My gut situation has improved but isn't a hundred percent yet. I thought I'd go down to the pharmacy and get some meds, but then I read how in Mexico you need a prescription for antibiotics. Then I saw some signs--seems some pharmacies have doctors keep office hours, and you stroll in, tell the doctor your symptoms, and they write a prescription.
Hmmmm. I might give that a try if I'm not feeling better within the week, but I strongly feel that I need an English-speaking doctor if I don't want to try to mime my symptoms. Though that might be amusing for anyone watching.
At some point, I decided my innards were feeling safe enough to make an excursion to the nail salon. In San Miguel, a lot of the top nail techs come to your house to "do" your nails. Well, that just sounds unpleasant to me. I don't want people in my house pampering me. It seems awkward to me. I'd rather go to them.
I'd spotted a nail salon at the dinky mall by the Soriana supermarket, so I took the bus up the hill to check it out.
The salon looked every bit the upscale, traditional nail salon, and the prices were typical of the area (meaning more than NYC but not more than most other places in the US), so I bit the loss of paying extra for being outside New York and went on in.
The pedicure woman turned out to be great, precise and thorough, but crikey, two hours? The manicure woman, meanwhile, made a mess. She seemed to be in training. Eventually, I made her take the pink globs off and just leave my hands au natural. I was kind of pissed off—you don't spend money to have someone make a big globby mess. But that's all right, I just won't go back. Pedicures last for weeks, so I'll get my next one at Colorful Nails on 8th Street and Sixth Avenue, behind the old Barnes and Noble, and I'll get a manicure somewhere in San Miguel in a week.
One fun thing about the nail salon is the random conversations you get into with other customers. Today, a woman sat on either side of me. To my left was a heavily made-up woman with false eyelashes who lives half-time in Santa Fe and had bought a house here in the country.
She was a little dippy, and when the nail tech asked in Spanish if I wanted my cuticles cut, she jumped in to "interpret," telling me the question was "round or square."
I firmly told her it obviously wasn't—the tech was waving the cutters at me and using words new to me.
On the other side was a more relaxed Austinite who'd lived here more than a decade. She speaks fluent Spanish and interrupted to corroborate my interpretation. She then said she had to go home for a while and this was her last chance at a pedicure for weeks or months since she didn't know how long she'd be in the hospital.
"Oh no," I said. She nodded. "They just found out I have MS. That doesn't bother me--I've been in and out of hospitals for a decade over a spine problem already. What bothers me is the tumor they found in my brain. That's going to take a while to sort out. I need to get my legs waxed too. We drive up on Friday, so I need to hurry up."
She's tough. Been through so much medical care she knows to get her legs waxed now. After all, it lasts for weeks.
Hmmmm. I might give that a try if I'm not feeling better within the week, but I strongly feel that I need an English-speaking doctor if I don't want to try to mime my symptoms. Though that might be amusing for anyone watching.
At some point, I decided my innards were feeling safe enough to make an excursion to the nail salon. In San Miguel, a lot of the top nail techs come to your house to "do" your nails. Well, that just sounds unpleasant to me. I don't want people in my house pampering me. It seems awkward to me. I'd rather go to them.
I'd spotted a nail salon at the dinky mall by the Soriana supermarket, so I took the bus up the hill to check it out.
The salon looked every bit the upscale, traditional nail salon, and the prices were typical of the area (meaning more than NYC but not more than most other places in the US), so I bit the loss of paying extra for being outside New York and went on in.
The pedicure woman turned out to be great, precise and thorough, but crikey, two hours? The manicure woman, meanwhile, made a mess. She seemed to be in training. Eventually, I made her take the pink globs off and just leave my hands au natural. I was kind of pissed off—you don't spend money to have someone make a big globby mess. But that's all right, I just won't go back. Pedicures last for weeks, so I'll get my next one at Colorful Nails on 8th Street and Sixth Avenue, behind the old Barnes and Noble, and I'll get a manicure somewhere in San Miguel in a week.
One fun thing about the nail salon is the random conversations you get into with other customers. Today, a woman sat on either side of me. To my left was a heavily made-up woman with false eyelashes who lives half-time in Santa Fe and had bought a house here in the country.
She was a little dippy, and when the nail tech asked in Spanish if I wanted my cuticles cut, she jumped in to "interpret," telling me the question was "round or square."
I firmly told her it obviously wasn't—the tech was waving the cutters at me and using words new to me.
On the other side was a more relaxed Austinite who'd lived here more than a decade. She speaks fluent Spanish and interrupted to corroborate my interpretation. She then said she had to go home for a while and this was her last chance at a pedicure for weeks or months since she didn't know how long she'd be in the hospital.
"Oh no," I said. She nodded. "They just found out I have MS. That doesn't bother me--I've been in and out of hospitals for a decade over a spine problem already. What bothers me is the tumor they found in my brain. That's going to take a while to sort out. I need to get my legs waxed too. We drive up on Friday, so I need to hurry up."
She's tough. Been through so much medical care she knows to get her legs waxed now. After all, it lasts for weeks.
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