Thursday, February 3

the good life

I’ve been in need of a massage, something I believe to be as essential to the human existence as skin. Even animals stretch first thing after waking.

So, I finally convinced Tony to introduce me at a local “parlor.” And by parlor, I mean metal shack on the beach, a place I am loathe to go at any time, much less at midday with all the sun-soaking tourists. But I would go to the moon if I had to for a good massage.

During my standard siesta time between the hours of 1pm and 4pm, when I am usually holed up in my tiny room under the fan, I had a massage with Supa (pronounced ‘Shuba’). I addressed her with my usual speech to therapists about their liberty to press, pull, squeeze, or otherwise massage Finneas. I refrained from referring to Finneas by name, as the language gulf between us was already muddy. I’m foreign; no need to let her know I’m also crazy. I was already speaking without articles or adjectives.

She tested Finneas with a gentle pull. Then she asked me to perform some small exercises [stop laughing] of pulling and pushing her finger. Then, if my interpretation was correct, she asked me to swing Finneas vigorously, slapping her index finger. Ok. I whipped him with dexterity and hit my mark. She smiled, pleased. 

“This is good idea, I think,” she said. I heartily agreed, thinking she meant God’s gifting me with a small arm in general. But then I realized she was possibly speaking of Finneas’ self defense skills; that if necessary, he could go to bat for me in a back alley situation. Really? I would have to be completely incapacitated for the idea of miniature-arm-slapping myself out of harms way. And what if Finneas is a pacifist?!


And now the last week, the keywords “handicap sex tattoo arm amputee” brought, presumably by accident, some visitor to my site. Sorry, I just can’t keep these to myself.

Meanwhile, Pascal, who I made a mental note never to write about again because of several serious bouts of shyness due to recent posts, expressed disappointment that I’d used a photo of Dinha’s fruit salad with curd and coconut, and not their famous poached eggs on toast. So, it is here righted:

Breakfast never looked so good
Now, if you’re not hungry for breakfast again, regardless of the time, there’s something wrong with you. Then again, I’m one to talk. “A born freak can only go uphill,” claims the primary character in my current literary preoccupation, Even Cowgirls Get the Blues by Tom Robbins.


Today, my new artist friend Janet of Ireland was determined to help me swim in the shimmering pool waters of the resort where she lives. Thus commenced a comedy of experiments involving various flotation devices, requiring me to squeeze into a child-sized inner tube, and nearly drown squirming out.

It should be noted that I’ve been “swimming” since I was a kid with some sort of doggie paddle/side stroke/sheer determination combination, but proper technique has thus far eluded me. In the end, we gave up on assisted swimming gear, and Janet demonstrated the breaststroke, stomach down on a reclined pool chair, arms and legs swimming in air; something for the poolside city-dwellers-on-holiday to write home on a postcard. 

Romantic walk with Asif and Mikey Man in hand
And speaking of postcards, what's better than a long walk on the beach with a guy? A long walk on the beach with two guys (plus one sister behind with a camera).