I love it when a plan comes together

The Sous Chef and I just got back from a cycling trip in Brittany (but sans cycle computer so we have no idea how many miles we did). The Sous Chef proved worthy of his name, as we cooked some excellent dishes on our new primus optima stove (including spaghetti carbonara, risotto, fried bananas) which is no mean feat with limited ingredient options and only one heat source. We’re planning to take the stove with us on our round the world cycle tour, as it burns on anything (even petrol if necessary).  Since we’re carting all our provisions around on bikes and up every hill it means packing very lightly and being smart when it comes to what foods to carry and when to buy. As it turned out, we cooked out every night except twice.

Although I’m a bit of a polyglot, French is not really in my repertoire. I realised that I can say more useful things in Russian than I can in French and I don’t consider myself a competent Russian-speaker by any means (about the level of the average person’s French or Spanish, I’d say). Still, we managed somehow and people never snubbed our pathetic attempts at pronunciation and were always extremely nice to us.

My linguistic skills did come in handy on our second restaurant meal on the last evening in St Malo, though. We found a Restaurant Javanaise. Within a minute I noticed that the staff all spoke Indonesian so rather than struggle with French we communicated in Indonesian. Easy! The food was excellent (if you go there, have the Rendang Padang Asli, it certainly tasted ‘asli’ (authentic) to me which is more than I can say for any other Rendang I’ve had since leaving Indonesia). It was great to be able to communicate freely for a change.

I got my essay back that was driving me crazy for its vague question and my inability to tie it all together into a coherent piece of writing. I expected a not so terrific mark (maybe 60%) but was amazed at the 78% I got. I’ve reread it and still don’t think it deserves that much, but then I’ve had essays I think are better than their received mark too so I guess it evens out somehow.

I’ ve also now got the materials for my next course which runs concurrently with this one for a while (so I’ll be revising for an exam AND doing an assignment for the other due on the same day as my exam. Eeeep!!) but once that course is done, I’ll have finished my degree.

And here’s the perfect timing. My final piece of work to submit for my degree will be sent on 24th November. After that, no more uni work to do. I’ll be free. Meanwhile, the Sous Chef is to be made redundant and we’ve been waiting for the official notification of timescales for when he’d be actually unemployed. There’ve been some changes and it seems he’ll be free as of December. This means I finish sooner than expected (I thought it’d be January) and he gets paid for longer than expected (we though it’d be October) and we both achieve the freedom we need to travel at about the same time. Whoop!!!

All we have to do now is figure out how to rent the house out, where to keep up our stuff, buy the equipment we need, plan our route around the world (hmm South America or New Zealand start…) plan the visas and organise the finances. Easy  (and all while revising. Oh God)

suggest a blog name competition

I’ve been doing lots more thinking about the current situation and talking with the Sous Chef and I’ve come to the conclusion that this is marvellous news that just sounded a bit scary.

Originally, the Sous Chef was going to work for one more year,  save for that year and then, with that extra money put a loft extension in (no, I don’t know why, either) and then travel. That was the plan. The change of plan from this redundancy is that he doesn’t work until summer 2010 but that we go Feb 2010 and instead of the extra savings, we take the redundancy money to fund the trip.  I also have a small nest egg that will give us enough to get by on for up to year upon our return to Blighty. It’s not enough for a comfortable year but its enough to ward off starvation in the event  we can’t find work, which I’m sure we will of some sort.

The more I think about this, the less afraid I get. How many people ever get the chance to do something like this? How many people can just throw everything up in the air and go on an expedition around the world? Now’s the time to do it. Now is the time to do something with that wonderful thing called LIFE before it passes by. I loved the experience of cycling in India. I’m beginning to think The Sous Chef deliberately did that: choosing to go to India just to test my mettle and see whether I can cope with being on the road day in, day out in all that chaos – not to mention whether our relationship could take it.

At the moment our relationship is extremely strong so although it might well test us as a couple, I’m reasonably sure we can weather that.  Our relationship started off a bit unstable for the first 6 months (I was insecure. I loved him to pieces but didn’t believe he could possibly love me back). Then I learned to trust him and we’ve been solid ever since. This relationship has changed me. We’ve not been together all that long.  It feels like we’ve been together for decades and should be celebrating our silver wedding anniversary, but actually we’ve known each other only four and a half years and have been a couple for three and a half. We’ve been lovebirds all through that and have enormous respect for each other. I often feel this is the best relationship anyone could ever possibly hope to have. How we managed to make it this good is beyond me. Loving each other helps but it has to be more than that.  There is something we do, some way we interact that works well for the other person, who then reciprocates.  I know I can always rely on him being fair, being reasonable. I am often amazed at how fair and reasonable we can be even on issues we disagree on.

I have learned a lot from him. I’ve learned that it’s ok to have feelings, and that my opinions are worth something (I always used to keep both under wraps). I’ve learned that talking about something bothering you early is better than letting it go round and round your mind. You can build up some pretty hefty misconceptions and false logic given enough time to run in circles.  I’ve found myself to have got the wrong end of the stick a few times.  Most importantly, I have learned to trust him. My trust had been broken by a previous man and it took a while for me to be completely sure he really is a totally different animal to him.  He has never done anything to hurt me nor given me reason to think he would. That trust I have in him  (I don’t just mean in fidelity. I trust him to be to kind, to be fair, to be honest, to be there) is one ingredient in the glue that holds us together. I more than love him. I have deep respect for him. I have complete acceptance of him. I don’t think he is perfect but his imperfections are part of the whole package. My heart could not have chosen better.

ok, enough of the sappy stuff.  I’d like to set up a website and/or blog to chart our progress, give the concerned friends and rellies a place to check where we are, what we’re doing and how it’s going.  Suggestions for names of this blog and/or website would be greatly appreciated.

Afrocuban Weekender

Just got back from an Afrocuban 4 day weekender in Norfolk with my good friend and fellow salsa nut C-side. She persuaded me to go despite my current broke-ness and revision-commitments.
I figured a weekend of some smooth cuban would be a nice distraction. I haven’t danced cuban salsa in a loooong time (the more recent dancing escapades have been ‘cross-body’ style, a different animal entirely)

So I went and I had TOTALLY underestimated how much fun I would have. The weekend was absolutely TERRIFIC. The teachers were great and taught with plenty of humour. It wasn’t wall to wall salsa, either. As well as salsa, we also had rumba (cuban rumba not that ballroom rubbish), son (oh diVINE!), belly dancing (respect to belly dancers. jaw-dropping skill and a heck of a lot of muscle power), Lambada Zouk (fluid and beautiful), bachata (move those hips), reggaeton /9move every muscle in your body) and some drumming workshops if the dancing had taken its toll.

Lessons went on throughout the day, at 7pm we were fed and then had to get a few hours kip in before hitting the dance floor as parties went on until 6am or 4am. (with more lessons the next morning).

Somehow, C-side and I managed to always drag our weary bodies to the dance floor and have a great night to the 3-2 of the clave beat. And no wonder! We were spoiled for choice with lots of great great dancers. No one stepping on toes or wrenching our arms, no sleazy types (although I did slap one chap. More on that later). It was just really really nice people who you could get to know between lessons and arrange to dance at the party later.

C-side and I quickly pointed out our favourites to each other. Sweet-E (a gorgeous dancer on the floor and a shy little sweetheart off the floor) ranked very highly. As did some very nice chaps from Laahndon who kept insisting we go to visit the capital and dance there (I must admit I’m tempted – the standard of dancer in London is higher than in Brighton). C-side and I were definitely in the groove. I haven’t had so many terrific dances in a looooong time.

Mind you, I did get caught out- and this is where the slap happened. During a salsa number my dance partner and I broke apart and started dancing Rumba for a bit. Now in Rumba there is a sort of game. You do not touch your partner at ALL. The woman is meant to be seductive but coy while the man is preening (like a rooster) and trying to gain her attention. The moves are very simple but it’s how you move, no fancy steps. Since you’re not touching, you can move a distance apart but you’re still dancing together. She is supposed to flirt but not too much while he puffs out his chest and struts. But it’s not all innocent. The guy can, at some stage in the music, suddenly, even at a distance, gesture sharply (often with the hips, a foot or a knee) toward her (this is called a vacuna or ‘vaccination’) and she is supposed to spot this and quickly block by placing her hands over her privates. She might, if she fails to block in time, show her defeat by drawing a pregnant belly with her hands. So there I was, seductively dancing Rumba when suddenly! – aaargh!! under the circumstances, I decided not to draw the belly and just slapped him instead.

I think we managed to squeeze in about 11 hours dancing in every 24 hour period so it’s no wonder c-side and I were both groaning on the train home. My legs and abdominals are sore and I definitely haven’t recovered from the hours of dancing yet and it’s been two hot baths and three early nights since then.

Definitely will be going next year. Definitely.

tripping the light fantastic

It had been a while. I hoped it was like falling off a bike or is it riding a log? Something like that. Anyway, it’s been more than two years.

Recently, however, I ventured out on the dance floor in my hand-made, sparkly, strappy, high-heeled, dance shoes and twirled and spun and stepped and swished to the infectious clavé beat. I was nervous when I first went in but hearing the music I was itching to get out there.

Yes, I was back at salsa and despite my time away I wasn’t as rusty as I’d expected and didn’t break anyone’s shoulders by spinning the wrong way.

with split soles - thin as a slice of ham

In the past, I’ve always danced in jazz shoes. Shoes is actually the wrong name for them. They are about as substantial as socks. A thin heel at the back, a patch of suede at the ball of the foot and nothing at all in between. The rest is softest leather and it’s impossible to trip. I’d tried dancing in high heels but I can’t even walk in them and so had always ended up staggering about and misjudging my step when the heel touched the floor, sending me falling my way through a complicated move.

Last night, since I was wearing a halterneck dress that was not only most forgiving in my least favoured areas but also made my bust look flippin’ amazing, I figured I should bite the bullet and wear the heels (but took the jazz shoes along to change into, just in case).

Readers, I was fabulous. No falling over, no tripping on my own feet, no lurching toward other dancing couples due to a mis-timed step and I could spin looking relatively composed (rather than terrified) most of the time. In other words, I danced a whole lot better than I had expected and it was like I had never been away. Plus, whenever I looked down I would see beautiful, sparkly feet, which were mine! (I don’t have a shoe-thing at all but even I was taken aback by how lovely my sparkly feet looked – like a real girly!).

I expected to be a liability. I apologised to anyone who asked me to dance that I was out of practice and for them to be gentle with me but I always followed well and each asked me for more dances later on, so I couldn’t have been that bad for them. One begged me to come to his salsa haunt and called me “a thing of beauty”.

On reflection he must have been a ‘man of partial sight’ because this was the end of the evening and (as a horrified look in the mirror in the ladies later confirmed) I looked a wreck. The face was an alarming red, I was dripping with sweat and had hair matted to my head as the sweaty tresses had nowhere else to go. The back of my neck was drenched and more hair was stuck to the skin because somewhere, mid-spin, I’d lost my hair-elastic so hadn’t been able to tie it up out of the way. I also had a bit of a limp since those heels were no longer like magic on my feet. I was like the Little Mermaid. Having exchanged her beautiful voice for some human legs, the sea witch warned her that every step would feel like daggers (Hans Christian Anderson must have walked in heels during his spare time – I’m sure of it!)

The feet have been sore for three days now. My arches practically creak every time I take a step. It was worth it, though. So worth it.