that have been made well known through literature, there are others as beautiful and as inspirational.

Most recently we took a short break to the Cotswolds, where nature simply is at its best. From rambling vales to rising hills, the area is a walker’s treat—saw a few runners too. Not to mention the water enthusiasts from jet skiers to swimmers, though I still can’t imagine why anyone would like to swim in the Thames.  It’s rather murky, if you ask me.

Admittedly, however, the water at the mouth of the river, flowing in a stony creek, is crystal clear and even as the river widens and deepens, you can still see through the water. Also, there are other rivers and lakes galore in the Cotswolds.

But having written about the Thames Path back in April, I was delighted to see the river’s beginning and noted that it would take about ten days to walk from its source to London. I decided to pass, as we needed to be back home much sooner.

Besides, we’d heard about the weather forecast—rainy, rainy, rainy!

In the meantime, we visited several pretty villages—Bourton on the Water, Burford, and Lechlade to name a few. Endowed with lovely trees and cobblestone streets, most of the villages have unique characteristics of some kind, whether it is a 15thcentury church or a lovely water source running through it.

In terms of commonality, however, the English villages all feature  very beautiful limestone, a local church, a village hall, and pubs and tearooms, some more charming than others. For example, I can highly recommend the Lamb Inn for its delicious food, great ambience and hospitable service.

Meanwhile, in addition to its lovely villages, rivers, lakes, valleys and woods, where some wildlife can be seen, the Cotswolds also has nature reserves and farm parks, gardens, museums and endless country lanes and roads with quaint names such as Down Ampney, Charlham Lane, Beech Lea and Meysey’s Close. Sounds like a television show, a short story, a movie, doesn’t it?

No wonder such towns are often used as a backdrop for storytelling. Anyhow, for shopping and the likes, the pretty town of Cirencester is nearby as are other mid-size cities.

For an opportunity to see traditional England at its most natural, the Cotswolds is an expat’s must know. Great stop for those on holiday who want to see England outside of the capital, too.

On Travel/

Greece: Heating Up or Cooling Down

Rhodes, Greece – What can I say about Greece? Ancient yet modern, idyllic yet flawed, and energetic yet sluggish. I can also say that it tells some of my favourite stories of all time–those of the Trojan War, Medea, Cupid, Zeus, Hera, Helios and so on.

It’s a wonder I didn’t make my way here until now.

Anyhow I’m here. Speaking of Helios, he’s breathing hot air on the island right about now–idyllic for some (e.g., Paul) and flawed for others (e.g. Sonja). Make no mistake about it, I like the sun. I grew up in Georgia USA and have spent plenty of time in Fla., the sunshine state.

But having lived in London for about 15 years, my skin and hair have both taken a mild disliking to intense heat. Hence, the armour of creams and sprays to battle it. Of course, there’s two sides to every story and the other side to warm is cool, easily found here too, if you like a dip in the pool or the ocean or only come out at night for strolls by the sea. The latter takes care of idyllic for me.

As for the modernity of the place, you’ll find fancy resort hotels that come for several dimes a dozen and plenty of decent shopping in Rhodes town. But if this is not what you came for, a trip to the city’s acropolis and/or a stroll around the old town will surely offer the traditional Greece.

Meanwhile, in spots at the resorts, in town, and transporting there and back, you get the feeling that Greece is on the upswing. And so it is,according to analysts. Most recently, the country’s ship tycoons have agreed to help with the debt. Still, the ailing economy, which faltered back in 2009, has a long way to go–empty restaurants, bars, etc…are more apparent than full ones. And this is the high season.

Heartbreaking for me and I’m just a tourist. I can only imagine what the proprietors feel like, trying to lure the few people milling around into their establishment.

During good times, this might have been a sport or a game for these big hearted people. During the down times, however, I get the impression that they don’t feel in charge of the game at all. Still, as a group they couldn’t be any more hospitable. Paul and I have been welcomed generously everywhere as have others I have noticed and made to feel right at home.

To this end, there’s no way to go but up. But before we are back in the air and on the way back to England, we will get out and see more of the upside of this idyllic island–Greek dancing tonight and a trip to Lindos to come and much more.

Meanwhile, time to cool down. A toe in the pool. Okay, a leg at least. How refreshing!

On Life/

Going the six mile distance and looking ahead

A few weeks before turning the Big 5-0 last year, I panicked that I hadn’t achieved all the things that I wanted to achieve by that milestone. What was I going to do about it? Sink or swim? After a short debate with myself, I decided to swim, though I literally don’t know how, and have never been much interested in learning either.

But I do know how to run. Ah ha! Very interesting, I thought and willed myself to sign up for a race and then running school to secure my goal. You see, I had been playing at running so to speak, since stalling in a race in middle school.

Thus, one of the fifty goals I set for myself to attain before my next birthday was to run a major race. Not to worry, all goals were not as lofty as this one.

Good thing or I’d have to admit defeat. Although, I’m thrilled to have gone the distance, well over two months before the deadline, I ache beyond what a fit finisher should ache.

Hence, the foot and leg massage at the Chelsea Day Spa.

Meanwhile, let me tell you a little bit about my race. I ran it, the British 10k, along with approximately 20,000 people, not in record time, but in 1 hour 19 minutes roughly. Metaphorically, I ran a blind race. All I can remember focusing on to any degree was the Blackfriars underpass because it was a haven of shade. Imagine.

Definitely an iconic route as pegged by the race promoters, the 10K starts on Piccadilly and winds through St James, goes along the Embankment, up to the City and back to Parliament Square and ends at the junction of Royal Horse Guards. Apparently, I passed St. James Palace, St. Paul’s Cathedral, Westminster Abbey (kind of remember) and countless more notable landmarks.

Though I have driven around and sauntered around the areas many times,  I didn’t see much Sunday.

My brother wrote yesterday and asked if I had run the entire time.

“Of course,” I boasted!

But I didn’t confess that around the 6k marker, I fiddled desperately with my iPhone until I finally had to stop and get some much needed music to spur me on. I must have lost a minute or two there,  and once in the tunnel, I stalled after being bumped and then again on the Embankment. On Victoria Street, as I turned the final corner to head to the finish line, I went into a power walk for about five seconds and realised that  walking could be the death of my finish, so back to a slow jog I went.

I made it! Photos to prove it!

Despite the hot weather and the fact that I had not trained properly throughout June, I celebrated my finish, time included,  jubilantly, perhaps a little too jubilantly.

While getting ready to meet the family for some champers, I had my first glass of the bubbly. Cool and crisp though it was, I’m not bubbling today, nor was I yesterday, climbing up and down stairs in train stations. Still I feel great to have gone the distance. Never mind the hurdles, the roadblocks, the near quits.

I am a runner; for real! I can’t promise that I will become an enthusiast or a recorder breaker for that matter, but never again, knowingly, will I stall at the start line. Never!

No looking back, for me; it’s all looking ahead. Next!

Going the six mile distance and looking ahead_1  Going the six mile distance and looking ahead_3 Re-energising Going the six mile distance and looking ahead_2 Crossing the Finish Line_5Crossing the Finish Line

On Lifestyle/

Expat writer prepares to go the distance

Yesterday morning I completed my last run before my first 10K on Sunday. Hurray! As I came to the end of the 5.1-mile run, I felt like I had accomplished the 6.2-mile job already.

Make no mistake about it, the run wasn’t easy and I’m sure Sunday’s won’t be easy either, maybe tougher. Meanwhile, I caught up with Paul before he dashed out to work and he, who never tells me I look a mess, couldn’t hold his tongue.

Never mind!

But having come back from the US just over a week ago with little preparation during the month of June, I wouldn’t have thought that I could make four miles, certainly not five.

And though I struggled at the 3.86-mile marker, I dug deep. The Chelsea Bridge, a mile behind me and the Albert Bridge, less than a quarter of a mile, I looked towards Wandsworth Bridge, theoretically. At that stage, I couldn’t see it for the bend in the Thames Path.

Still, I somehow convinced my knees and the rest of me that it was a necessary task to reach that bridge. It would serve us all well.

If the lady who smiled widely at me around that time is reading this, I’m glad for the opportunity to explain my singing, more like moaning. I was struggling and found myself digging deep to keep going. Thank Heavens for Kirk Franklin’s Smile and your smile too!

I couldn’t help smiling that last mile myself. After stretching and showering, I went through my email messages to find tips from the race promoters and the training program I am following:

Pick up my race pack  – ✔

Plan attire – ✔

Hydrate – Working on it but admittedly was stomped by the advice not to drink sports drink with protein until I read up on it. Eek so protein might have been at the centre of my digestion woes during Monday’s run. In any case, all is well that ends well!

Head to the start line – Will do with plenty of time.

And remember you always have one cup left. Good because I am going to need it!

In the meantime, I’m continuing to carb load but not too much and I’ve given my muscles some strength training as promised today to ensure that my knees are not the only ones working. Tomorrow, I’ll spend recovering.

And Sunday, I’ll run, bringing the mileage since April to 86 miles. A closer inspection might reveal that I didn’t put in nearly enough miles to properly prepare for a 10K , but at first glance, it looks like a heap of miles. Yeah!

On Lifestyle/

Expat writer returns to balanced existence

A month  in the US calls for a reality check. Never willingly or knowingly will I disown my birth country, but for the first time in 15 years, I felt seriously homesick for my adopted country, at least my adopted city.

Though my time in the US was both fulfilling and rewarding, it left me feeling rather melancholy.

I could blame the sombre feeling on a number of things, but I will spare us all the analysis and pin it on one thing–imbalance.

Precisely, the relationship between my life in the UK and my visit to the US were completely out of sync. In fact, my world in the UK ceased to exist, except for the short  conversations I had with Paul daily.

Rightly or wrongly, I found myself in a web of commitment  to my parents that left little room for anything else. Some say it was a web of guilt; in any case, that’s another story.

The point is most days from 5.30 a.m. to at least 11 p.m., I stayed on task, shirking the following: reading, running (except two hard three mile runs), exercising (withstanding two insufficient work outs) and writing, full stop. My dad likened me to our hardworking caregiver who reminds me of the never tiring Energizer Bunny, though I did tire.

For instance, every time I found the time to sit down with my iPad or my dad’s MacBook to write, I became listless, wordless to be exact. To my editor in the UK, I must say sorry for dropping the ball and never picking it up again on the Huff Post blog. Ironically, its subject had to do with writing (metaphorically) one’s own ticket via thinking.

Too deep I told myself and tried my hand at lighter subjects, including running in dreadful heat, dealing with cashiers as slow as molasses, and being hugged by a hostess in a restaurant. Still, I didn’t produce anything.

It was only after Nadal lost at Wimbledon, followed by Federer, then Maria Sharapova, and finally Serena Williams that I accepted the melancholy for what it was–imbalance.

No matter how accomplished you are if you are imbalanced, you’re likely to be off your game. Very well, I told myself! But it doesn’t have to define you.

Sure it has to be acknowledged and even mourned. But after that, it has to be left in the past.

So it has been. Today, I think back over the month of June and see that homesickness was less about leaving Georgia and more about returning to a balanced existence, that is if you can call a chaotic airport a balance. Heathrow, true to its reputation, was overflowing with thousands of passengers at the border, most of them foreign.  Good thing I tagged along with Paul or I might be still queueing now.

And never mind the weather’s cool and gray reception, far from Georgia’s hot and bright climate, even in the rain. Memories of sun rays burning through steamy rain are fresh in my mind. Now that was refreshing.

Still, it was time to say goodbye. Anyhow, with time the memories will become stale, as will the melancholy. Quite frankly I have a book to promote, several blogs to write, and a race to run, literally–10K coming up soon!