"Oh, it's too over!" *Insert Asian giggle here*

Allow me to take a slight pause from rapturous descriptions of organs and bodily fluids to share my thoughts on the Taiwanese.  All guidebooks and reputable websites had informed me that the Taiwanese are some of the nicest people on earth, and that I should basically expect smiles and hugs wherever I go.  And while I certainly met my fair share of exuberantly happy locals, the saucy nail technicians and terrified children must be mentioned as well. 

I am not known for my "girly-ness".  I like a mani-pedi as much as the next person, but i won't go to extremes to make it happen.  And what with my crazy schedule and meager Chinese skills (not to mention initial poverty), suffice to say that my toes were looking a little ragged.  A bit wolf-like.  To tell the truth, my nails had grown into talons, and I had taken to climbing the palm trees at night for a little exercise.  (Of course, this is nothing compared to the Slavic-ness that my eyebrows have unleashed.  Seriously, my eyebrows have become sentient beings that reach out and attack innocent passers-by.  There may be multiple Taiwanese children stowed away up there.  Which would explain their potent fear of me.  But more on that later).  Anyway, it was clearly time to take action.  And so, with roommate in tow and Venus as my Chinese-speaking, trusty guide, I stepped into Cinderella nail salon.

Perhaps I should point out that all of my New York pedicures have occured in sketchy storefronts that vaguely resemble Taipei eateries.  I never go for anything fancy.  No nail art for me. Just make me look less like a werewolf, please, and that'll be that.  Cinderella nail salon had chandeliers, purple velvet, and individual TV's.  I should have realized then that I was in over my head.  I confidently instructed my friend that I wanted the cheapest pedicure possible, and then settled in to watch some Chinese soap operas (which are hilarious, by the way.  More poorly edited than Telenovelas, but perhaps not as shockingly awful as Indian music videos.)  My toes were then washed, trimmed, buffed, and perhaps drilled (there was a mystery tool involved.  Maybe they were sanded?)  As my fearsome nail technician was about to embark on the color phase she paused, held my foot up for the general assembly to see, and began chattering away in horrified Chinese.  I believe the rough translation goes something like this:

"Jesus Christ, you hairy white devil, what the hell is wrong with your feet?  You have dead skin on here from the cretaceous period.  Seriously, I can see a trilobite fossil right here on your heel.  Do you see this?  Do you understand?  Something must be done.  For the sake of my countrymen I cannot let you leave here like this.  My nail technician soul screams in protest.  Please, let me right this horrible wrong!"

This was then followed by a girlish Asian giggle and the English phrase, "It's too over!"

What could this mean?   Were my foot callouses actually beginning to cover the rest of my healthy, living foot?  Would I soon look like an extra from a Zombie flick?  (shout out to the Zombie Apocolypse!)  What exactly was "over"?  My pedicure?  Because of her revulsion?  My goodstanding as a female?  My life?!  My Chinese-speaking cohort calmly explained to me that this was a cute phrase used to describe anything that has gone to extremes.  Like my hunger, perhaps.  Or my unholy love for Kurt Weill.  I was not being kicked out of the plush paradise, but I was being informed that a serious foot scraping was about to happen.

Back my feet went into the fuschia foot wash.  When she felt that my skin had softened as much as could be reasonably hoped for, my ninja nail technician began to scrape, expoliate, and scour with a passion I have only heretofore seen exhibited by my tremedoudlsy clean roommate when faced with the crawling black mold in our shower/bathroom.  At my tiniest flinch she narrowed her eyes at me, clearly communicating that if dared to move, fidget, or otherwise interfere with this monumental task I would soon find that foot knife held to my throat.  Soon, sweat beaded her brow.  A tear in her own nail was dealt with by a summary ripping and spitting of the offending item across the room.  She flexed her arms to demonstrate her swiftly-developing muscle tone to her astonished co-workers.  Finally, she was done.  She grabbed my hand so that I could feel the new skin that had been excavated and gave me sly look with a slow nod which was clearly meant as a comment on my foolish lack of belief in her Asian foot prowess.

Now came time for the color.  She asked my friend if I had worn sandles. Of course I had not.  I had worn my slimy, nasty mary jane crocs, which were probably what had gotten me into this mess in the first place.  Ninja Nail Technician shook her head in disgust.  I would not be allowed to exit her establishment like this.  Someone would have to be sent out on a sandle run.  Of course this someone was my long-suffering roommate Linnea.  I offered to borrow her shoes and go myself, and she gave me a look that implied that not only would my horrific feet never be permitted to sully the sactity of her footwear, but that I would most likely awaken that night to find the offending extremeties soaking a preventative bath of bleach.  So off Linnea went on a hunt for the cheapest, least garishly offensive flipflops available at 11pm on a Saturday night in Ximen.  I was left to ponder my various sins. 

Though I certainly did not deserve it, the Taiwanese Goddess of the Foot smiled down upon me, and Linnea returned 15 minutes later with a pair of delightfully classy $6 flip flops.  The kind I would have bought myself under less pressured circumstances.  And so, trembling with gratitude, I walked my baby soft feet out of there, and headed directly to a club where they were trampled and covered with beer.  Here they are, slightly worse for wear, but still immensely improved thanks to the ministrations of one Ninja Nail Technician:

Yeah, they still kind of just look like my feet.  And I've rambled.  You'll have to wait until next time to hear about my coworker Dave's amazing family that insists upon buying us food anytime we enter the town limits of Taichung.  Or the children of Taiwan who watch in mystery, heads cocked to the side, food hanging out of their mouths, as I roll my sticky albino body down the street.  Until then, I leave you with:

Grilled nightmarket oysters covered in wasabi and happiness

A tranquil Taichung teahouse

And a noble goat.

I was horribley remiss in not posting last week.  It shall not happen again.  And next time, I'll share something more exciting that the saga of my gross pedicure (hopefully.  if not you'll just get a rant about GMAT students).