Ich Bin Ein Beijinger: On Foot Massage

“Ich Bin Ein Beijinger” was a magazine column written by Kaiser Kuo that ran in every issue from October 2001 to October 2011. Kaiser offered one self-proclaimed Beijinger's take on the city that he's come to call home.

March 2007 – They call it “reflexology,” and with brief apology,
I confess I only learned the word quite recently.
What they call it, I don’t care: ‘round these parts, it’s something rare –
A massage where neither party acts indecently.
Here in China, as you know, from Heilongjiang down to Guangzhou,
Or the Lhasa Valley’s Himalayan ice,
It’s hard to find a town where you can’t get your feet rubbed down,
And enjoy it at a bargain-basement price.

It’s a pleasure so sublime, it really ought to be a crime
But I’m awfully glad the foot-rub biz is legal.
When you’re seated in your chair, the feeling’s just beyond compare
I think the word I’m looking for is “regal.”
They’re from Henan or Anhui – not from Zhengzhou or Hefei
But from little county towns you’ve never heard of.
These friendly country lasses, from the agronomic classes,
Offering service that your feet can be assured of.
When those foreign guests come calling, and you’ve spent the day Great Walling,
Or strolling Kunming Lake at Summer Palace,
Nothing’s better for the feet – a major podiatric treat
That keeps those tender heels from going callous.
Corns and bunions she’ll endure, toe-jam smelling like manure,
Athlete’s foot and even fouler forms of fungus.
But she won’t so much as sigh, and it costs but 80 kuai,
That is why, my friend, my gratitude’s humongous.
There’s a fascinating chart, describing how each body part
Is linked to certain sections of your feet.
For your spleen or for your gonads, or your Grand Primordial Monads
There’s a spot to increase qi or quell the heat.
Soak your trotters in the tub, as you ready for the rub
And accept that this is going to hurt at first.
There’s no pleasure without pain, her ministrations will make plain,
And you’ll praise the fingers which, just now, you cursed.
It’s a universal fate, that when guys begin to date,
They’ll play the back-rub card at their first chance.
It’s a hackneyed first-date ruse, and to women, this ain’t news:
The masseur vamooses once inside your pants.
But our dour and faithful lass will prove she’s of a better class
And your tired ‘taters are the benefactors.
She’ll go that extra mile, and she’ll do it with a smile,
And she’s free of such crass motivating factors.
It’s impossible to capture how from pain you come to rapture,
As she kneads those knuckles up and down your sole.
I’m not waxing metaphoric when I say that it’s euphoric
When the angel breaks you down, and makes you whole.