My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [60]
Now I’m in the nail shop perched in the big pedicure throne, crying to the tiny Vietnamese technician about how much my arches ache, begging her to do whatever it takes to make them feel less stabby.
Apparently “stabby” does not translate well to Vietnamese, and the technician has to call the owner over to translate. Hey, who knew? Apparently whining is not a universal language.
An older gentleman in a bowling shirt wanders over. “You feets hurt?” he asks.
“They’re killing me,” I moan.
He claps his hands together and declares, “You no worry! We give you extra-good massage and use ancient Vietnamese secret.”115 Then he quickly says something to the technician in his native tongue before heading out to lunch.
The pedicure begins like they all do—the big soak in bubbling blue water. I adjust the chair’s massage settings and ease back into it. I keep my eyes closed during the polish removal and clipping and filing. This is the most relaxed I’ve been in weeks.
I’m just about to fall asleep—or possibly black out due to a sugar crash116—when the next part of my pedicure begins. My eyes fly open when the first punch connects with my lower leg. The next thirty to forty blows happen so rapid-fire that I’m paralyzed in my chair. What the hell?
Horrified, I glance down at the technician, who’s smiling back proudly at me. “Ancient technique,” she confirms. Then she stops assaulting me and instead uses her pointy little thumbs to create a wedge between my shinbone and tendon, much like I do when I’m stripping a roast chicken. This is followed by another rigorous bout of calf smacking. And because I can’t figure out how to say, “Hey, Evander Holyfield, slow your freaking roll!” in Vietnamese, I sit biting back tears until the massage comes to its merciful conclusion.
The thing is, the owner’s right—I really don’t notice my sore feet afterward. This may have less to do with skillfully implemented Asian reflexology, and more to do with the fact that my legs are throbbing.
For the next three weeks, I’m stuck with huge, round black-and-blue spots all over my legs. The bruises are so bad I can wear shorts only if I first slather my legs in industrial-strength concealer.
Good thing about those bacon donuts, Portland, or I might not have forgiven you.
Seattle: Legs hurt too much to walk to any culture.
San Francisco: Due to the miracle of a canceled media appearance,117 I find myself with a free afternoon! Woo-hoo!
When I was here on tour last year, my schedule wasn’t quite as crazed, so I went into Tourist Mode, which encompassed shopping in Union Square, gobbling up Ghirardelli chocolate and corn dogs, bitching about all the steep inclines, and visiting the dock claimed by sea lions.
Last time I called Fletch from Fisherman’s Wharf so he could hear the sea lions barking firsthand as I furiously forwarded photo after photo from my BlackBerry.118 I spent an hour watching stout yet sleek creatures jockey for prime position on wobbly little docks, which were originally built for boaters and definitely not made to sustain the weight of multiple thousand-pound sea mammals. The fighting styles I witnessed consisted almost exclusively of chest bumping and baying in one another’s faces—the sea creature’s version of The Road Rules/Real World Challenge—and I couldn’t tear myself away.
Once bested, the lesser beasts would tumble back into the water, emerging at a different dock, ready to rumble with new takers, again and again, all day, every day. I feel sorry for the boat owners who tried to remove the sea lions once they took up residence. It’s impossible to move