Pardon My French

It’s the little things, like the fact that pączki aren’t readily available to me in Los Angeles on Fat Tuesday, that make me a bit homesick.

Perhaps it makes me a bit naive, but I never realized until after I moved to California that this tradition isn’t really practiced (by immigrants and locals alike) outside of the large cities throughout Midwest.

For the uninitiated, the pączki is a Polish donut. Made from fried dough, filled with fruit preservatives or sweet cream, then topped with powdered sugar or glaze, each pastry contains about 420 calories. The traditional reason for making pączkis is based on Catholic Lent practices: because no sweets cannot be eaten during the 40- period, people would use up all of the eggs, lard, sugar and fruit that they had in the home.

In Hamtramck, there’s an annual parade and two day festival dedicated to the confection. Pączki are so popular all over Metro Detroit (and some other areas throughout Michigan) that local supermarkets carry them. I have memories of people lining up to buy these.

There were a few locally owned Polish bakeries near my house growing up, so my mom would always have them at the house. Usually, she’d pick up an assorted bakers dozen with custard, strawberry, apple, blueberry and raspberry. For some weirdo reason, there would also always be a prune filled one. Because it was impossible to tell which pastry had which filling, it was kind of like playing Russian Roulette. Often, I would be the one to end up accidentally eating the prune one.

This city is a cultural mecca, but for some reason, the Polish are pretty under represented here. It looks like I would have to truck out to Santa Monica if I wanted to indulge myself.

“There is more to sex appeal than just measurements. I don’t need a bedroom to prove my womanliness. I can convey just as much sex appeal, picking apples off a tree or standing in the rain.” –Audrey Hepburn

Can you think of three people you’d like to have a dinner party with, from any period, dead or alive?

I could go so far as to tell you the single person who I’d like to spend an evening with. Hands down, it’s Audrey Hepburn.

One Hollywood’s greatest actresses, Hepburn was also easily one of the most loved. Sabrina Fairchild, Holly Golightly, Jo Stockton – even in 2012, these characters are relevant as authentic, interesting, strong and witty women. Audrey Hepburn was an incredibly talented actress who carried her sharp, yet sweet personality into every role she played.

Audrey was a style and fashion icon (and old photos of her still inspire the way I put outfits together), but she could have pulled off wearing a burlap potato sack. She was just so beautiful, no matter how many times I’ve seen “Roman Holiday,” I can’t take my eyes off of her whenever she’s on screen.

More amazing is the fact that interview after interview with the people she knew and worked with allude to the fact that she never fully realized just how beautiful she was–that, or she was very humble. When she died in her 60s, most women even half her age couldn’t touch her beauty and class.

A humanitarian, Hepburn spent her life working with UNICEF, working for the rights of children in third world countries, their survival, development and protection. She wasn’t inviting cameras along for the ride and, I think, most people didn’t realize the work she was doing until after she passed away.

In short, she’s a beautiful role model.

My boss, Juan-Carlos Costano knows how much I admire her. I don’t remember how it came up, exactly, but the two of us like to make mention of our favorite Golden Hollywood starlets–mine is Audrey and he loves Rita Hayworth. For Christmas he gave me a DVD copy of “Funny Face” and later burned me a copy of the home invasion thriller “Wait Until Dark.”

I was really thrown through the ringer, though, when I came into work one morning and there was an actual Kodak photo of her sitting on my desk and a sticky note that read “Have an Audrey Day!”

Apparently, he came upon it while he was sifting through some boxes from a time when he used to actively collect antiques and Hollywood memorabilia.

I gasped when I saw it. After he insisted that I have it, I gave him a huge hug and bought a frame for it on my lunch break at a nearby Bed Bath & Beyond. The photo sits on my desk at work and it’s one of my favorite possessions in the world.

I had a lot of pre-conceived ideas about what it would be like to spend time at a day spa. TV had me imagining myself in a bath robe, lying in a recliner chair, my skin coated in a cool green goop, cucumber slices over my eyelids all the while listening to “The Very Best of Enya.”

As fate would have it, that’s not quite how things are done at traditional Korean spas.

A few months ago, my friend Holly bought us a Groupon to a day spa: an afternoon of soaking in a jacuzzi tub, drying off in a sauna and a relaxing massage and body scrub. Time got away from us, though, and this offer was scheduled to expire within days. We made the decision to head over late one Saturday afternoon.

I met Holly inside the lobby of the huge building and we followed a series of hallways and elevators to the area of the spa designated for women. (Fun Fact: There’s a separate spa for men.)

At the front desk, we struggled a bit with the language barrier as we checked in for our body scrub and massage appointments. After they found our names in their appointment book, we were each handed a key with a number on it (mine was #9) and a corresponding numbered plastic container that closely resembled the bins you put your carry-on luggage and shoes into when you go through airport security. These bins each contained two towels and a bathrobe.

Because we experienced some difficulty with even basic communication, other than a woman pointing her finger in the direction opposite of where we can in, we had no idea where to go.

We shuffled down a narrow hallway, just completely captivated by how brand new and immaculately clean everything looked. I remember mentioning aloud how I thought that this spa might be a nice place to take my mom and sister when they came to visit.

We found the locker room and numbered storage locker’s without issue, put robes on over bathing suits and started looking for the massage rooms. Right away, we both noticed that there were a lot of people wandering around the locker room stark naked, without a care in the world. I smiled to myself, thinking about how my Michigan upbringing included lockers room full of teenage girls going to great lengths to ensure that we fully covered ourselves up as we changed after gym class and swim practice. (Man, the Midwest is prude!)

While looking for these private rooms, we noticed that the sign on the door leading out to the spa mentioned that no clothing of any kind was allowed. It wasn’t until another we talked to another English-speaking white girl (an ethnic spa veteran, it turns out) that we really understood what Naturaspa was all about.

It boiled down to this: We were at a naked spa. If we wanted to use any of the spa’s amenities: Jacuzzi tubs, steam sauna, dry sauna or any of the number of “Jade” and “Clay” rooms, we would have to go in our birthday suits. Because we were signed up for massages and body scrubs, that meant that we would again have to be completely naked AND share a room with other naked people who would also be receiving massages. Those bathing suits and bathrobes were gonna have to come off.

At this point I realized that it’s a good thing that 1.) I’m open-minded, 2.) I’m secure with myself, and 3.) Holly and I are such good friends.

We ventured into the spa area, wearing nothing but our flip flops, passing other naked bodies as we walked, and acted like this was the most natural thing in the world for us to be doing.

As we entered, we noticed the small enclosure, where there were at least two dozen people lying on massage tables. Each was being aggressively rubbed down and massaged by chubby Korean women, all of whom were wearing matching black bras and panties.

We presumed that we needed to wait our turn and stood nearby, trying not to make eye contact or awkwardly stare at anyone in the massage area. After a few moments, one woman in the standard issue black bra/panty uniform came over and pointed at the showers to convey that we would first have to rinse off.

So we wandered over, washed with soap and water, and a few minutes later were back in position one: waiting for our massages.

Another Korean spa employee came over to us and indicated that we weren’t getting it. We needed to back over to the showers and stay there until we were called. Embarrassed, we walked back over to the bathing area and each obediently took a hand-held shower head off the hook.

After several minutes, I was pretending to be cleaning myself (I had finished earlier!), when I heard someone yell “NUMBER 9!” with a heavy Korean accent. My locker number! So, it was… my turn? I stepped apprehensively in the direction of the massage area and stuttered something about how I was the number 9 that they were looking for. A member of the spa’s staff, her stomach exploding over her black bottoms, grabbed my by the arm, lead me into the massage enclosure and then pointed to the table where I was supposed to lay down.

As soon as I got situated, she dumped a bucket of warm water on me and started forcefully scrubbing my body with a sharp sponge. I winced in pain. This was not the gentle body exfoliation I had imagined when I forked over my $40. I didn’t feel relaxed or warm and fuzzy inside. When fully analyzing my situation, I felt like this was what showering in prison might be like.

It took a little while for me to phase out my surroundings and to just enjoy the scrub and massage; to just completely let go.

When the scrub was over, some 25 minutes later, the massage began. It was overall much more comfortable and relaxing– I just had to adapt to the buckets of water being dumped across my body every few minutes (to get rid of excess oil) and the fact that the masseuse would slap my leg whenever she wanted me to turn over. She was really good at what she did as she managed to work out my muscle knots and every bit of tension in my body.

After about a half hour, she put a green cucumber mask on my face (this was very cold, as though it had just come out of the fridge), washed my hair and then said something in Korean to let me know that she was finished.

I sat up feeling light headed and a bit high. She was clearly used to this reaction and gave me her hand in order to help me pull myself to my feet. With a goofy smile on my face, I wobbled my way back over the showers. I liked the tingly feeling on my skin and how smooth my arms felt– It made any pain I felt earlier completely worth it. I felt like a new woman.

We spent another hour or so hitting the hot tubs, (avoiding the ice baths) socializing with other naked people, and exploring the spa’s dry and steam saunas (both of which I found to be way too hot to tolerate) before we grabbed our towels and hit the locker room.

Overall, I view my visit to Naturaspa (AKA: The Naked Spa) as a truly cultural experience and a unique way to relax and bond with my friend Holly. Aside from a pretty gnarly yeast infection (oils are always a risky business), I regret nothing.

Finally, from this experience I learned that when buying a daily deal spa day pass for a friend or family member, you should make sure you Google it first. Your best friend, Mom or grandma might not be into getting naked with a bunch of strangers.

I had such an affinity for the 2011 calender that hang above the desk in my bedroom. So much so that I was actually a bit sad when the pages stopped turning and the year came to a close.

The calender was a collection of German pop artist Heiner Meyer’s “glamour” portraits of 1950s movie starlets. Meyer works with iconic photographs and pictures of Audrey Hepburn, Marilyn Monroe, Grace Kelly and Elizabeth Taylor (to name a few) paints over and modifies these images to integrate them into the totality of the work. The end result is totally unique and beautiful.

I kept the calender hanging on my wall until yesterday, when I decided it was finally time to order a new one.
(NOTE: I still do the whole archaic, paper wall calender thing because I love the satisfaction of crossing off days as they pass and seeing the whole month ahead of me at an immediate glance.)

I couldn’t bring myself to throw the calender away, so I set it aside in case I decided to get crafty with it later. It turns out that urge came to me today.

There were some small holiday cookie tins collecting dust in one my kitchen cupboards, and they inspired me to make some decorative gift boxes. This was the end result:

I almost don’t want to give them away.

Phil and I clearly hate ourselves. We knew it wasn’t a great decision to go to the mall the weekend before Christmas, but we did it anyway.

The two of us had a few last minute gifts we needed to pick up, though, and Phil decided to go ahead and schedule an appointment with an Optometrist since we’d already be at the mall.

Mall traffic was so bad that it took us 35 minutes to get to the Glendale Galleria, a drive that normally only takes between 10-15 minutes. We didn’t realize how backed up everything was until we were halfway there– and by that time it was too late to turn back. (This morning I read a news story about a massive car accident on the 5 freeway. Sounds like we just missed it!)

It took us another 20 minutes to find a place to park in the enormous mall parking garage. (There were so many cars and crowds that the mall brought out people to direct traffic, just so that things would keep moving.)

I headed in the direction of Target while Phil went to his appointment.

Because it was so packed, it was difficult to even get to what I needed, even if the item was directly in front of me. I had to be quick on my feet, excusing myself around clusters of massive families, finding personal space on the escalator and avoiding all of the screaming, crying kids.

I don’t have a phone at the moment (It drowned after I dropped it in a public toilet at the Rose Bowl Flea Market last weekend) so Phil and I made up a meeting place: near the escalators on the department store’s second floor. I had no idea how long his appointment would take, so I just tried to stay out of the way while I waited.

I ending up waiting for a full 45 minutes: lots of time to contemplate the terrible decision it was to come to the mall and plenty more time to to people watch. During this time, I decided that the holiday season really does bring out the best in humanity.

I saw:
-Lot of crying kids, upset that they weren’t getting what they wanted. (Right here and right now)
-Each of the parents/guardians to these misbehaving children were clearly too tired to deal with the problem and so they did nothing.
-A child that was much too big to be in a stroller halt the vehicle and then try to redirect it using his feet.
-A man in a Santa suit was riding the escalator, ignoring children who cried for his attention.
-An elderly Latino woman dragged her middle aged son around the store, yelling at him. He spoke only English while she stuck with Spanish.
-One little kid with a tear-stained face was following his mom shouting “You left me!” (He had clearly spent a lot of time trying to find her.)
-No one seemed to know how to work the department store’s cart escalator. The thing was nearly broken more than once and this some traffic back ups.
-I was also approached by an older man with white stringy hair who, without any kind of precursor, started talking to me about the Gulf War. Before I had the chance to say anything to him, he walked away and disappeared into the crowd.

I kept my shopping list very short this year and bought nearly everything in Los Feliz and Hollywood boutiques. I know for next year, though–they don’t sell patience, body armor or hard liquor at Target. Therefore, it’s probably best for me to steer clear of the mall so close to Christmas.