Tuesday. I’ve stocked up on croissants, salami, camembert, bananas and other fruit so I can have a 6 am breakfast in my hotel room. There’s tea bags and a kettle and I’ve got my cereal bars and also fresh milk. Entry to the Swimming pool is at 7.30, so it’s my first opportunity to warm up in the competition pool. Amazingly the legs are still holding out although I think they may be in shock, having had a week off kicking two weeks before the games. What I do have to remember for the 200 metre Backstroke is that it’s eight lengths of this pool.
I’ve been known to mis-count and get disqualified. My other worry is that the ending in this pool feels different and I decide to take a quick peek as I approach the wall. It all seems to go well, particularly with the new pre-race breathing to stock up on oxygen. The competition is tough and I manage fourth place again but also another personal best. Coach is not so happy though – worried that my look over the shoulder might be interpreted by the referee as being on my side – leading to disqualification. The other thing is that my knees bent and came out of the water. It’s interesting the difference between what you think you are doing and what is actually happening. There’s something called kinaesthetic awareness – the position of the body in relation to one’s surroundings. It’s important in dance and if you are ever walking backwards in a crowd. I’ve been working on my straight legs in training and when I do a second warm-up before our medley relay I check that they are straight – they seem to be. We’ve got a relay team adding up to 240+ years and I’m starting off with the 100 m Backstroke – concentrating on straight legs. I can feel them wanting to bend in the heat of racing – reverting to old habits and I have to force them to behave. My 100 Backstroke is one second slower than Sunday, but I have swum quite a lot already today and it’s enough for us to get a silver medal in our age-group.
It’s been a wonderful morning watching so many of our team do 200 Fly, 50 freestyle and 50 Breaststroke and getting medals. I reward myself with a beer and lunch at the bistro by the local Metro.
Wednesday. I have enough victuals for a repeat early breakfast as it’s the 800 metres freestyle which is first up in the schedule. We’re racing two to a lane – two in the time of one. I’ve done this before in New Zealand, setting off at the same time and I’m not thrilled about the idea. This time, we are set off at different times so that we hopefully touch the electronic pads alternately. This turns out to be OK and I’m able to keep an eye out for the guy in the next lane who is around my time.
It’s a while since I did 800 in a twenty-five-metre pool so it’s great that one of our team mates (Paul) has volunteered to operate the counter and cheer me on at each turn. It’s a much-improved time and another personal best. I’m fourth again and grrrr – only three seconds away from a bronze medal. Nothing is ever perfect and my notes from Coach tell me that my kick was sporadic and hence my bum too low in the water. I can also extend my reach further to push more water back to the other end of the pool. There’s always room for improvement and at this age, getting the technique right is the only way to get faster, or at least hold ground. I think that unless you are in an Olympic Squad, the only way to train for some of the longer distances is by competing often.
For the 4 x 100 freestyle and 4 x 50 medley relays, we drop down an age-group to 200+ years. In this bracket the competition is fierce and we manage 9th and 6th respectively. Team Captain, Andy Benson’s clever pairing up means lots of medals in the relays. The drama is intense in the 120-year men’s 4 x 50 relays and our teams are spectacular with some lightening-fast tumble turns. Our mixed medley 120+ team are just fantastic and take not only the gold but an IGLA record.
I have time to snooze before buying picnic stuff and making my way to Parc Buttes Chaumont. We’re having a Pink Flamingo rehearsal followed by a picnic.
Saturday, the day, the opening day of the Gay Games, my first ever. It’s full of queues and standing around. I’m wearing my Out for Sport Team LGBT top so I can greet and be greeted by fellow sports people. St Pancras is a constant throng of travellers and as I have fifteen minutes before my train lane is opened, there’s time for a coffee and Pain aux Raisin. When I do join the queue, it’s stretched way down the shopping concourse. I narrowly head off a large tour party who is approaching from the other direction to join said queue. A woman wearing my Out for Sport top is looking for the end of the queue. She’s pushing a large suitcase with a hockey stick protruding. Our eyes lock in recognition and even though we’ve never met, greet each other like long lost friends so she can join me in the queue. Maria plays for the London Royals Hockey Team. Amazingly the queue moves quickly and we are seen through the barriers, security, where our bags are scanned and passports checked – automatically. Michael and Jay (both not competing due to injury) join us. Others from Out to Swim hove into view and we find ourselves in the same carriage and others not far away. The Out to Swim women behind me have packed a healthy- looking brunch with Prosecco. Our amazing coordinator, Christophe and team are at Gare du Nord to hand out our accreditation packs which they have collected for the team.
I’ve got time to check into my Hotel and sort myself out, have some lunch at the Café over the road, before making my way to the Opening Ceremony at the Stade Jean Bouin. There are handy signs outside the Metro directing us to the Stade and there are other athletes heading in the same direction. I arrive at the suggested time of 5pm. It’s stinking hot and not spotting anyone else I know, take up a position in the shade and unfurl the Out to Swim flag, which I’ve volunteered to transport. It acts as a beacon and gradually team members gather. It’s a long hot wait with nowhere to sit but on the ground. An MC gets everyone involved by identifying countries, encouraging cheering and the like.
Various countries are summoned up onto a small make-shift stage and it’s interesting to note that China is invited up before Taiwan. China has apparently objected that Taiwan are controversially using their flag, so going first reduces the likelihood of a protest. Hong Kong (the next Gay Games host) is also represented separately. There’s a group of Australians quite near us and when their call comes to come to the stage, they just stand there talking. Only a handful of Aussies make it to the stage.
When it’s Great Britain’s time to mount the stage, there’s a general barging past, interrupting conversations and someone trying to photograph Thai drag queens. Two hours and a disgusting burger and chips later, it’s time to line up in alphabetical order of country, to enter the stadium. Étais Unis are caught unawares by their move up the alphabet. Furthermore, they are supposed to be parading in alphabetical order of States. The announcer is constantly telling countries to ‘go to the Access area’ but from where we are, there are no clues as to where this might be. People from Alaska can be seen dawdling in the wrong direction. Eventually the MC gives up calling out US states and just pleads for anyone from the US to just go to the access area. This area turns out to be a tallish flag just out of view to the side.
At around 8.30pm – three and a half hours later, we enter the queue (some of the team are exhausted and have gone home to rest for the races tomorrow) and it’s a relief to be walking, even if it is only around the back of the Stade. We enter waving our Team GB white balloons which Vicki has organised. We zig-zag over the rugby pitch on a white plastic path which protects the grass. There’s a lot of noise and announcements in French which I don’t understand, and then we exit, not far from where we’ve been waiting to enter into the seating area. The French are, as host nation, the last to process and they seem to go on forever. In the meanwhile, our British balloons have escaped, some onto the pitch and several get trapped by a portable fan.
Like harmless bombs, they sneak around the place and one even makes it into the French procession. While we wait for everyone to enter, attempts at Mexican waves are tried with varying degrees of success. The entertainment begins with an impressive gymnastic display of cheer-leading, except it’s on the other side of the stadium and played to the spectators/supporters. The next act, a singer with dancers plays to the competitors, but it’s all too small for this vast arena even though it is relayed on screens. When a French comedian comes on and wonders why no one can understand him, so he starts again in English – It’s quite a good joke, but too small for this place – it’s time to leave, have beer and Glacé at a café near the hotel before retiring to rest my legs for tomorrow. It’s a big ask to fill a stadium this size with entertainment other than Rugby.
Sunday. It’s the usual dilemma, when to eat and does the hotel do breakfast early enough? Fortunately, my only race today is early in the afternoon, so I opt for the full breakfast at 7.00, hitting on the idea to prepare a small filled baguette with salami, camembert, cucumber and a lettuce leaf to eat later. I arrive at the pool hours too early and decide to test out the water by doing a pre-warm up. Everything (in the body) seems to be working as it should except that the roof of Piscine Georges Vallerey is open and the sun is streaming in. Recalling the navigation problems in the Mallorca out-door pool, not to mention the blinding sun, I ask if the roof can be closed for the backstroke. No, it can’t, because it’s made of corrugated iron and heats up. I then get a lecture from the official about how they held international meets here and how to count stokes from the flags and look at the lane ropes. ‘Yes, I know all that.’
I reply tartly. So, no luck there. There’s an afternoon warm-up session and it takes me a while to break through the wall and get going again. I’ve got my eye on the sun on Lane 4 now and it all seems manageable. Suddenly I discover I’ve been moved up a heat and to lane 1 – not my favourite. On poolside there is an announcement that backstroke starting bars are available. Suddenly everyone is asking me about them. I explain that they prevent slipping on the wall of the pool, but because they stick out a few millimetres, the toes must be above the bar touching the electronic pads. Guys look dubious, so I say ‘If you are not comfortable, don’t use them,’ and they cheer up. For the first time, I remember to stock up on oxygen by breathing deeply several times before the start and have the most comfortable and enjoyable 100 M Backstroke for a long time with a 4th place. I knew the Americans were fast (1st place 20 seconds faster than me) and so are the Canadians.
Out to Swim seem to be collecting loads of medals, particularly our women. At the end of day one I’ve already lost count of our team medal count. It’s been a long full day, cheering everyone on – time for beer and dinner at a café near the hotel.
Monday is another late start for me and again, only one race. Looking at the preliminary sheets there are three guys ahead of me entering forty-five seconds. Over a year ago I entered forty-six, so I have to swim faster than at least one of them to get a bronze. It’s time to focus and this time I don’t arrive too early and spend thirty minutes carefully warming up with backstroke kick and drills included. I try a fifty backstroke, but this is not a good idea as there as there are no backstroke flags in the warm-up pool. I whack my arm on the end of the pool – ow! Fortunately, no serious damage is done so I end up with a few HVO’s to get the blood flowing. High Velocity Overdrives involve a fast push-off and max effort for about six strokes followed by easy to the end of the pool. Back in the stands, a few distractions cause minor panic as I’ve got to change into my Arena Skins for the race.
As they are literally skin tight – this can take a few minutes and I need to sit down in a cubicle and roll them up my legs to start with. All goes well and I’m below the forty-five seconds entered by the guys in the next heat. Amazingly, in a field of Americans three of the guys don’t swim that fast and two haven’t turned up so I get the gold medal – fantastic and unexpected, with a personal best thrown in.
I’m dining Chéz Robert Jolly and his partner Gerrard near Port D’Italie this evening. Robert sort of belongs to Paris Aquatique, but is swimming for Australia – his home country this week. He turns up at a lot of the international meets as well as the British ones. He’s invited a couple from West Hollywood aquatics to make up five for dinner. We are all in the older age-groups, so there’s stuff to talk about. The Californians have quite a few ‘interesting’ things to say about their current president. Gerrard is a charming host and Robert has done us five magnificent courses. We can’t stay too late as we are all swimming in the morning and I have a very early start.
It’s the day before the day before and I’m supposed to be race-fit and ready to swim fast. We’ve been tapering for some weeks now which apparently means swimming hard, swimming relaxed and getting quite a bit of rest. Hmm – last night’s session was tough and my glutes are feeling it today. That’s because I’ve been off kicking for a week – using a pull buoy – to get over a last-minute hamstring injury. The old legs got a bit of a shock.
I’ve just qualified as a Swimming Teacher’s assistant and am full of the theory and mechanics of swimming. Coach got us to do big arms – no polite ‘ladies’ swimming – to move that water out of the way. Then there were endless lengths with full lungs for buoyancy – no breathing. Finally, the instruction was ‘no splashing’ – it increases drag. I like no splashing. Apparently, we looked much better by the end of the session, but will we be fast enough to beat the Americans in Paris?
Once a month we all converge from our various pools to a semi-outdoor food hall and I thought a Mixed grill had been earnt – protein replacement as a reward. I got talking to one of the guys from Lessons who is having difficulty breathing out and wanted to know if going to the gym would help his fitness. I’m a great believer in breathing out – seriously – but have no experience of gong to the gym so I could only help on the first count. I got home late to find the heat sheets for the games had arrived and spent hours on my phone scrolling through hundreds of pages of heats to find my events and to sus out the competition. Yep, the Americans are coming and it’s going to be tough. One ray of hope is that I entered over a year ago and some of my times are better than then.
There’s been a lot of hype around the games from within the club and endless newsletters from the Federation of Gay Games. Then there’s been offers of things to do in Paris: shopping, sightseeing and social activities. It will all take a week – longer than any other swim meet I’ve been to. Inevitably with such a large organisation, things go wrong and the policy of feeding out information gradually over the months has upset travel bookings, accommodation and created logistical nightmares on how to get from a, to b. to c. in time. Somehow it should all come together on Saturday evening for the Opening Ceremony. At the end of the day, it’s just another LGBT sports meet and I’ve done a few around the world in the last seven years.
The Day Before
My first priority is a last-minute check-up with Robbie, my magician, Sports Masseur and Osteopath. He manages to keep this now Sixty-seven-year-old body in shape and he did miraculous work on my hamstring earlier in the week. I always feel on a high afterwards, so it’s a slow relaxed ride to Sainsburys to stock up on cereal bars. It’s too hot to do anything much but lie on the settee – resting – snoozing – reading, having lunch followed by more of the above. Boring really. I’m up-to-date with home improvements and anyway, DIY doesn’t agree with my swimming muscles. A few weeks ago, I complained about it to my friend Ros. ‘You’re more of a racehorse than a donkey, aren’t you?’ she said. Looking at the start sheets now, I don’t feel much like a racehorse. The times submitted by the American swimmers make me realise that I’m heading for a world class Masters competition.
Then there’s the Pink Flamingo. We’ve been rehearsing our five – minute routine of entertainment on the theme of The French Kiss. I’ve unexpectedly found myself in the opening dance routine – something I haven’t done in over twenty-five years. Fortunately, the dance is only fifty to sixty seconds long and I don’t have to do any double pirouettes. We’ve been rehearsing in car parks and public gardens around London, to the entertainment of passers-by.
Tonight, is the last opportunity to train before racing in Paris and it’s a relief to get of the settee and move the body. The session is quite busy but the coach is kind today so that those of us going to Paris don’t swim hard all the time. At the end of an hour (the session is ninety minutes) we have to swim down and get out, she doesn’t want us over doing it. Those not going to Paris get to swim hard for another half hour.
It’s day three, our second two-session day when Stefano and Katie join the group. The rest of us are just easing through the pain barrier – still creaking our joints, sinews and muscles. This morning we have Pamela from Italy coaching. She tells Stefano , in Italian, that he’s not getting away with anything. She has a loud commanding voice but she looks too small and young to be a real Italian Mama. There’s a lot of work with fins – freestyle mainly. We do lots on our sides, with one arm out front and the other at 90⁰ sticking up in the air. Then there’s various relaxed movement of this arm – touching hip, shoulder, head, water before changing sides. I note that the side kick is faster than kicking on the front, face down.
I check with Ben for an explanation. When kicking up and down, there is not as much water above the feet to move about, whereas on the side there is a whole pool full of water to move about. This sounds like another plug for rotation. It’s also good to note the difference with the shallow and faster backstroke kick and with fins on I seem to be speeding along at a rate of nots. The relief at taking off the fins after such a long session is dramatic. My feet no longer have heavy things attached, with the result that I kick more and faster. It’s good to get the point though experience.
Phil and I are joined by Ed for lunch – we stumble upon a German restaurant where the set menu starts with tapas, followed by meat dumplings made with loving care and served in a caper sauce and new potatoes.
Our evening session is Butterfly with Ally. What a time for Dan to finally join us after travel delays. It’s virtually all kicks and drills and I’m glad as I don’t fancy doing multiple 50m lengths of fly. After all, I only ever do one length of it in the Individual Medley, regardless of the pool length.
Ally’s speciality is 50m fly and he confesses that he’s never had to pay too much attention to turns. Fly turns are fairly similar, if not identical, to breaststroke turns. Some people have never done a backstroke turn – they know who
they are – so there are a few trials and errors.
On Thursday morning, Pam takes us though drills again, but we do more swimming. Phil and I have an average set menu involving Hake for lunch (the beer is nice) before setting off for the naturist beach to the East.
The map shows a road through countryside where birds might be seen. The road is, however, marked private and we have to re-trace our steps to walk along the beaches and coastal paths. There aren’t many birds in the mid-afternoon and the land adjoining the coast is all fenced off and marked ‘Private’ in three languages.
After an hour or so walking, we reach Playa ses Roquettes and take turns to guard our stuff while the other goes in for a swim. There aren’t many people here – half a dozen at the most. The water is somewhere between 16-18⁰c and very refreshing.
Open water enthusiasts might call it too warm but we don’t stay in for long and have to climb over a mountain of dead sea grass to get in and out. There are more birds on the way back and we follow the shore right around to the harbour area and the new part of town. It’s clear that development has gone East and our hotel and the swimming pool are on the West side of town.
It’s time for a beer overlooking the harbour. The others had returned to the Western Beach where Christophe created amazing human sculptures with the OTS group. Shared with compliments of OTS WhatsApp.
Friday and it’s Pam again and I’m finding her drills excellent. Katie and I are getting great feedback. She reminds me that I’m neglecting my push through – I’ve lapsed into short strokes again. There is such a lot to remember. and at this point on the week I’m taking the occasional 100 metres out to rest.
Lunch is a group affair – it’s the only time we have the full team together and this is the last opportunity. We return to the same restaurant – Beach House – where we were on Monday. Slivers of roast pork from between the ribs with smoked mashed potatoes are
delicious and beautifully presented.
For the evening session we have most of the pool and Ally sets us off on what he calls a ‘Short warm-up’. This turns out to be 8 x 100’s alternating freestyle and choice (not freestyle) then 8 x 50s – drill 25m swim 25m doing all four strokes. I take a rest on the backstroke as I need it and I’m not quite reconciled with the sun glare and the lane ropes. I explain to Ally that the others need the backstroke work (joke) but he tells me that my backstroke is fine. The rest of the session is dives and turns. This is where it’s useful to have OTS volunteer coaches around to give extra feedback. We finish early so we can do a group photo before people begin to fly home.
Our last day, Saturday is also a two-session affair, but the morning is overcast and cold. This is the fun session with swim caps as prizes and after the warm-up there are competitions for various skills: The longest push-off glide; longest breaststroke push-off to breakout; greatest distance underwater dolphin kick with fins; backwards front crawl – hilarious and impossible. Then it’s relay time. Ally attempts to form three teams of six, but some people are not competing (too cold, too tired, too hung-over).
Rory comes to the rescue and rearranges everything. Simon and Paul are persuaded to join my team. The first relay race is freestyle, which we don’t win. There’s now a discussion about the Medley. Both Paul and I are back-strokers but none of the others can or want to do 50m Fly. In the end Paul does the fly and I the backstroke, leaving the others to do 2 x Breast and 2 x freestyle. We win that one, in spite of hangovers. The last relay is with a pull-boy, passed to the next swimmer and both Ed and I are fairly slow at this. The result is that each team wins one relay each.
I seriously consider not doing the usual cover-up with sunblock for our last evening session as the sky is completely overcast and it’s cold. Someone warns that I could still get burnt and so relent. It’s Pamela again with lots of great drills, kicking on the side with fins and arms in the air are all good. Pam really does pay attention to details and is still giving individual advice. It’s not too exhausting and we only swim for an hour – a request from the Eurovision fans amongst us who ‘have to get ready’. Actually, my body has had enough – time for a snooze before our last night in town.
Our social secretaries have sorted out a pub/restaurant not far away who can get BBC television. They’ve negotiated a meal (pizza) and drinks deal with the Indians who run the place. Having declared publicly that the only pizzas worth eating are in Italy or Islington, I think these ones are quite good. The more senior of the group gather early on one table as we’re desperate for beer. The youngsters arrive in dribs and drabs.
Paul and Stephen C have gone to great lengths with their drag outfits and look amazing. I’m not really a fan of drag, but they both manage to look glamorous so full marks. I’ve only ever watched Eurovision once – I had nothing else to do. It is a gay thing – so our table, critical of the standard of composition, lyrics, production etc mumble quietly to each other. There are a few surprisingly good efforts, but my interest wanes and having shared a bottle of rough red wine with Phil and Nick find a moment to drift off and pack for an early drive to the airport the next morning. I catch up on the rest of the evening via the WhatsApp group playing pool and mingling with the locals.
It’s been a great week and I’ve managed every session – something I didn’t expect to achieve. Some of the guys are talking about a holiday, but I don’t think so, it’s been hard work. Besides, when you are retired, life doesn’t demarcate between work and holidays in the way it used to. Activities line up on the continuum of experience to make the most of and enjoy whatever comes along.
Colonia Saint Jordie is a sleepy resort near the southern most point of the island of Mallorca. The town clusters around a rocky outcrop jutting into the Mediterranean Sea. Having had a day of travel delays, and a missed flight at Barcelona, I’m anxious to find Phil at Palma Airport. He’s not answering his phone or replying to texts or WhatsApp messages. I know he’s been delayed and I want to sort out a second driver for the hire car. I sit and wait. The two possibilities are that he’s fallen asleep in the airport waiting or that he hasn’t arrived yet. Eventually he turns up – he was in the air on flight mode. Phil’s Sat Nav app delivers us to a very swanky hotel just up the road from the Best Swim Centre. Reception has no record of us and it turns out that we’re in the tower block sitting on the end of the rocky promontory a couple of stars lower down the scale. However, I do have a 190 degree sea view.
It’s a short walk to the Best Centre, our Swim Camp home for the next six days, and the Out to Swim guys plus a couple from Y Swim gather at the hotel reception at 10.40. The pool is fifty metres and we have four lanes supervised by James and Ally. As I quite often swim in the same lane as Fernando and Waddaah, I join them in lane three. James asks if we have any requests and a couple of us mention breaststroke – others want starts and turns. The warm up is 200 Freestyle, 200 backstroke, 100 breaststroke then kicks & pull coming to around 800m.
Ben (OTS coach) tells me I’m too fast for lane three. I now have the option to join lane two where James is doing a breaststroke set – his speciality. There are only four of us in lane two – luxury. One of my objectives is to sort out my breaststroke, which I only use in the Individual Medley. James tells me that I’m not bringing my heels up high enough or close enough to my bum to get the power from a circular kick back. It’s a eureka moment and there are also some very useful tips for the arms.
We do a range of drills, the most difficult being holding the opposite ankle behind with one hand and then swimming with the free arm and leg. I can’t do it and get the giggles. In between attempts I just do my newly acquired kick to catch up with the others. Coach James has figured out that lane one are speaking in gay idiom – particularly when he’s describing the position of the bottom. He’s quickly educated. Ally, who is doing backstroke with lanes three and four is being oogled. Well, he is young and cute. I can’t imagine this is the first time James has had a gay group. Perhaps last years’ Out to Swim group were more decorous.
Although the pool is heated, it’s not exactly warm out of the water – some are shivering during the instruction and back-chat periods. I’m glad to have sorted out the Breaststroke so early in the proceedings, though it’s still exhausting to do.
Fernando has booked a mass lunch at a seaside restaurant a short walk around the coast. It’s a beautiful setting but the wind is chilly and some of us have to go outside and stand in a sunny sheltered spot to warm up. Phil and I take off in the car to investigate Parc Natural de Mondrago, just North West of Santanyi.
The countryside is green at this time of year with flowers all along the road-sides. We pass Almond orchards and fields of wild flowers. It’s not really a park as everywhere seems to be farmed, but it’s lovely and we stop briefly on the coast to look at the sea and the limestone cliffs. There’s no time to linger, as we have to be back for our second two hour session at six. Lanes one and two have Ally for a backstroke set. Lots of drills for rotation leading from the hips and getting the arms in the right position to enter the water and push down.
Different coaches have varied advice which might seem to contradict with another coach. The thing is that they are all correct – in a way and it’s only when you get the whole picture that things fall into place. I recall seeing a U tube video where a coach was warning about the danger of over rotation in backstroke. Ally’s tip that one’s side should not come out of the water makes sense of this. Our problem here is navigating in an out-door pool. It’s no use fixing on a point in the sky and on every second length the sun is blinding. Much hilarity ensues with everyone zigzagging up and down the pool and colliding with lane-ropes.
Mostly the lane ropes win and I have the scars to prove it.
As dinner at the hotel finishes at 9pm, we have to dash back and change into long pants before eating. I’m knackered and go straight to bed instead of going out for a drink with the youngsters, who want to farewell James. He’s going home tomorrow afternoon. Tuesday is one two-hour session and there’s a chance to re-visit the work we did yesterday on breaststroke and then we do push-offs and turns.
We have what is known as half board at the hotel, which means only breakfast and evening meal. Most of the guys do a swap and have lunch at the hotel. My view is that indifferent food is the same whether it’s lunch or dinner, but this gives the lads the opportunity to go out on the town at night. Phil and I find a delightful little Bistro with delicious artistically presented food. But we’re not missing out as the WhatsApp group keeps us graphically updated with everyone else’s activities – mostly.
They are off to the naturist beach Playa d’es Trenc and no one joins us on a three-hour bird-watching walk. Our journey takes us along the naturist beach, but there is no sign of the lads and we head inland past salt lakes and wet-lands. I’m astonished at the abundance of species here. Some of the highlights are sightings of: an Eagle, Flamingos and a Harrier. There are nightingales – heard but not seen, Hoopoes, Corn Buntings, various warblers and of course Sparrows everywhere. On the water are Shell ducks, Stilts, Avocets and many more. Phil is in heaven with his binoculars and bird identification phone app. He’s texting a mate in France who is also bird-watching. It’s a bit of a competition.
Along the way we see plenty of wild-flowers in full spring bloom. They will all be gone by mid-summer and the resort tourists will miss out. Colonia St Jordi seems not to have grown much over the years. Vacant lots are still to be developed and while the market waits for a boom, ecology has taken over and wild-flowers, birds and feral cats make temporary use of the land.
‘Because I can’ is what I tell people who ask me ‘Why?’ I’m unencumbered these days, responsible and answering only to myself, so why not make the most of it?
I’m off to swim for a while – a Saturday afternoon in Prague for their Rainbow Spring Multi-sport event then to Mallorca for a six-day swim camp with twenty Out to Swim club members. My body is a bit apprehensive – I never quite know which part will complain next – but I know it pretty well by now and it tells me when to stop. It’s just a matter of listening, which I don’t always do.
I was last in Prague in 2014, so I’m looking forward to reacquainting myself with this beautiful and historic city. On the flight from Stanstead is a huge party of guys going to a stag do. Apparently, it’s the new place to do that – excellent beer and cheap. Sounds like they have a weekend of all inclusive (to save bother) activities including the mandatory strip show. Interesting to observe straight men in a group away from wives and girlfriends – a completely different animal.
A three-day travel pass purchased at the airport takes me by bus and Metro with speedy efficiency to my hotel. Hotel Alba is modernised in a spartan, Eastern European version of IKEA – except that it is solid. It’s still light so this is the only opportunity to explore the Prague Castle area – not done on my 2014 visit. The hotel receptionist advises that I need two days to see it all, so I will just have to do a recce for next time.
Prague is a city of classical music so it’s no surprise to come across young musicians busking all the way up the stairs to the Castle. These days I travel on VISA and haven’t even got any local currency, so the buskers are out of luck as are the beggars, who kneel in a praying position with caps outstretched, taking sneaky looks to see if anyone is paying attention.
Yes, I’m people watching again and note the out-of-condition younger family men huffing and puffing their way up the steps. Even though I’m still recovering from various Winter-related conditions, my lungs manage the steps easily – the leg muscles, not so well.
At the top is a whole village of palaces, most of which are now galleries and museums. It’s all very grand, but at this time of day everything is closed.
The view of the city is, however, stunning in the late afternoon sunlight and by now the tourists have thinned out. In one deserted square a Chinese wedding photo shoot is in progress with a lighting guy holding up his silver disc to reflect light on to the faces of the happy couple.
I head down the other side towards the Charles Bridge, which is still crowded. The portrait artists are still there – probably the same ones I saw in 2014.
I find the Charles Bridge Restaurant where the Rainbow Spring registration is happening. ‘No, I don’t need a free travel pass, I bought one at the airport.’ There is a look of consternation from the young man handing out the bags and event invitations.
I might go to the party on Saturday evening but sadly can’t do the picnic on Sunday afternoon as I fly out in the morning. I am dying for a beer, something the Czechs do well. I sit in the downstairs restaurant overlooking water where the pedalloes are being returned. The kitchen is struggling and even though the waiters are running around looking efficient, my Salmon pasta, is only just warm and too small to carb up enough for tomorrow. I have to order a pear in pastry but when it eventually arrives floating in a thin caramel, it is also tepid – not recommended.
My Out to Swim team-mates have spent all day walking around the city and have fallen asleep – so we don’t meet up. I’m remembering coach Nathan’s advice to get a good night’s sleep before a race. The trouble is the hotel mattress is super firm and thin. It’s unable to embrace the sticky-out bits of my body.
It’s an eleven o’clock warm-up at the ‘Best pool in town.’ This leaves plenty of time to fill up the tank at breakfast. It’s all a bit of a shock to the system that there’s no fruit, but I’ll cope. Once again, the public transport carries me to the Sutka Aquacentrum, high in the suburbs and overlooking the city. I’m recognised by guys who were at the Amsterdam Valentine’s meet earlier in the year and that’s a nice feeling of camaraderie – one from Frankfurt and an American living in Switzerland.
Paul and Rory have been hanging out with two guys from Paris Aquatique – apparently the rest of their team are in the Canary Islands on a Swim Camp preparing for the Gay Games in August. The pool here is amazing. It has a stainless steel adjustable bottom and sides and there are clear Perspex walls at each end to protect officials from being splashed. The water is nice and cool and the lane ropes have no sharp spikes to lacerate my wrists in backstroke. There is speculation that they won’t calm the water so well. I think it’s marginally more choppy.
There’s a good European turn-out here today, especially from Spain, The Netherlands and Germany. Certainly, there are more than in 2014 so I guess that everyone is getting ready for the Gay Games. I always hate starting of a race meet with 100 metres backstroke. It’s a tough race and I do better starting off with freestyle. The backstroke hurts and is a bit slow. By comparison the 400 freestyle is more comfortable.
The younger guy next to me is level pegging for the first 100 metres, then he takes off and I let him go. To my left I glimpse a guy turning after me so I’m safe. There is no electronic board, so no way to tell how we did in the heat.
Both Paul and I are collecting gold medals. He has competition in his age group so he’s pleased that some of Out to Swim fast swimmers are not here. He has a great meet with all Long Course personal bests. Rory and Paul have formed a relay team with the two Paris Aquatique guys to do the 4 x 50m Medley and Freestyle. This is all great experience for Rory, who has only been swimming for six months and its only the second race meet in his life. We don’t know yet how the relays did but they looked good.
The announcer is a jolly fellow, speaking Czech first, then English – the common language for Europeans. He spots the gaps in the hearts as they line up and calls out the missing swimmers. There’s also a DJ with a great play-list (According to Paul). The day ends with a fun relay with teams pushing inflatable flamingos up the pool. Back in town, I find a pub restaurant for a beer – outside. It’s all tasty – grilled sirloin and chicken breast in a creamy green peppercorn sauce and bright orange sweet potato chips. There’s nothing green in sight, so I’m looking forward to a Spanish salad.
I’m involved in Out and Active, a project to encourage over 50’s LGBT people to engage in a sport so that they can lead healthier lives. I’m the writer on the project, interviewing people from different sports clubs and my long-time friend and fellow swimmer, Vicki Carter is leading the project for Out for Sport
My story, Swimming for My Life, along with the others I’m collecting will be on the website, hopefully inspiring older LGBT’s to get active.
I was Sixty-one when I joined Out to Swim in 2012. As a teenager in New Zealand, I’d belonged to the local swimming club. We had a key to the town outdoor pool and trained before school – only in the summer – doing kicking and pull, but mostly just swimming up and down. Our parents organised a swimming coach to sort out our style and technique and he also taught us butterfly – unheard of in our part of the world. I won the championship at our small rural high school and so thought myself a pretty good swimmer, going on to compete at University meets where I came last in everything. For the next forty years I’d go swimming maybe once a week, do twenty lengths and then get out.
I’d been on a round the world adventure with my partner getting as far as New Zealand. He died there suddenly and when I returned to the UK. My long-time friend, Vicki Carter, who was going to teach my partner to swim properly, suggested I join Out to Swim. I’ve always believed that joining a group is the best way to meet new people and I knew I needed some way of dealing with my bereavement, so I looked up the website, chose a session and headed for the first of three free introductory swims.
Of course, it was the wrong session and after forty years, I was out of condition. I still had some speed, but no stamina and had to take time out every few lengths. Swimming continuously for one hour was not possible so the coach suggested I got to a development session and come back when I was ready. These days people get assessed and sent to the correct session for their fitness and ability.
For me, swimming is the perfect exercise, aerobic and non-weight-bearing. Running has never suited me and with the beginnings of arthritis, it’s important to keep those joints moving. I’ve lost weight and being back to where I was at the age of twenty, find I’m getting admiring glances again. What more encouragement do I need?
Non-swimmers have a notion of our sport as being solitary and unsociable, saying ‘Don’t you get bored endlessly ploughing up and down the pool?’ There’s a lot to think about. ‘Are my arms entering the water at the right angle? How’s my rotation and am I kicking hard enough?’ The list goes on and there are always improvements to make. Counting the number of strokes per length or the number of lengths swum can be calming. I like to think of it as meditation, where the mind is emptied of all peripheral matters and there’s the added benefit of endorphins released by exercise to produce a great feeling of well-being. Swimming is a great stress buster and I kept training whilst moving house, traditionally the most stressful thing you ever do. Being in a club offers a range of social benefits from weekly after-session drinks, mid-winter plunges for the more eccentric and the Christmas party. At training, you get to know the regular people in your lane and the order in which everyone swims. Interaction is required, making it a group activity. So, ‘lonely?’ I don’t think so.
I persisted with the club and was hugely inspired by the Olympic and Paralympic games of 2012. The real breakthrough came for me when I raced at the UK Masters Nationals at Sheffield that year. It was nerve wracking, the first time on those high blocks, but once the starting pistol went off, it all came flooding back. I was hooked on Masters’ competitive swimming at sixty-one. Age group competing was new to me and one of my memories is of two elderly swimmers bearing heart surgery scars, discussing their operations – inspirational. Entering a competition makes you part of the team and it’s also a great opportunity to get to know other members from other lanes.
In an era when longevity rubs up against quality of life, the older we get, the more important it is to keep moving and balanced. Early in 2014, a man who had recently moved into the 100 – 104 age group was going for the world 100 metre backstroke record. I was in heat two and we had to wait until he’d finished, and he got his record. I have no particular ambition to get to a hundred but I do want to be fit and active until the end.
It is also important for me to belong to a gay or gay friendly club because I feel more comfortable and relaxed. ‘Coming out’ is unnecessary as we have a shared vocabulary and culture. What is unusual for a gay organisation is the complete lack of age or ability discrimination. Young gay men in particular can be very ageist, so I was initially bemused to be smiled at and greeted by much younger guys and found myself suddenly valued to take a relay team into a higher aggregate age group to increases the odds of winning medals. There are not so many older swimmers and even fewer women so we get more points for racing. Not everyone is ready to or wants to race. Some members are non-competitive and just like to keep fit.
I’ve been to LGBT meets all over Europe and the rest of the world, a chance to travel, see new places and make international friends. I also win medals and in 2017 I achieved my ambition to get a bronze medal at the Nationals. I’m fitter now than I’ve ever been in my life, both physically and emotionally and that’s worth more to me than my drawer of medals. Swimming has now become a great passion with the added benefit of new team-mates and friends.
To read inspirational stories by other older athletes go to Out & Active and scroll down the page.
The mornings are quiet here. The clean up crews have been out and everything is looking pristine. I’ve arranged to ride out with Donna and Anna this morning and walk the seven blocks to where their car is parked. As I go a young black guy asks where I got the Out Games T-shirt. He’s a Baskekball player, one of the casualties of the cancellations. I explain that the guys at the swimming pool were giving them away free. I also learn that the Basketball teams have managed to organise themselves into a tournament. Human resourcefulness is great isn’t it?
At the pool, competition is underway, and I’m in time for my 100m backstroke. This time I have three others to beat and so feel a bit more legitimate. It’s great to meet up with familiar faces from IGLA last year in Edmonton and even some from The Out Games in Antwerp four years ago. There’s a contingent from Australia (Wet Ones & Glamourheads) who I recognise from Proud To Play in Auckland in 2016 and in 2015 they also came to Wellington for the annual TAMS/Different Strokes challenge. Somehow I’m feeling part of a global community. Marcel, who briefly trained with TAMS in
Auckland is here doing all the hard events. Donna and Anna get to swim in the same heat and have to be cheered on for Out to Swim. They drop me at the nearby metro station as, I’ve discovered that there is a public transport system here and I’m keen to check it out. There’s no one around but up on the platform, I can see a few passengers waiting. As I’m looking for a place to buy tickets, a security guard comes over and asks what sort of ticket I want. ‘Just a single into the city’. He swipes his card and lets me in. I’m a bit surprised and briefly wonder if I have to swipe out at the other end. I’ve just missed a train, but the wait for another is not long and the journey takes only ten minutes. There is a problem at the City Centre end as I do have to swipe out and end up following a family with a push chair through one of those wide gates. The wait for a 120 but to Miami Beach is long but only costs $2.25. There’s no change given so fortunately I have the right money to drop into the slots. After another salad for lunch and a snooze, it’s time to try the
beach, which looked lovely on Friday. Even in the late afternoon, it’s packed, mostly with African Americans sun bathing and standing in the sea. I’ve come out with the bare minimum and leave a small pile on the white sand; Jandals, tee shirt, mini towel, hotel room key and hat. The water is warm and choppy – it’s shallow and I have to go beyond the waders to swim. Palm Beach on Waiheke Island at 22 degrees C, still gets my vote. There is, however, no need to dry off in this heat; it’s just strange wearing a bathing
costume/togs on a beach. It’s back to the hotel to shower before setting out on foot to check out The Gaythering, a gay hotel/bar here. It’s a long trudge in the late afternoon heat, so the air conditioned bar is a relief. I’m startled to find it full of Australians in their distinctive green sports shirts. I sidle around to the other side of the bar, put my dollar down and order a beer. There are a few locals next to me, but on one is talking, so I move to on of the older Australians who turns out to be the referee for the Field Hockey team. They are also casualties of the cancellation but along with the Netherlanders (2 teams) and the British, have organised their own competition with the help of a local sports ground. He’s from Sydney and quickly introduces me to a much younger guy, Tim, who turns out to be his partner and a swimmer. I suggest he joins Wet Ones the Sydney swimming club. Tim seems semi interested in that. So here is another example of teams organising themselves, with the help of the City of Miami. Who needs the World Out Games? When I try to pay my bar bill, this turns out to be on the house as it is a reception for the Hockey guys – time to leave and make my way South. A free
trolley bus appears and is going my way. A quick google of Miami Beach trolley busses reveals the route. Conflicted between checking facebook likes and comments and looking at the suburban scene, I miss my stop and end up on 6th Street and have to walk back to 10th. A Tagliatelli Carbonara leaves me feeling heavy and I wake at 2 am to silence – it’s Sunday night – and now I can’t sleep.
It’s still a holiday so traffic should be OK. I’ve arranged to share an Uber with Tristan and another guy from Wet Ones, Sydney. It’s my big day with three races, starting with the 800m freestyle The Carbonara lingers until after the warm up but it’s OK. We all have to arrange our own flip board operators to count up or down the lengths. At this pool it’s 32 lengths so there’s enough to think about without counting them. One of the Australians is doing the first heat and is able to turn around to pool one and count for me. I then have to count for Tristan, who likes to be counted down from 32. All goes well until we get to 9 and I can’t work out how to get a blank slate. I miss 9 and offer 17 with my hand over the 1 until I work it out. Luckily I’ve not miscounted. An hour later I’m doing the 200 Back and have to report that the new jammers made the race very comfortable. Perhaps I could have gone faster, but the guy with no times in the next lane shakes my hand – I’ve still no idea who won.
Later, I find out I have won and can now rest up for a while and watch Daniel do his Medley and support Anna and Donna in their 100m Freestyle. The guy with not times is in the next lane again for the 100m freestyle and I have a feeling that he’s going to be faster, and he is, leaving me in second place. I warm down, change and walk down to Coconut Grove for a decent lunch. Rob Wintermute texts and joins me. We both agree that this might be the end of the Out Games, although apparently the board are talking about Rio in four years time. ‘Rio?’ I say, ’that’s madness. They only just got through the Olympics.’
The London Orcas are playing their final against Boston in the recreational league of Water Polo. Boston is very good and the Orcas end up with Silver. Now it’s a bit of a wait for the Pink Flamingo. This is an opportunity for teams to put in a devised piece of entertainment around and in the pool. While we wait, I chat to Mark who does Gay Rodeo and was at Edmonton. He was planning to come to the World Masters in Auckland, but did his knee in at the Rodeo. At 54, I tell him, it’s time he retired from that.
The 6 Pink Flamingo acts are presented by an outrageous, but elegant drag queen and range from embarrassing to slick. Paris Aquatique win first prize and the whole proceedings
I get a lift to the dinner with Mark. We lose our way there and are still early at the Scottish Rites Temple. We walk along the riverside with some of the old guys from the competition. This is the 30th anniversary if IGLA and there are photographs flashing up on the screen while we have our starters. It’s downstairs for a sit down main course of Paella and speeches. Some of the original guys from the very first IGLA meet are there and those that attended the first four make up a tidy group. It’s very moving to think that this organisation has spread from California to global in that time. There aren’t that many from Europe this year, but there’s no excuse next year with IGLA supporting the Gay Games in Paris.
Eating is essential to get though races, so calculating that breakfast doesn’t start until 7am and the competition commences at 9pm, I need to warm up around 8.30 in order to sus out the competition pool. Roads around the hotel are blocked off for the Hip Hop festival/Memorial weekend, so getting an Uber seems difficult as this hotel is cut off. In the end, after a hastily eaten breakfast, I organise a private taxi for 7.30 via the hotel and I’m taken down to the end of the block by one of the staff and wait for a big black 4×4 to glide up and collect me. Of course it’s expensive but I get to the Ransome Everglades School by 8 am, in time to check in and check out the pool. This is a very posh school in the Coconut Grove area to the south of Miami City, boasting a 50 metre competition standard, outdoor pool. A bridge divides it in two and they’re racing in both. There’s also a 25 m warm up/down pool to one end.
This meet is being run by the Local Miami LGBT club Nadadores in conjunction with International Gay & Lesbian Aquatics, so everyone here knows what they are doing in spite of the collapse of the Out Games. It’s hot here even at 8am so I apply sun block like everyone else and take to the chilled water to warm up. It’s a little too soon after breakfast and some of it comes up while I’m swimming. I have to swallow, which is not quite as bad as it sounds, rather than mess up the pool. I suddenly run into Daniel Paul from Out to Swim London. He’s racing as well as playing water polo for London Orcas. Instant recognition – we’re finding our team here as we go.
It’s time to get into my new Arena carbon fibre compression jammers. Tristan from Wet Ones Sydney is also getting into his pair. It takes around 5 minutes – another time factor to consider. He’s a bit further on than me but suddenly, just as he’s got them on, they split along the crutch line – not really a good look so he has to change back into his regular jammers. I take extra care and slowly encourage the fabric up my thighs, squeezing my bum into the back and bringing the top band up to my waist – whew. It really is like coaxing a tight stocking upwards. All is well and I have time to try them out in the warm-up pool before my race. They feel good and the water rolls off the surface. There are eight guys here in my age-group, but unusually, I’m the only one doing the 50 backstroke. That’s no reason to slack off especially at this is my only race today. I win the heat and shave off a fraction from my seed time. I’ve been keeping in contact with Daniel Wu from Team Auckland. He’s flying in from Houston this morning and there is some doubt if he will be on time for the 50 back. He texts via Messenger that he’s on his way form the airport and in the end arrives in time to both warm up and race, so all is well, as TAMS coach, Cynthia, has asked me to ‘look after him’.
Suddenly I make contact with Donna Pinto and Anna Moody from Out to Swim London and we have the possibility to form a relay team. I call up Rob, but he’s speaking at the Human Rights conference today and in the end Daniel Paul doesn’t have to go off and play Water Polo just yet, so we have a mixed freestyle relay team in the 160 age group. Hurrah! Actually we are the only team in that group, but Anna and Donna are thrilled to win their first international awards, and we’ve done a respectable time. We’re all resigned to not receiving medals as rumour has it that WOG didn’t even order them. Credit to Anna for organising us and doing the paper work – we feel like a team here. They are also
staying at Miami Beach, so I get a ride back with them in their rental car. Donna says that there is a whole league of Lesbian Baseball players here in Miami and they didn’t even know about the Out Games. How can that happen? You would have thought that accessing local sports groups would be a first organisational step for all the sports.
Back on South Beach, the barricades are up and people are everywhere. It is startling to see women walking around the town in skimpy bikinis, buttocks on full display and breasts almost as visible. The guys are all topless but there are no speedos here – the fashion is for the baggy beach shorts. Men and women sport tattoos – some done without much though to design. The US army has displays all along the beach park- commentaries are blaring out, but few are engaged, the crowds are all on the beach or parading down Ocean Drive. For Memorial Weekend there are also very noisy jet fighters frightening the life out of everyone. I’ve had pulled pork in a soft white baguette from the ‘food truck’ at the pool – a tasteless experience, so a mango ice-cream from the gelato shop to take up the lift up to my room is required. It goes well with coffee followed by a snooze. Carbing up for tomorrow with a New York Steak for dinner and a glass of Malbec is a good idea and I sleep well.
The traffic around South Beach Miami is in grid-lock around midnight, so my taxi has great difficulty reaching the Breakwater Hotel on the sea-front. The area is a vibrant party with people everywhere on the streets. My room is in a block accessed across a courtyard with live music and party-goers – through a corridor and into an ice cream parlour, where a lift takes me to the third floor.
It’s been a long Thursday – thirteen hours from Auckland to Houston then a six hour wait before flying on to Miami. Wifi at the airport fails to connect me to Uber and there’s nowhere to find a US sim card. It’s still only just Thursday as I hit the shower with the intention of going downstairs for a night-cap. I’m too knackered for that and, breaking all my rules regarding hotel mini bars, I open the half-bottle of Cabernet Sauvingon on offer. It’s just what I need,
because there’s a hip hop festival going on outside. I fall asleep synchronising my heart beat with the music coming through the windows – briefly waking at 4.30 to note silence. Awaking somewhat refreshed and after an average, but global type, hotel breakfast of scrambled eggs and chicken sausages, I decide to explore. Just across the road is the Art Deco Information Centre, where a helpful woman hands me the usual brochure, pointing out locations of the Jewish Museum and the Watsonian.
‘Is that related to the one in Washington?’ I ask.
‘No, that’s the Smithsonian.’
‘Of course it is.’
‘That’s OK, everyone confuses them.’
‘What’s in it?’
‘Art and design.’
I’m hooked and make a beeline as it’s literally two blocks along 10th Street. It’s too early – time to walk and look at Art Deco architecture. There’s much more that I’d imagined and I get the feeling that this might be the true Art Deco Capital of the world – sorry Napier (NZ). I check my balance at the Bank of America ATM – my usual procedure – just to let my bank know where I am. Passing a phone shop is an opportunity to get a US sim card. This takes longer than usual as the guy is only experienced with iphones, but we get there. The Watsonian is an excellent and well curated collection over two exhibition floors.
A gigantic metal sculpture of a nude muscle man in Deco style dominates the ground floor lobby by the lift. The sixth floor is dedicated to Dutch design and art from the late 1800’s to the 1940’s. There are propaganda posters covering the range of political views, architecture, furniture and interior design. Of particular note are examples of Nazi art and graphics. I spot a chap giving a young man a personal tour and eaves-drop on some of his comments. Some of the art and graphic representations are examples of how the European colonisers depicted native peoples in idealised ways which the subjects would not recognise, or identify with. The collection continues in the same vein on the 5th floor with studies for wall murals with overt political messages. Here is proof that the struggle of the left is recognised and recorded in this ever right-leaning country. Further down the building, a library (collected by the founder) occupies an entire floor.
It’s coffee time and I’ve spotted the French bakery, recommended by the woman from the Information Centre. Yes they can do a late, but it’s too cold, weak and full of froth – a great disappointment. I’m missing New Zealand Coffee and in particular my favourites on
Waiheke Island. Lunch at the gay Palace Bar – ‘because every Queen needs a palace’ – is seared fresh tuna on a salad – just right and proving that you can eat healthy food in America. Time for a snooze before setting out to do my Out Games registration – there’s been an update email directing us to The
Lowes Hotel seven blocks away. There has been no signage around the streets, advertising this world event and only when I get to the hotel lobby do I see a sign by the escalator. At the top I find Rob Wintermute from Out To Swim London, enjoying his complimentary bap after registering for the Human Rights Conference (he’s a human rights lawyer) which is a part of the games. He’s also doing athletics as well as swimming. He tells me that there are two women here from OTS so there might be a chance of a mixed relay team. We exchange US phone numbers. I head to the check in area where guys are milling around looking confused. Suddenly Ivan, the Games CEO, who came all the way to
Auckland months ago to drum up support, comes out of a door. He doesn’t remember meeting me at a drinks reception Team Auckland organised, but he has a hassled look on his face. Apparently, swimming is registering at the Marriot Hotel a few blocks away so I set off with an Australian Swimmer, only to find that the Marriot hotel we need is miles away in Coconut Grove, near the swimming pool. We both decide not to bother as registration packs are always available at the pool on the day. I go back to the hotel and find an announcement on facebook that all WOG sporting events have been cancelled except Aquatics, Soccer and Country Dancing. No wonder Ivan was looking sick.
OK, time to attend to the jet lag which is catching up on me. The consequence of this is that I don’t sleep well later. Admittedly the music is very loud tonight and the streets are heaving with African Americans doing ‘The Cake Walk’ – having a great time and looking everything from outrageous to fabulous. Too many things are running through my mind – my return to London and what has to be done. I’m busy planning ahead.