The day I moved in, I went to the osteopath, who is like a chiropractor. Except that he works in his own house, with Indian music playing. He had degrees and diplomas on the wall, and seemed like a trustworthy person, but it was a weird atmosphere compared to Dr. John in his Broadway and Pine highrise office.
The shadow his advice cast - that I'd better get my foot x-rayed - was somewhat lessened upon arriving home and hearing Mozart's extremely famous clarinet concerto coming out of the bedroom of Alicia. Marta was playing the viola too, but the clarinet kind of drowned her out. I got in the shower to wash off the sweat from the dance class that pushed my foot over the edge, and just about cried to hear such music.
The days in between then and now have been pretty eventful, compared to life in Vancouver, but nothing of a lot of note, until last night. But I'll make you read the next post, because the subject is quite different.
Actually I guess there is a lot that needs to be told. I've been limping around the streets looking for a "traumatologist". I should have done that immediately, when Manuel recommended it. I grabbed him before he was leaving for Jerez last Friday, with the Japanese TV crew milling around, and questioned him about everything possible to do with feet problems and what kind of doctors to see, and about getting decent shoes made.
I have no idea how long I will be unable to dance, but I don't think I will ever wear the shoes I've been wearing all fall, again, for dancing. I am also completely sure of what I need now, and what is and is not a proper fit for shoes. And that many salespeople and even some professionals do not understand how to fit shoes. Essentially, my left big toe has been hitting the front of my shoe every time I do a full foot "stamp", due to shoes that are too loose. That may not cause a problem practicing an hour here and there for years, but it will ruin you at 3 hours a day. I now suddenly am completely unable to wear any shoes that press my big toe inwards in the slightest. Imagine a joint that is either being pushed sideways or pushed inwards, and then required to rotate. Like a ball-bearing with too much pressure, it can't sustain that kind of abuse.
So last night I found a little old man with a newspaper clipping on his wall saying that he was one of the last remaining people in Sevilla who make shoes the time-honoured way; that people come from the surrounding towns to get shoes made to measure. I questioned the poor man quite insistently to be sure that his shoes were going to be made on a last that was made for my foot, and that these shoes would fit me perfectly when done. Between his son yelling at him to speak slowly so I could understand, and the father gesturing back with his hands in the air that I was understanding perfectly well, and me begging their pardon for my questions, the son traced and measured my feet and they assured me that I would try the unfinished shoes at least once, and that a last was indeed being made according to his measurements. They are only going to cost E300-400. Ten years ago in Vancouver rock bottom minimum for shoes fashioned this way was $600.
Right at this very moment, I am wearing my new insoles, made by the podologa, who analysed my walking last week. These insoles will correct my "pathological" foot and leg posture, she says.
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