The Crack of the Bat

Watching me invoke a sports metaphor is a LOT like watching a drunk man try to walk across an icy street.

That said ....

Some things in life have a fifth voice quality to them -- the whole is greater than the sum of the parts.

Many things in sports fit.  A perfectly created/cooked dish (food) does.

The crack of the bat.

So many things have to come together just perfectly (that, in 49 years, have NEVER come together perfectly for me, incidentally) to create that sublimely hit ball.

I just got a massage.

I mean ... I Just Got A Massage.

I mean ... A Massage on a par with the Best Cup of Coffee I Ever Had, at El Refugio, to the southwest of the hotel.

The sort of massage about which stories are written.

Okay.  I'll pull back, but ....

I got in with Healing Hands for a 1.5hr massage.  It was about a three block saunter, so ... traffic being light ... I was early.  Filled out the cursory form, drank some water, and was walked back.

The room/facility was lovely, but I'd say the parts I saw were unremarkable.

That's okay.  Trust me.

I did the deed, laid "mouth down" (that's how they say it) on the table, and got worked over.  I couldn't fall asleep, but neither could I breathe, keep from drooling, nor contain the awkward moaning sounds that escaped my pie hole.

Yeah.  It was that good.

At half-time, she did the "roll your pasty butt over" thing, at which point, an unscripted, Spanish "I am in love with your hands" came out of me.

She blushed.  I mean ... rag doll cheeks blushed.  Then, she got a huge grin on her face, slapped a cool washcloth over my eyes, and went back to work.

Gravity played some role in the unflattering noises I had been making, since I think they stopped when I was laying "mouth up."

The 90 minute massage did NOT seem to stop.  She just had strong, dexterous, sort of loving massage-therapist hands like I can't recall.

As QuasiModo banged out the 3pm bell, I knew my time was up.  She did a few of those final glancing blows, geared toward ensuring your prey is actually dead, and then whispered "we're finished."

I dug deep for another one of my infamous, cutesy Spanish phrases (that no Spanish speaker would ever dare use), and said ... "I just spent a portion of my day in Paradise.  Thank you."

The Raggedy Ann look came back on her face.  So did the grin.

I've been having some neck-down-through-upper-left-rear-quadrant sort of pain.  Not no more.  This was the sort of re-boot I was seeking.

I was going to head back to the lair, but wandered down to the Parque Central.  I've seen NO evidence of a Labor Day fest today -- only the presence of a fair number of Guatemalan tourists.  I hung with them for a while, a wry smile creeping over my face.

Probably a little drool coming out, too.  I can't be sure, and nobody said anything.

Guatemalans are exceedingly gracious, that way.

I be-bopped (I choose these verbs carefully, ya' know) across the street for a cup of coffee.  I'm getting far less particular about where I buy my coffee, because it's always either excellent or unprecedented.  Can't lose.

I'm oily.  It's an exogenous thing, this time (pretty sure), but might merit showering.

In a few hours, sun will set, and the park will again come to life.  I should be there.

The new glasses -- bail for which was posted at about 1630h, yesterday -- are okay.  The prescription isn't quite right, but ... there ain't a derned thing I can do about that here, so ... I'll be grateful for new lenses, high-tech lenses, polarized lenses, photochromic lenses, and polarized, photochromic clip-on sunglasses -- all Good Things, in this land of ferocious sun.

Ciao for now, then, from the lovingly pummeled, well-lubricated branch of ... The Gulag.