February 20, 2011 4 Comments
I have conflicting feelings about Yoga. On the one hand, all those un-pedicured bare feet, hovering bottoms and chanting and grunting in unison – well it’s just creepy. White people paying 7 Euro’s a class in Mitte (£12 at Triyoga in Primrose Hill, London) and then greeting each other with ‘Namaste’ seems contrived. On the other hand, it’s the only thing that stretches me out so effectively. One class is all it takes to uncurl my spine, push my shoulders back and make me more aware of my posture.
I found a modern, well-lit studio called City Yoga on Dorotheenstrasse (about 5 minutes from my house). I gave my husband instructions on how to keep our daughter alive and asked him to stir the trays of granola I had drying in the oven and off I went. Read more of this post