Feet Sucked & Desk Identified

The little fish, the literature tells me, do not have teeth; rather they pull the dead skin from your feet by sucking. It is said that this is a treatment naturally occurring in Turkey and Syria where the little fish originate. There is some controversy surrounding the outcropping of beauty parlours in Western countries that use the little fish. Some of the controversy results from health concerns: a lack of a proper filtration system in tanks where the little fish suck one person and another's feet could pose the threat of the spread of bacteria. (NB: the beauty parlour I attended claimed to have a state of the art filtration system installed.) Another source of controversy, which I read about with a smirk on my face, is a concern for the little fish themselves. Seems the animal rights activists haven't overlooked the little fish, and their welfare has been questioned. I think of myself as an animal lover, but I eat animals - cows and pigs and birds and fish. I find it hard to muster up too much worry about the welfare of little fish eating human flesh in the swoosh spas in London.

 In regards to my specific experience. Well, I wanted to kick myself (and a fellow blogger will want to kick me too!) a few minutes into the treatment. I left my camera (phone) at home! As I whiled away the time before my treatment, I thought about this post and of course thought about taking a foto to include with my words. In my distracted state of anxiety about the procedure, I left home without my phone and only realised it after I had dipped my feet into the tank and a swarm of little fish gravitated to my left foot.

There was no pain whatsoever. There was a slight tickling. But the sight of so many fish (a SCHOOL of fish) latching on to my foot was mentally unappealing and this squeamishness manifested itself as a turning in my stomach. I almost jerked my fish-infested-foot out of the water, but with a demonstration of discipline, I kept my feet in the tank for 20 minutes.

Did it work?

Well, after the fish treatment, a lovely Eastern European woman filed away at my feet with sandpaper and cut off much more dead skin.

Any concern about her welfare?

This left me kicking myself a 2nd time. After the full treatment it was virtually impossible for me to determine if the fish had indeed done anything beautifying to my feet - or if the resultant smoothness was all down to the Eastern European. I should have thought to have done a before and middle and after test to assign credit where credit should be due.

I sense a lot of gimmick in the fish pedicure, but it's something I've done; an experience I can check of the list.

For a sense of what it looks like, all you have to do is google 'fish pedicure' and virtually every newspaper article or fish pedicure locale website contains a picture which is indeed true to form: a cluster of small fish gravitating around your feet. My stomach churns at the thought.

On another note, the movers arrived, packed, and departed. My flat is empty. Now I would like to buy a new desk to occupy a new space and provide me with new inspiration.

Running and Fish Eat Feet

I have been running:  every day for a minimum of 5 kilometres or 30 minutes, whichever does me in first.

I am 19 days into my second iteration of consecutive-days-running. The first iteration concluded on day 30, followed by two days of rest before I began the 2nd iteration.

During the first iteration I averaged 6.5 kilometers a day. I have upped the distance in this current iteration. This time around  I am looking forward to day 30 to see what my new daily average is.

I am also looking forward to a rest. My knees are ache. I walk gingerly upon a pair of much abused, constantly aching feet. Dead skin has hardened around the normal spots on my feet, but it is harder and drier and moving toward the not-so-normal dead skin spots.

I have made an appointment for a massage. I asked the spa if they give pedicures as well, but they said, ‘no.’ They massage feet but they do nothing about hard, dry skin. Standing at the bus stop on the way to work the other morning, I noticed a new beauty treatment locale. I saw ‘pedicure’ in the sign. I couldn't quite make out the word that was in front of ‘pedicure’, but I scribbled down the name of the new spot and vowed to look them up and call them from work to see if their version of a pedicure includes the cutting off of un-useful dry skin.  I forgot to call.

Today, after my run, I limp up to the local coffeeshop to buy myself a tea. (I have thrown out all consumables in our London flat since Tuesday is moving day, so even a simple tea is a going-out-adventure.) I see the new beauty place and remember that I want to have a pedicure. I walk up to the shop front to verify that they are open today. I see the pedicure is no ordinary pedicure; it is a pedicure where little fish eat away at the dead skin on your feet. I stop in my tracks. I cannot bring myself to open the shop front door in order to make an appointment. I am slightly disgusted by the whole idea:  parasites on me and the poor parasites eating the dead skin of my mangled feet.

At home on the sofa with aching knees and feet, I begin (again) to obsess over the state of my feet. I look up the fish pedicure place on the internet and read about the procedure (and the health and safety concerns that are being investigated).

Where's your sense of adventure?

I call and make an appointment. I wonder what to do with myself to keep myself from freaking myself out during the next two and a half hours before my appointment. I wonder if the ‘spa’ will let me put my fingers in the water and let the fish nibble at the dry cuticles around my fingertips as well. Will the staff tell me to pull my hands out of the foot tank? Is it a kind of thievery to take advantage of a hungry swarm of fish.

Whales come in pods. Bees in swarms. Birds in flocks. Livestock in herds. Fish ....


Schools! 


That is what fish come in! Schools. A hungry SCHOOL of fish.

I begin to wig myself out with the idea of what I have signed up for. I decide to take my mind off it by writing a post.

I have written a post.

I still have two hours to go.

Sun Shines On One Side

Writing about the variance in weather between the front of our London flat and the back of it makes me remember the first time I experienced straddling a weather pattern*.  I was 6 or 7, and my family lived in Winter Park in central Florida, where we rented a house for 6 months or so whilst my parents looked for a more permanent place for the family.

The rental house in Winter Park had a large room with windows lining two opposite walls, affording a view of both the front and back yards. One day, there was a storm pouring down in the back yard, but the front yard was untouched.

Thinking about the rental house in Winter Park reminds me of Mr. Sulowski. He was a few years younger than my parents. I think he worked with my father, and they became friends. I think of Mr. Sulowski when I think of the Winter Park rental house because I remember my mother and him, sitting on the front stoop of the house and talking. Mr. Sulowski’s jeans were riding down, and my brother and I could see his butt crack.

My brother and I thought that an adult's butt crack was the most hysterical thing in the world. In the kitchen, we tried to drink our coca-colas, but kept thinking of Mr. Sulowski’s butt crack and, as a result, spit up coke on the kitchen table. My mom wanted to know what was so funny; which of course we couldn’t say.

A few weeks later Mr. Sulowski died in a plane crash. He was coming back from the Bahamas in a propeller engine plane. For the longest time I thought Mr. Sulowski was a victim of The Bermuda Triangle, which had figured prominently in my nightmares because when it had been my brother’s turn to choose a family movie, he chose a documentary on The Bermuda Triangle. I fell asleep during that documentary, but must have retained a sense of fear, because ever since I wanted to make sure I never took a plane or ship anywhere near Bermuda.  As a child I confused the Bahamas, Bermuda, and Barbados.

Mr. Sulowski left a widow and 2 young boys.

Sometimes I wonder what my mother and he were discussing when they were out on the front step. With an adult’s view onto that memory, it seems to me that my mother and he were having a serious conversation.  Maybe they were ending an affair.  Maybe my mother was doling out advice as to how to handle my father. Maybe the were just shooting the shit in a way adults do, but children don't understand.

All the whilst, my brother and I laughed and spit out our cokes.

*Similarly to the way I straddled four states on my recent holidays:  a toe in Utah, a toe in Arizona, a heal in Colorado, and the other in New Mexico.

Mint Tea

London.  The weather is, as London weather in August would be, capricious.  Through the slats of the blinds in the front room of our still-unsold flat, the sun seems bright.  It streams inside in golden shades.  Excited, I race to the back room where I can access the garden; but when I reach the French doors that look to the back, there is no sun.  Cloud cover obscures whatever sun I might have seen out front. 

Throughout the day, I pace between the front room and the garden patio.  Each time I think I might get some sun on my feet, which will even out the strap marks that my Madrid sandals have left across the roof of my foot, I’m disappointed by a surprising lack of sunlight in the garden.

“You’re such a hypocrite.” I tell myself.  “You shouldn’t be getting sun anyway.”

I play lip service to safe-sun intake.  I tell people I eschew tanning.

 “Sun’s not good for you.  It ages you. It causes cancer.”

Yet, when I have the chance to get a bit of colour, I sneak it.  I like the golden yellow my normally greenish-glowing white skin turns when a base coat develops.  My vanity gets greedy and when the tan starts to fade I look frantically for the opportunity to extend it. 

Darting between the front room and backroom of the flat, I think about my hypocrisy as the London weather frustrates my attempts to prolong my holiday glow.

“You deserve it.”  I tell myself about my frustration at not being able to enjoy the sunshine in the London garden.  This is my penultimate weekend before our belongings are packed up and shipped off to Madrid.  I will be in London again next weekend, and then, we anticipate, the flat will no longer be ours.

“One more weekend.  It would be nice to spend it in the garden.”  

Young Papists Congregate in the Heat

Madrid.  A few days ago the weather could have been described as a 'bochorno' (bo - as in Bo and Luke Duke; chore - as in I have too many to do; no - as in just say).  I haven't been able to find a single English word equivalent to this substantive.  The adjective, bochornoso, is easier:  muggy, sultry, humid.  The noun form, bochorno, is weather of this type; and that is how it was in Madrid a few days ago.

The difference between today and a few days ago:  today is hotter according to the thermometer; but, a few days ago, there was more humidity and more pressure of the hot atmosphere against your skin.  A few days ago, after an intolerably bochornoso day, the dark skies of night lit up, grumbled and poured a heaping tempest of water upon a relieved city.  The more bearable, yet hotter-by-thermometer standards, dry-heat days of summer don't offer such promise.

Hot is not unusual in Madrid in August, but generally it is a dry heat, and, as most people will say, dry heat is more more bearable than bochornoso heat.  Today is a typical Madrid-in-August hot day.  The locals who are still in town and have to be outside in the heat of the day for some reason or another will be hugging the sides of buildings where there will be more shade.  Visitors from colder climes, exuberant with the change in temperature, will initially walk in the direct sunlight.  This won't last long.  Sun stroke or a cold beer in the shade of a terraza will take them soon.

This year those visitors from colder climes who seek refuge from the Madrid sun are likely to be hyper religious (by my book).  The papists are out in droves for the arrival of their leader.  The web site for World Youth Day even has a timer that counts down the seconds until the Pope's arrival.  Many of the papists wear hats to protect them from the direct glare of the hot  sun.  It seems as if Madrid or Spain or the tourist office or some formal body has sponsored yellow and/or red hats.  It makes spotting the herds of papists quite easy.  The other distinguishing feature is some sort of plastic carrying case they wear around their necks.  The papists seem to be from all over the world, and in addition to their yellow and/or red hats and plastic carrying cases, they on the whole seem to move with some form of national identifier (a flag).  German, Italian, Portuguese, American, French*.  Yesterday, there was even a big group of Italian teenager papists in  the cleaning supplies aisle of the Corte Ingles.  They were arguing over broom handles.  Later I saw them on the street with the Italian flag affixed to the broom handle on which they eventually agreed.

I wonder if it isn't a little bit sadistic to arrange an event that draws thousands from gentler climes to the harsh heat - whether bochornoso or no - of Madrid's August.

*No English.

Riot Not Predicted

When the Sunday morning news covered the Tottenham riots, I didn't think much of it.  Tottenham is a world away from my London.  That's how London is:  it is so expansive that the other side of town seems like a different city.  Plus, I was in Madrid, so the images came via the Internet and without personal commentary.  On Monday, I flew to London for work.    Violence, looting, rioting:  none of all that was on my mind.  In the office, there was the occasional joke about free TVs.  The HR woman began sending out emails advising employees to check the appropriate url for updates on recent events and informing us to check with our line managers if we thought we would need more time than normal to get safely home.

What?


Proximity has pushed me to tuning in more closely.  The TV and radio waves are almost exclusively dedicated to images of burning buildings and bands of youths looting (mainly of big television sets).  A colleague at works arrives in the morning with the verbal description of a shop that his bus has passed by:  completely emptied of its wares with the exception of a sign that boasts to offer "The Best of Britain".  My colleague describes it with humour.  Typically British:  the irony.  He regrets his lack of dexterity; he wasn't able to get a picture.  I chuckle at my colleagues description and relay an anecdote of my own (non rioting related) from my morning commute.  I did have the presence of mind and quickness of hand to snap a picture of an old man outside the Chelsea and Westminster hospital - obviously a patient - who was out getting fresh air in order to smoke a cigarette.  Still my mind had not been fully turned to the primary situation facing the UK.

Now I sit watching the BBC with its studio outfitted in its iconic red accents.  A father lost his 21 year old son in Birmingham last night.  He speaks out with calm and composure pleading for people to stay indoors and out of trouble.  "Please don't try to avenge my son's death" he implores.  There isn't room for humour any longer.  London, England, the UK is ashamed.  Anarchy's face is grim.

Question Stumps

I sit at an outside patio table of a sushi restaurant in the neighbourhood where I grew up. The neighbourhood has changed. It's gotten richer and ritzier. Used to be that this 5 x 3 block of shops and cafes and restaurants was a bit more low-key, expensive, but low-key. Now the emblematic bookstore has moved out, and Hermes has moved in. The Jeeps and tatty old Range Rovers have mostly been replaced. The cars that drive through the small streets looking for parking spaces are a mix of foreign sports cars and massive luxury SUVs. The people who frequent the cafes and restaurants are thinner and tanner. The ladies wear high-heels. Used to be that this neigbourhood was more hippy. Chic, but hippy. More Birkenstock than Manolo.

I don't live here anymore, so I don't really mind. I'm merely observing the changes as I sip on my miso soup and munch on my edamame.

I am dining alone, a feat achieved by lying to my father. I told him I was meeting a friend. I wasn't. I just wanted to get away from him and stroll through the old, but new, neighbourhood.

I take a sip of Chardonnay and listen to the conversation at the table next to mine. There are three girls and boy, probably in their late 20s. I could probably figure out at least one of their ages exactly because she comments that the 2nd Bush term had nothing to do with her because she was only 17 and couldn't vote. She is really beautiful: long dark, not-frizzy, but very kinky hair with sun-touched natural highlights; beautifully shaped, full lips and a lovely tan. Her eyes are hidden by a very fashionable pair of designer sunglasses.

One of the girls is new to the others so I have heard the introductions. They are all from California. One of them laughs and asks the others why they are in the mountains and how they like it. She is very petite and opinionated. Her slick, straight dark hair is pulled back in a tight pony tail. When one of them asks about the debt crisis, this one has all the answers. She seems bright.

The boy looks bored and leaves before the conversation is finished. He only interrupts the stream of words in order to give the petite, opinionated one a kiss on the cheek. After he leaves, she shows off her engagement ring to girls.

The third girls is heavy in comparison to the other two. She stays quiet the whole time. I wonder if she feels like a fish out of water.

The girl with the beautifully shaped, full lips wants to get back to the previous conversation. She asks a question, which stumps the petite, opinionated one: "So, where did we find the money to increase the debt ceiling?"

Oh my.

Instructions Deconstructed

Some years back, a non-American ridiculed my native homeland for the degree of detail given in our instructions. "Your instructions go into the most obvious detail as if they are written for children." the non-American observed. At the time, I didn't get it. Since then, I have kept an eye out for over prescriptive instructions and have made comparisons to instructions imparted by other nationalities. The worst instructions I ever had belonged to an assemble-it-yourself computer desk from MUJI. The Man and I had just moved to London and were outfitting our rented London flat. My mother-in-law was visiting, and without her The Man and I would not have been able to decipher the Asian Hieroglyphics which were meant to show us the way to computer-desk completeness. "These instructions are the opposite," I thought at the time "of the American-style instructions, if my non-American acquaintance is to be believed."

I had forgotten about my non-American acquaintance's observation until yesterday when I observed the instructions at the crosswalk in my middle American hometown.

Written for children or idiots, no doubt.