jet lag

So I got back from Morocco Tuesday, called in sick Wednesday, came in to work yesterday. Forgot until after it was already over that I'd made an appointment for acupuncture. So I called the acupuncturist, told him that I am an idiot, and asked if I could come anyway.

The answer was yes, so I stopped to get cash at an ATM that would only talk to me in Spanish no matter what buttons I pressed. I transferred $100 from checking to savings before finally succeeding in getting some money out of the thing.

Then I walked along 56th Street, looking for the address I'd just written down. The acupuncturist is Japanese, and midway between 5th and 6th avenues I found a sign for the Osaka spa. The address and suite were what I thought I remembered.

I told the girl at the desk that I was here for an acupuncture appointment with Dr. Murata. She seemed busy but said "yes, yes" and took me to a little room. "Take off all your clothes," she said, "and wear this towel." When I poked my head out, she guided me to a steam room.

I spent twenty minutes sitting in the eucalyptus clouds, watching as the henna patterns dyed on my hands seemed to dance through the steam. Warm water dripped from the ceiling.

When I came out of the room, the busy girl took me to a Japanese style bath. It struck me as odd that she should be Korean. I showered and moved between the hot and cold baths, completely happy to be back in this environment, one of my favorite parts of living in Japan.

The girl didn't seem to want to come back, so I poked my head out again. At this rate I'd only get 30 minutes of acupuncture, which wasn't what I thought I was signing up for. She told me to please sit down and drink my tea, which was waiting for me outside the bath.

Then the manager came. She was also Korean. The henna on my hands horrified her, she was convinced that it would absorb through the skin and mess up my immune system. She wanted me to fill out a form, and asked who had recommended me. I said that my old boss had told me that Mr. Murata was an excellent acupuncturist.

A little cloud passed across her face. "Dr. Murata?" she aked.

Long and short of it is: I had to pay a visit to Dr. Murata's office to apologise for missing two appointments in one day. The eucalyptus steam bath was half price, because it was only half my mistake.

Dr. Murata is a sweet man with an office a few doors down from the Osaka spa. He forgave me from behind a screen, came out to look for something, and saw my hands. His eyes filled with delight. He lived in Morocco for 6 years, doing acupuncture for the last king. And he cupped my hands in his own, turning them as delicately as if they were baby birds.