Life's a Stitch

This little piggy

My traveling companions and I can now look a pig in the eye, secretly sharing the knowledge of its greatest pleasures. Having spent two weeks at a traditional European health spa, as opposed to a beauty spa, we ere exposed to all manner of piggy pleasures - mainly mud and copious amounts of food.

Let me clarify the difference between a health and beauty spa. I see the latter as a place to relax with the end result of nice nails, glowing skin, well conditioned hair and maybe the loss of a pound or two. The Thermia Spa was a place to relax and hammer out the aches and pains of life through a variety of treatments including massages, laser and ultrasound therapy, therapeutic baths along with some unconventional ones like parafango (paraffin and mud) compresses and carbon insulflation (injections of carbon dioxide directly into your sore parts). The food was deliciously rich. But I save the best for last - the mud pack.

First, a warning, if you plan an visiting a European health spa, leave your modesty at home. The therapeutic baths are communal, but if you read the signs correctly, there are separate facilities for men and women. There's a story there I'll write about later. I arrived in Piestany after 17 hours of travel, just in time for dinner. E and L warned me that I'd frequently be hearing the words "take down your clothing." Later that night E told me she had written in her journal that she was a bit anxious about the possibility of  hanging out naked with me or L. Well, wouldn't you you it, my first treatment was in the baths with her.

Back to the mud packs. Ladies, this is the the most comforting experience I've ever had. You know how you wake up in the morning, all stiff and achy, and have to drag yourself out of your nice warm bed, into the cold and wet (I'm a Pac NW'er) cruel world to get dressed and off to work? At the spa you roll out of bed, don your fluffy robe, which spent the night hanging on a warmer, and walk to the Napoleon Complex (the group of buildings, pictured, not a psychological disorder) for your mudpack.

You are given a private dressing room, consisting of a small bed with white sheets and blanket,and a hook for your robe. You lose the robe and wait for the sound of the cart rolling down the tiled hallway. It holds two ten gallon tubs of steamy silky sulpher laden mud. The attendant leads you to the mud pack area with another small bed, this time with brown sheets. She glops the hot mud onto the bed and helps you lie on top of it. They use the rest on your joints - elbows, knees, hands, knees and feet. They wrap you up in sheets and a heavy horsehair blanket, tuck you in with a coil heater, turn down the lights and let your achy body absorb the curative goodness of hot mud. They come by every five minutes or so to wipe your sweaty face - absolute luxury.

After about 15 minutes you take a hot shower followed by a cool one. You are then wrapped in a warm sheet and led back to your dressing room where they roll you up in another blanket so you can "recover" from the experience pretending you are a soft burrito. Once again the lights get turned off and you are told to "schlopp gut," that would be "sleep well." This is a painting from the 1800's of their version of the experience. Can you not see the pleasure written all over her face? If pigs could talk...

Time to put on the ruby slippers

Yesterday, it was time to put on our ruby slippers and return to our respective Kansases. Is that how you say Kansas in plural? How about Kansai, that's the name of a local sushi place here in North Vancouver. Cousin Lene is back in Denmark, SIL Ellen in Minnesota, and after three flights and 15 hours of flying I'm back home.

We've left our Slovakian Oz of three white tableclothed meals per day, a minimum of four daily spa services, and a fancy shmancy newly renovated palace of a hotel with helpful and friendly staff. You could never hope to do this in North America without winning the lottery. In Piestany, Slovakia, it's $81 Euro per night for everything, based on a double during the winter season. You can stay in other decent hotels/inns with the same services for under 60. A private room is not that much more. I haven't been home for a day and I'm figuring out how to save for the next time.

We met many people who had been there on a repetitive basis over many years. One man from Italy  had visited 120 times in 20 years. We each had our reason for wanting this trip, the aches and pains of aging, relief from injuries or chronic illness and escape from years of career challenges. We met two beautiful ladies in their early 80's pictured on the right - Lola and Sally, from New York - who had been there at least yearly for 35 years. They had by far the most compelling reason for seeking comfort from reality, being concentration camp survivors, having lost siblings and parents. They were so positive, of course not dwelling on that horrible part of their history, crediting their trips for making them better women and wives. I told them I'd be sure to let my husband know that.

It's catch up time, that's the price you pay for two weeks of high quality rest. I'll  be writing lots more about the experience, but wanted to let you know I'm back in blogland, still high on luxury and the opportunity to spend time with two special in-laws. I realized that those two represent the best parts of my husband in the form of a woman. What a wonderful combination. Here we are, Ellen, Lene and me.

In case you were wondering, there was knitting content on this trip. Maybe we visited a country with a profound  lack of yarn shops, but I was prepared for serious knitting work, packing along my blocking pins. Here is my Lead or Follow scarf blocking in Slovakia!

The other side of the dream

Well, I'm off to a spa in Slovakia, a dream that my SIL and I have shared for many years. Three Boesen women, two related by blood, one adopted through marriage, all knitters, off to the other side of the dream. To them, a thank you for being part of the dream. To you, a promise that I'll be back in two and a half weeks, all mud packed and melted, to continue this blog. To those seeking the pattern, I'll send it out upon my return.

Say goodbye, Gracee:

the Stash

I have a friend who participated in a quilting crawl of the Washington Coast. Her friend found some particularly interesting metallic thread, but was hesitant to buy it, unsure if she already had some stashed. She made a fatal error called her husband. "Honey, can you go into my quilting closet and tell me if I have any copper coloured thread?" Ten minutes later her cell phone rings. It's her husband. "Woman, he says, you must have $100 worth of thread in that closet!" Relieved, she bought the copper thread, telling my friend, "If he thinks it's $100 I'm safe, it's more like a thousand."

I know the feeling, only my guy has actually scoped out yarn shops with me and is fully aware of the value of my stash. He's never complained, though. I figure I may not work full time forever, and I don't have a pension in retirement so I'd better treat myself now.   

Here's my latest FO, my Fleece Artist Celtic Vest. It's quick, easy and looks good when worn. There's something about the elasticity of the side-to-side stitch that conforms to you in a flattering manner no matter what shape you're in. I highly recommend one, but be forewarned - two of us have made this vest and we both needed to add ten stitches to the length. It seems the earlier kits only came in a small size. By the way, Chuck made the shawl pin - he'll be selling them online, in natural wood and custom colours, in the near future. I'm not the only one in this house with a stash, and believe me, tree trunks take up way more space than yarn.