There are four seasons in Washington, D.C., but only one where the city is itself. No one ever wrote a song called “Autumn in D.C.” Nor should they. Fall is the season when D.C. gets disowned by incumbents back home with their constituents and savaged by challengers whose only professed desire to go to Washington is to completely change it. Now think about winter in the Capital—and what comes to mind? If you’re a yuppie, maybe a scene or two from Aaron Sorkin. If you watch the nightly news, maybe you sort of recall a fleeting feel-good shot of the White House Christmas tree lighting. The other 97% of the population? Nothing. What is there? Frozen breath, a dead brown and gray landscape, a couple wet and heavy snows. That’s about it.
Then comes spring. Spring in D.C. is like your job: it’s fine. Just fine. Better than not having it, right? Way better, in fact. And there are cherry blossoms! For two weeks, tens of thousands of people crowd the edge of the Tidal Basin with one goal, the goal of framing a picture of their kids or their girlfriends under a cherry blossom tree so that it looks like no one else was there. Then the blossoms shed and it’s over. Like I said, better than not having it, right?
D.C., though, was made for one season, and one season only. The founding fathers planted our capitol in the thick of a swamp because they had an idea about what would come with the heat.
People blame the fathers for this move, chalking up the Capital’s location to some boneheaded failure of imagination brought on by a cold snap during winter planning meetings in Philadelphia. Not me. I think they saw what would come of it. I think they saw the surprise of feeling yourself perspire under a wool suit and linen shirt at 7:30 a.m. They smelled the city summer air, before there was even a city, the thick, sweet, pungent smell of bus fumes and humidity. They saw fro-yo shops in Metro Center and on K Street, and the face-flushing dashes that besuited men and women would make across baking afternoon pavement to get there. The fathers imagined the legions—legions!—of interns descending upon the district like good-natured locusts, rising in the sky like clockwork in mid-May and disappearing again with the wind in mid-August, mighty swarms of 18 year olds and 23 year olds, cramming themselves into offices and agencies and think tanks and leadership institutes, devouring every last morsel of the subletting market. I’m sure, too, that even from Constitution Hall, the framers could imagine the tags. Everyone would wear a tag. Holstered on a belt clip, hanging around a neck lanyard, pinned to a neon tour group t-shirt—names, mug shots, magnetic charges, access, status, authority, proof of belonging. And in addition to all that, the framers saw the joggers in spandex and earbuds, darting across crosswalks, they saw the young women in sleeveless camisoles and pearl necklaces wrapped around their young, open-collared men on the metro platforms, the happy hour drones buzzing out on the patios, and people everywhere, man woman and child, adopting the universal default posture: head bent down at forty-five degrees, staring at a small bluish screen in their palm. In short, nineteen score and seven years ago, our fathers saw summer in this District and called it good.
The other night, I stepped out into an evening that bore the first hint of early summer. The veil of humidity was there, but warmth had not yet become heat. There was a forecast of rain.
In McPherson Square, the grass had been cut for the first time all year that morning, and now it was standing plush and fragrant. Homeless men and lawyers peopled some of the benches. Tourist families on their way back from the Mall to their hotels skirted around the giant bronze equestrian statue mounted upon a granite pedestal in the middle of the square. General James McPherson surveyed his namesake patch of territory with the same commanding resolve that no doubt inspired his brethren in the Kentucky Army to donate his likeness to the city back in the distant past, a time so distant that people must have remembered who General McPherson was.
The birds were out in full force, as usual. Pairs of mallards waddled through the grass together, while broods of pigeons flocked near any bench whose occupant bore a sandwich. Higher up, a small group of seagulls blown in from the Eastern Shore hovered. One of them alighted on the highest and sturdiest point in the park, which happened to be the peak of General McPherson’s hat. Together, the three of them, the horse, the bird, and General McPherson, gazed solemnly into the evening.
It reminded me of Hamlet, the graveyard scene, when Horatio tries to console the prince out of his macabre, melancholy musing about what must have become of the bodies of Caesar and Alexander, how flesh became corpse, became dirt, became loam, became a plug for a beer barrel, stowed away in a storeroom somewhere in Denmark. As for General McPherson’s flesh, who could say, but we saw what became of his likeness, his memory on the earth: General McPherson is now a place for gulls to perch in summer.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Monday, April 25, 2011
Overheard
"I don't know what I'm sincere about anymore."
"How can you not know that?"
"I don't know...I just don't."
A pause, a beat. Two beats.
"You should pick something and just be sincere about it."
"That's not what sincerity is supposed to be."
"Why not?"
"Sincerity--you're supposed to feel it. It's supposed to just...bubble up from inside of you. You're supposed to know it."
"Well, can you do that?"
"No." Defiance.
"So, start with what you can do. Just pick something."
"How can you not know that?"
"I don't know...I just don't."
A pause, a beat. Two beats.
"You should pick something and just be sincere about it."
"That's not what sincerity is supposed to be."
"Why not?"
"Sincerity--you're supposed to feel it. It's supposed to just...bubble up from inside of you. You're supposed to know it."
"Well, can you do that?"
"No." Defiance.
"So, start with what you can do. Just pick something."
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Status
Last night I updated my facebook status to say “Tenebrae.” Three minutes later, a friend of my mom’s commented: “Could you please define the word for me? We are attending such a service but don't know what the word means.” This is my answer:
Tenebrae is about fear.
At 6:30 yesterday evening, I opened a new tab in Google Chrome and clicked on the picture of my inbox. Gmail popped open—all 5,000 unarchived messages worth. I put one word for the search box: “tenebrae.” Five thousand became one, a forward from my friend: “You should join us for Tenebrae at the Dominican House of Studies on Wednesday!” I got the address and double checked the time. I had just under an hour to get there.
In the elevator, I saw Fiona. “Heading home?” I asked. “To the gym first,” she said. “How about you?”
“I’m going to a church service,” I said, “called Tenebrae—it’s a traditional Dominican service for the night before Holy Thursday,” I added, seeing her eyebrows lift.
“Are you Dominican?” she asked. It took me a moment, then I understood the subtext. Fiona has very dark skin; I am every bit as pale as she is pigmented. Plus, my name is Christian Huebner.
“Oh, I mean the order of Catholic monks,” I said.
***
I asked the security guard on the campus of Catholic University where the House of Studies was, but I probably didn’t need to. There were enough students, Hill, and K Street types in blazers and sun dresses winding their way through campus to follow the trail.
The brothers and friars were prepared to meet us inside. Most of them were young, in their twenties and early thirties, all wearing the familiar white cassocks with long wooden Rosaries tied around their waist as a cincture. For this evening, they’d also donned their black outer cloaks. I asked where the bathroom was, and a brother pointed me through some double doors and down a hallway. It was a one staller, so I had to wait my turn. When the first guy came out, I saw that he had curly hair and was wearing a corduroy sport jacket and tie. What is it with the conservo-Catholic uniform?, I thought as we nodded at each other. On the way out of the bathroom, I adjusted the collar of my new Jos. A Bank dress shirt and straightened my khaki blazer.
The chapel was packed; I spotted a row with some empty seats—and, by sheer coincidence, some rather pretty young women who all shook their heads at me to say that those places were being saved. I looked around and spotted a cluster of my friends waving to me on the other side of the aisle.
We settled in, and Tenebrae began.
As far as what you do at Tenebrae, that’s pretty straightforward. It’s not a mass—you’re sitting most of the time, in my case in a hard wooden chair brought into the vestibule for overflow behind the screen. We opened with a hymn, “Ah, Holy Jesus,” which is nothing if not lovely and melancholy. For me, kind Jesus, was thine Incarnation / Thy mortal sorrow, and thy life’s oblation / Thy death of anguish and thy bitter Passion, for my salvation. Most of the service then was Psalm singing, antiphonally, about the sufferings of Christ. Spent and utterly crushed, I cry aloud in anguish of heart . . . My wanton enemies are numberless, and my lying foes are many ... That sort of thing. Again, really quite beautiful. The Domincans interspersed this with readings from Scripture and from St. Augustine, and with short motets from a small choir. The reading was sound in diction; the choir was mostly solid and tuned, if a little wobbly on the polyphonic passages. After each segment of the service passed—a psalm, a reading, a song—one of the brothers would extinguish one of the fifteen candles lit at the front of the chapel, starting with the outside and working in, back and forth, like a scythe, until only the single, central candle remained.
My mind wandered during most of this. What a pretty chapel this was—-shape the words as I sing them—-would I want to be a Dominican? probably not-—maybe some other kind of priest?—-bow during the Glory Be—-wow, she’s beautiful—-don’t I recognize that brother? I do! It’s George!—-wow, yep, really beautiful—-I’ll have to try to catch him afterward—-think about the words, think about the words . . .
At the end of the service, the lights went out. Night had stolen upon us, and only the one candle remained, the Christ candle. Then brothers escorted it out, too, through a side door, which they left open. From beyond the door, a light glowed into the darkened chapel, and the brothers started singing, Christus factus est pro nobis obediens usque ad mortem—Christ became for us obedient even unto death—and when the music ended a friar who had remained in the chapel exhorted us to pray. I don’t remember the words, but I got the gist: Lord, forgive us for crucifying your Son. The prayer ended. There were no lights. Silence.
Then a terrible, horrifying crash! Something was happening! No one could see, and noise—a screeching, piercing racket—sheer noise filled the chapel. Someone, some group of someones, was battering sheets of metal or pipes or lighting firecrackers with reckless ferocity, and it was dark and no one could see what was going on.
It stopped after a minute. Even before then, my mind caught up to what was happening: the brothers were banging on pots and pans and who knows what else from outside the chapel door, hacking away at these objects to create pandemonium over the congregation. That sounds innocuous enough, but the brutality of the shift—-from tender harmony in soft light to dark cacophony—-was jarring. Shaking, even. Behind me, I heard one of my friends sniffle. Fear, even just a quick moment of fear, does that to a person; it leaves you trembling even after it has passed.
Amid the scraps of twittering nerves, we understood the point. Extinguishing candles slowly to plainsong looks beautiful, but it commemorates something appalling. We left him alone in the outer dark, where it was cold, and where the only thing around was the hungry beast Chaos, fighting for a place at the foundation of the universe. Not some beautiful agony set to an orchestral soundtrack, but sheer chaos, sharp things gleefully cutting around him, into him; cold, ugly, violent fear—-that was what love took on for us. It went into shadows, which, incidentally, is what “tenebrae” means.
We processed out of the chapel, into the echoing foyer. Somberness lifted and chatter sprung up. We went for drinks across the road. After an hour passed, I couldn’t feel the fear any more. I could remember feeling that way, but the sensation was gone.
Tenebrae is about fear.
At 6:30 yesterday evening, I opened a new tab in Google Chrome and clicked on the picture of my inbox. Gmail popped open—all 5,000 unarchived messages worth. I put one word for the search box: “tenebrae.” Five thousand became one, a forward from my friend: “You should join us for Tenebrae at the Dominican House of Studies on Wednesday!” I got the address and double checked the time. I had just under an hour to get there.
In the elevator, I saw Fiona. “Heading home?” I asked. “To the gym first,” she said. “How about you?”
“I’m going to a church service,” I said, “called Tenebrae—it’s a traditional Dominican service for the night before Holy Thursday,” I added, seeing her eyebrows lift.
“Are you Dominican?” she asked. It took me a moment, then I understood the subtext. Fiona has very dark skin; I am every bit as pale as she is pigmented. Plus, my name is Christian Huebner.
“Oh, I mean the order of Catholic monks,” I said.
***
I asked the security guard on the campus of Catholic University where the House of Studies was, but I probably didn’t need to. There were enough students, Hill, and K Street types in blazers and sun dresses winding their way through campus to follow the trail.
The brothers and friars were prepared to meet us inside. Most of them were young, in their twenties and early thirties, all wearing the familiar white cassocks with long wooden Rosaries tied around their waist as a cincture. For this evening, they’d also donned their black outer cloaks. I asked where the bathroom was, and a brother pointed me through some double doors and down a hallway. It was a one staller, so I had to wait my turn. When the first guy came out, I saw that he had curly hair and was wearing a corduroy sport jacket and tie. What is it with the conservo-Catholic uniform?, I thought as we nodded at each other. On the way out of the bathroom, I adjusted the collar of my new Jos. A Bank dress shirt and straightened my khaki blazer.
The chapel was packed; I spotted a row with some empty seats—and, by sheer coincidence, some rather pretty young women who all shook their heads at me to say that those places were being saved. I looked around and spotted a cluster of my friends waving to me on the other side of the aisle.
We settled in, and Tenebrae began.
As far as what you do at Tenebrae, that’s pretty straightforward. It’s not a mass—you’re sitting most of the time, in my case in a hard wooden chair brought into the vestibule for overflow behind the screen. We opened with a hymn, “Ah, Holy Jesus,” which is nothing if not lovely and melancholy. For me, kind Jesus, was thine Incarnation / Thy mortal sorrow, and thy life’s oblation / Thy death of anguish and thy bitter Passion, for my salvation. Most of the service then was Psalm singing, antiphonally, about the sufferings of Christ. Spent and utterly crushed, I cry aloud in anguish of heart . . . My wanton enemies are numberless, and my lying foes are many ... That sort of thing. Again, really quite beautiful. The Domincans interspersed this with readings from Scripture and from St. Augustine, and with short motets from a small choir. The reading was sound in diction; the choir was mostly solid and tuned, if a little wobbly on the polyphonic passages. After each segment of the service passed—a psalm, a reading, a song—one of the brothers would extinguish one of the fifteen candles lit at the front of the chapel, starting with the outside and working in, back and forth, like a scythe, until only the single, central candle remained.
My mind wandered during most of this. What a pretty chapel this was—-shape the words as I sing them—-would I want to be a Dominican? probably not-—maybe some other kind of priest?—-bow during the Glory Be—-wow, she’s beautiful—-don’t I recognize that brother? I do! It’s George!—-wow, yep, really beautiful—-I’ll have to try to catch him afterward—-think about the words, think about the words . . .
At the end of the service, the lights went out. Night had stolen upon us, and only the one candle remained, the Christ candle. Then brothers escorted it out, too, through a side door, which they left open. From beyond the door, a light glowed into the darkened chapel, and the brothers started singing, Christus factus est pro nobis obediens usque ad mortem—Christ became for us obedient even unto death—and when the music ended a friar who had remained in the chapel exhorted us to pray. I don’t remember the words, but I got the gist: Lord, forgive us for crucifying your Son. The prayer ended. There were no lights. Silence.
Then a terrible, horrifying crash! Something was happening! No one could see, and noise—a screeching, piercing racket—sheer noise filled the chapel. Someone, some group of someones, was battering sheets of metal or pipes or lighting firecrackers with reckless ferocity, and it was dark and no one could see what was going on.
It stopped after a minute. Even before then, my mind caught up to what was happening: the brothers were banging on pots and pans and who knows what else from outside the chapel door, hacking away at these objects to create pandemonium over the congregation. That sounds innocuous enough, but the brutality of the shift—-from tender harmony in soft light to dark cacophony—-was jarring. Shaking, even. Behind me, I heard one of my friends sniffle. Fear, even just a quick moment of fear, does that to a person; it leaves you trembling even after it has passed.
Amid the scraps of twittering nerves, we understood the point. Extinguishing candles slowly to plainsong looks beautiful, but it commemorates something appalling. We left him alone in the outer dark, where it was cold, and where the only thing around was the hungry beast Chaos, fighting for a place at the foundation of the universe. Not some beautiful agony set to an orchestral soundtrack, but sheer chaos, sharp things gleefully cutting around him, into him; cold, ugly, violent fear—-that was what love took on for us. It went into shadows, which, incidentally, is what “tenebrae” means.
We processed out of the chapel, into the echoing foyer. Somberness lifted and chatter sprung up. We went for drinks across the road. After an hour passed, I couldn’t feel the fear any more. I could remember feeling that way, but the sensation was gone.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Smudge
I almost forewent the ashes today. It’s a strange holiday, a day when you hear a reading reminding you not to do your good deeds and your prayer and your fasting to be seen by men, then you turn around and ask for a penitent’s mark in the most conspicuous place possible, to wear around town the rest of the day. The churches are packed. Everyone wants ashes. Plenty leave mass as soon as they get them, before communion, parading their own disregard or ignorance of the reason for the ashes, and thereby creating an irresistable temptation for those who stay behind to feel self-righteous. It’s a mess of misplaced movtives.
That’s not why I almost skipped the ashes, though. My reason was banal: I was busy. I was as busy as I’d ever been at work, and didn’t I have a duty to my employer? Could I really justify not only slipping out for mass at noon, but to a mass that was guaranteed to take twice as long as usual?
But then there I was in front of the line, and Father Arne was rubbing his thumb in the little brass bowl and lifting it to my forehead for a smudge. Remember, Man, that you are dust and to dust you shall return.
After that there was nothing left to do but go back and crouch in the hallway—the chapel itself being completely full—until mass resumed. I couldn’t leave now that I’d gotten my ashes. (A whiff of self-righteousness—or was it jealousy?) And what happened then? A thought, a picture in my mind of a beach, my jeans rolled up above my calves, my feet pressing into the wet, coarse sand, and a person waiting in the foam, holding onto a little rowboat, asking me where I wanted to go. I said I didn’t know. He laughed.
That’s not why I almost skipped the ashes, though. My reason was banal: I was busy. I was as busy as I’d ever been at work, and didn’t I have a duty to my employer? Could I really justify not only slipping out for mass at noon, but to a mass that was guaranteed to take twice as long as usual?
But then there I was in front of the line, and Father Arne was rubbing his thumb in the little brass bowl and lifting it to my forehead for a smudge. Remember, Man, that you are dust and to dust you shall return.
After that there was nothing left to do but go back and crouch in the hallway—the chapel itself being completely full—until mass resumed. I couldn’t leave now that I’d gotten my ashes. (A whiff of self-righteousness—or was it jealousy?) And what happened then? A thought, a picture in my mind of a beach, my jeans rolled up above my calves, my feet pressing into the wet, coarse sand, and a person waiting in the foam, holding onto a little rowboat, asking me where I wanted to go. I said I didn’t know. He laughed.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Advice
May you always keep a fresh face to the world.
Resist the downward tug in your cheeks; recognize, see the way
the creases of your lips tend to pinch together, and fight it. Lift!
Keep your cheeks fresh and soft, like babies’ butts.
Or, get acne if you need to
and hold on to the embarrassment of not being ready for the world.
You’re best when you’re tender like that.
Wear your scars inside. Bury them
deep in your viscera, mark up your lungs,
your liver, your heart, your pancreas.
Feel them inside as much as you have to, as much as they mangle you up,
but then save them for the autopsy.
That is the secret to a clean face, to a forehead
with no thin lines, to a kind of lightness around your temples
that raises your lashes, opens your eyes, making them enormous orbs, deep and bright.
Resist the downward tug in your cheeks; recognize, see the way
the creases of your lips tend to pinch together, and fight it. Lift!
Keep your cheeks fresh and soft, like babies’ butts.
Or, get acne if you need to
and hold on to the embarrassment of not being ready for the world.
You’re best when you’re tender like that.
Wear your scars inside. Bury them
deep in your viscera, mark up your lungs,
your liver, your heart, your pancreas.
Feel them inside as much as you have to, as much as they mangle you up,
but then save them for the autopsy.
That is the secret to a clean face, to a forehead
with no thin lines, to a kind of lightness around your temples
that raises your lashes, opens your eyes, making them enormous orbs, deep and bright.
Monday, January 3, 2011
A Most Capital Bird
What is it about the vulnerability of a flock of ducks crossing a busy street that makes a human heart ache? Tonight as I left the office I saw in McPherson Square Park a whole convention of mallards had gathered, dozens upon dozens of green headed males waddling and quacking alongside their brown-headed lady mates.
Not all of the ducks had made it to the park, though. In the crosswalk at 15th Street, several more pairs were waddling their way across traffic lanes, stopping to peck at the crumbs and fast food bags they found along the way. They seemed happy, in that high spirited, we’re-dallying-on-our-way-to-a-holiday, ducky sort of way.
Watching them, I felt a clenching sensation in my chest. Dusk was failing, and the ducks were barely more than silhouettes--and low to the ground at that. The stoplights were red in all the right directions for the time being, so that the busy intersection was clear of cars. But that would soon change, and the headlights of the taxis and towncars would bear down on the birds, neither seeing nor caring for the peril.
Danger. Danger! I almost ran out into the street to spook the ducks and hurry them along to safety on the far curb. Something held me back; I’m not sure what. So instead I stood watching on the corner, twisting my fingers in my pockets. The lights turned green. A big maroon taxi, headlamps blazing, came careening down the turn lane. In a moment more, he would sweep right, right into the place where the last mallards huddled, oblivious. The car came, took the corner fast. The ducks had mostly had the time they needed--thanks to some incredible dumb luck, it seemed--but there was one male who was still dawdling. From the opposite side of the street, I couldn’t judge the distances and angles. I didn’t know if he would make it clear. I watched and listened for a thump, squawk, and feathers.
He was safe. The car passed, and I could see the last mallard hopping up onto the curb, toward the safety of the square, a bit more briskly than he had a moment before. Ducks in the city were still ducks in danger, I knew, but my task of worrying here was done for the day.
So I thought, until I turned ninety degree to cross J Street and saw four more stragglers scampering—as much as ducks can scamper—the other way, toward the Metro station. They seemed to be intent on riding the subway. So was I.
I overtook them at the top of the escalators. A number of homeless men in old, heavy coats were resting and panhandling under the canopy. When they saw the ducks, they laughed and teased. Then one of them threw a piece of white bread on the cement and the four ducks converged with the shamelessness of wild creatures who must perpetually forage, yes, but also with the silly, high-chinned pride and grace which is forever a duck’s, no matter his country.
Not all of the ducks had made it to the park, though. In the crosswalk at 15th Street, several more pairs were waddling their way across traffic lanes, stopping to peck at the crumbs and fast food bags they found along the way. They seemed happy, in that high spirited, we’re-dallying-on-our-way-to-a-holiday, ducky sort of way.
Watching them, I felt a clenching sensation in my chest. Dusk was failing, and the ducks were barely more than silhouettes--and low to the ground at that. The stoplights were red in all the right directions for the time being, so that the busy intersection was clear of cars. But that would soon change, and the headlights of the taxis and towncars would bear down on the birds, neither seeing nor caring for the peril.
Danger. Danger! I almost ran out into the street to spook the ducks and hurry them along to safety on the far curb. Something held me back; I’m not sure what. So instead I stood watching on the corner, twisting my fingers in my pockets. The lights turned green. A big maroon taxi, headlamps blazing, came careening down the turn lane. In a moment more, he would sweep right, right into the place where the last mallards huddled, oblivious. The car came, took the corner fast. The ducks had mostly had the time they needed--thanks to some incredible dumb luck, it seemed--but there was one male who was still dawdling. From the opposite side of the street, I couldn’t judge the distances and angles. I didn’t know if he would make it clear. I watched and listened for a thump, squawk, and feathers.
He was safe. The car passed, and I could see the last mallard hopping up onto the curb, toward the safety of the square, a bit more briskly than he had a moment before. Ducks in the city were still ducks in danger, I knew, but my task of worrying here was done for the day.
So I thought, until I turned ninety degree to cross J Street and saw four more stragglers scampering—as much as ducks can scamper—the other way, toward the Metro station. They seemed to be intent on riding the subway. So was I.
I overtook them at the top of the escalators. A number of homeless men in old, heavy coats were resting and panhandling under the canopy. When they saw the ducks, they laughed and teased. Then one of them threw a piece of white bread on the cement and the four ducks converged with the shamelessness of wild creatures who must perpetually forage, yes, but also with the silly, high-chinned pride and grace which is forever a duck’s, no matter his country.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Fish Food
I returned from a 5-day jaunt through Malaysia and Cambodia this morning, and with many a happy tale to tell of it. I saw thousand-year-old ruins and the second-tallest towers in the world. I squeezed into a compact pick-up truck with eighteen Cambodians and was guest at the family birthday dinner of a dozen Kuala Lumpurians. I attended mass on a giant raft, and walked through the cabins of a Portuguese warship. I did and saw and met so many wonderful things and places and people...and at the end of it, what I think of the most was getting a fish foot massage.
What, you may ask, is a fish foot massage? The easiest way to understand is to walk around Pub Street in Siem Reap, Cambodia for five minutes, during which time you're guaranteed to pass by at least three fish parlors. The concept is straightforward. Big fish tanks, filled with schools of sardine-sized fish, are brought out in front of the parlor. A board extend across the top of the tank, for customers to sit upon. As you approach the tank, the fish start to swirl and mass toward you. "They know, they know!" says the man taking your money.
You take off your shoes and hop onto the board. Then comes the second-hardest part: you lower your bare feet into the school of fishes. As you do, you can see their little red mouths and dumb eyes gaping at your heels and toes. And then, when your feet hit the water, they go to work.
I said that lowering your feet into the fish was the second-hardest part. That's because the first-hardest part is keeping them there. At first, there's the tickle, which is hard enough to endure. Then, once the initial shock is over, the whole concept of the thing begins to prey upon your mind. The fish, you see, are eating you. With each little bump from their lips, they take away a tiny piece of your outer skin layer. They call this "exfoliation." I call it a half-click too far past creepy.
I didn't last long, probably only a quarter of my twenty minutes. Even so, when I pulled out my feet, I could tell that they were suppler and shinier than they'd been, probably since birth. As I left, I saw that another man--a friend of the man taking the money, it seemed--had come and was leaning over the side of the tank. His hand was trolling listfullly through the water, while the fish nibbled at the morsels around his knuckles.
What, you may ask, is a fish foot massage? The easiest way to understand is to walk around Pub Street in Siem Reap, Cambodia for five minutes, during which time you're guaranteed to pass by at least three fish parlors. The concept is straightforward. Big fish tanks, filled with schools of sardine-sized fish, are brought out in front of the parlor. A board extend across the top of the tank, for customers to sit upon. As you approach the tank, the fish start to swirl and mass toward you. "They know, they know!" says the man taking your money.
You take off your shoes and hop onto the board. Then comes the second-hardest part: you lower your bare feet into the school of fishes. As you do, you can see their little red mouths and dumb eyes gaping at your heels and toes. And then, when your feet hit the water, they go to work.
I said that lowering your feet into the fish was the second-hardest part. That's because the first-hardest part is keeping them there. At first, there's the tickle, which is hard enough to endure. Then, once the initial shock is over, the whole concept of the thing begins to prey upon your mind. The fish, you see, are eating you. With each little bump from their lips, they take away a tiny piece of your outer skin layer. They call this "exfoliation." I call it a half-click too far past creepy.
I didn't last long, probably only a quarter of my twenty minutes. Even so, when I pulled out my feet, I could tell that they were suppler and shinier than they'd been, probably since birth. As I left, I saw that another man--a friend of the man taking the money, it seemed--had come and was leaning over the side of the tank. His hand was trolling listfullly through the water, while the fish nibbled at the morsels around his knuckles.
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