After my typical lunch routine this afternoon, I headed off to the 1st arrondisement for my foot massage at a Thai spa. These foot massages are the single thing I enjoyed more than anything else from my time in Paris; I simply cannot find an equivalent experience anywhere back home in the States. Put it this way, if I had one hour left to live, and you asked me how I wanted to spend that hour, I would want one of these freakishly strong 50-year-old Thai ladies going to town on my feet. I used to get them every other week or so when I lived in the 1st, so most of the staff there knows me. Some of them call me “Monsieur Reflexologie”; at least to my face that’s what they call me, I’m sure I’m “that weird-ass American with the foot fetish” when they chat in the break room. The spa is largely in a basement, so it’s quiet and eerily dark, lit entirely by candles. Someone’s job must be to light dozens of candles every morning. I wonder if it pays well. After you get situated on a massage table with your feet hanging off the edge, your therapist takes a seat and goes about spending 50 minutes kneading, stretching, and squeezing every part of your anatomy below the knee. The highlight is when they take some object [I always have my eyes closed, and honestly I like to keep the mystery going] that feels like a pencil made of stone, and push it – hard – into the sole of your feet. It hurts a touch for a split second, then your whole body relaxes. It’s some magical shit. You really need to try this before you die, folks.