Writing après foot massage…

I had the brilliant idea of going to my favorite foot massage place this afternoon – near the Bastille. It’s been a year, and I wondered if they were still there. They were!

A favorite little pub in the neighborhood, however, “Frog” was shuttered. So sad! I used to pop in there a lot to sit and watch some Olympic coverage since I never have a tv here, and American stations were stingy with sharing the games online.

I digress.

Remember last year when I first went to this foot massage place? It was the end of the day – my feet hurt, and I happened by their sign in the quartier. At the time, there was maybe one other client in the facility. I was clearly the last of the day. Anyway, they didn’t show me to the “locker area,” just took me right upstairs to the dark, dark room of about 6-8 comfy chairs and soft music.

The first thing she said to me was: Enlevez votre pantalon. (Take off your pants!)

Remember now? lol! They had me step into what appeared to be a bedsheet with ties to wrap around my waist. No one was there so I did as I was told.

The foot massage went up to my thighs, so, I was grateful for the ginormous pants.

The second time I went (guilty pleasure – after lots of walking on cobblestones!), they showed me first to the locker area downstairs. There was a guy there. No bathroom. No stalls. No dressing room screen. Just me and him sharing a 6’x6’ space where people stepped into and out of the giant pants. I hesitated… unsure what to do. I couldn’t formulate a question that would work in this situation in English, let alone French. I was let off the hook when the guy left and I quickly changed in “private-ish.”

Well, this time I opted for a massage that included feet, hands, and head, so they showed me to the locker area downstairs. I was alone. I put my things in the locker and put on the giant pants AND a loose top. Different, but ok. I went up two flights of stairs to the dark room and was assigned a chair. Heaven. Omg I fell asleep twice as she worked on my feet.

Then she moved to my hands, and finally, my head. All of this was nice, but if I go back – I think I want all the time for the feet because as I’ve mentioned, they are my weakness.

I assumed I was finished, but no. She had me move to the ottoman and put my head down on a pillow/towel. This is where it gets interesting. (How do I get myself into these situations?)

She pulled up the back of my shirt, and I was thinking oh, ok. I guess I should have removed my bra. I needn’t have worried. She took care of that for me. I kid you not. She unhooked me and just started working my back. Unexpected, but I went with it. As she finished I wondered, now what? The “girls” are free, here. Sorry if that’s TMI, it’s just the facts, but… the bra is still. I figured I’d take care of the situation in the locker area. But no, this was clearly a full-service establishment. She rehooked my bra, and before I could adjust and put the girls away, she kind of did that for me too, in a knowing way. I mean, she’s a woman, so of course she understood the situation and the assignment. Still, impressive.

So here I sit, having a Lillet Spritz because it’s pink – and it is once more a stunning day in Paris!!!