Poke Me Man

I decided to cancel my last acupuncture session this morning. There are three doctors that seem to rotate, though I have not been able to find the sequence of who is there when. The one doctor that took the time to communicate with me through an interpreter was the female doctor. It was at the end of her two sessions that I felt an enormous difference in the way I feel. One of the male doctors makes me feel like I am back to square one. Without the female doctor's interpreter, there is no one there to find out her hours, but being here alone with Ron in the States, it would be too difficult to arrange my times with her times regardless. They also insist that the treatments need to be spaced within days of each other further complicating matters. When I returned from my last appointment on Monday, one of my guests asked how I felt. I said "Holier than thou." His response was that I did not need to be needled to feel that way. Yesterday and today the weather has been less desirable for wandering the streets, but out I go again in a different neighborhood checking for vacant store windows that were once filled with delectable merchandise to catch the traveler's eye and imagination. My creativity is challenged by having to find a replacement offer for each one I delete. This is followed with prayer beads, novenas, mantras, and pouring out white light on these storekeepers to stay in business until my book is published.

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Street Walker in Budapest

Up one street and down another, but mostly in the Vaci utca area, the area most notoriously known for the Budapest working ladies, was my beat today. I was not hustler hunting, but store window shopping with no intentions of ever making a purchase. My goal was to update my SHOPPING section for the next edition of my book. This section of the city does not normally draw my attention unless it is for the Christmas market, being mostly tourist attraction, I have no real reason to venture here. When you return to a section of the city with a specific goal in mind, there are differences in what stimulates your senses. I became acutely aware of the tourist activity; how many were just strolling, how many were working their way into shops, how many were carrying shopping bags of newly acquired purchases. With my current book in hand, a pen, and a notebook, I started at the lowest end of the street. Checking my book for addresses, I stopped at each address along the way, while perusing what is new and different to see if something should be added this time around. What was interesting or disheartening was the number of places that are in the current edition that no longer exist. Even some shops that have been around since before our first trip here in 1998 are now vacant shells with "For Rent" signs plastered on the windows. In my book, I drew lines through the submission; in the notebook, I made notes on the page and the result. Those that were still doing business as usual, I went in to speak to them about their hours, any changes in credit cards, or other information of value to my readers. Most were so enthused about my having listed them, sharing how many people have wandered into their shop specifically because of my book. I thought one designer was going to hug me, she was so thrilled. She said she was listed for years, then was dropped, so was especially excited to see she has made a come back like a long lost silent screen actress returning the silver screen. Feedback such as this motivates me to move onward to the next shop. What chuckles me is when I tell them that I will return with a "Recommended by Frommer's 2010" sticker to put in their window, telling them this will draw people who have not seen the book, but know Frommer's. The perpetual question is "How much will it cost me?" Unfortuately, the stickers have not been printed yet, so when my publisher sends them, I will have to backtrack to distribute them, not a time saving system.

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Needles and Death

I have been victimized by Vasomotor Rhinitis after my first few years of living in California, though it took years to diagnose, partly due to my aversion to doctors. By the sixth year of suffering, it behooved me to make use of the medical insurance for which I was paying dearly. As with any HMO, you see the the doctor for such a brief moment, heaven help you if you ever had to identify him in a line up, you would be hard pressed to do so. Therefore, I have been prescribed every sinus medication known to modern pharmaceuticals.

After a few years, I noticed a correlation. The almond trees bloomed, I became as stuffed up as a toilet in a college fraternity hazing scheme. Come February, I did not even need visuals; the nose knew. Finally, my primary M.D. was shamed into losing some of his residual profits by succumbing to a referral to an allergist. After the most basic allergy test, it was determined I did not suffer from allergies, but they did not test for flower blossoms, let alone for almond flower. That would have required prior approval from the insurance company and no one aside from me thought it was necessary.

With yet a new prescription in hand, I was sent off, screaming that I was leaving the country and could not get it refilled once it was gone. As the allergist strolled off into the sunset of his hallway, he shouted back without turning his head "Use any over the counter med you can find."

Do you know that Sudafed, one of the only meds that works for me is now controlled? In Australia, I had to convince a pharmacist why I needed it. Here I need a Rx from the doctor. Do I look like I need money by making illegal drugs with it? Isn't my lack of a voice enough to convince you?

Plan B: Go to an Acupuncturist. I had been to one in CA for a hiatal hernia and it worked before I opted for the surgery the medical doctor offered instead. Through my massage therapist, I found a Chinese doctor who makes a habit of needling people. Yesterday, was my second appointment.

The day was lovely and rather than take the tram to the metro for two stops, I decided to walk along the narrow sidewalk along the tracks. From one tram stop to the other was a reasonably short distance so I continued onward. As I was walking, I noticed a number of police to the right of the sidewalk up ahead. There was a man with a camera snapping pictures like some tourist, but there was nothing of eye appeal apparent. As I edged closer, the word 'police' was visible on the photographers T-shirt. Then I looked down at the object of his attention. There was a corpse there. After sixteen years as a medical social worker, who spent much of it in the trauma unit, scenes like do not affect me. It was obvious that it was a dead person as they draped the body with a black plastic bag, with the feet sticking out. Newish, clean white sneakers, white gym type socks pulled up to mid-calf with those long shorts everyone wears now. When I was a kid, we called them 'clam diggers'. Anyway, the impression was that this was a male, most likely not a homeless person or if so, one who had access to a laundry. The rest is a mystery for now.

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