As you many of you know, I am determined to take a piece (or two) of Brazil with me, besides surgical hardware. I have long thought that I need a tattoo to distract from the warpy gashes running on either side of my right ankle. The inner scar, while not visible to passersby, has Frankensteinish cross hatches. The outer scar is just plain ugly, the skin barely stretching over the knob of bone. The thought of needles jabbing scar tissue, however, clutches at my stomach so I have not proceeded with the idea. Until today.
Tattoos are de rigeur here, as I think they are quickly becoming in the US. Even the grandmas in my stretching class have tattoos. Usually, they are butterflies, roses, or stars. Adinilton made such an impression on me last week that I knew in an instant what I had to have covering up my scar: a palm tree.
After convincing Mr. Understanding, who is home from Asia, that I really wanted to do this, we went to the most reputable tattoo parlor in town. Willian (yes, with an “n” not an “m”) drew a palm tree over the scar and then we discussed colors. I watched Willian take the needles out of their steriziled packets and attach them to the machine. Mr. Understanding held my hand as Willian went to work, a bucket nearby in case I needed to heave. When it was over, he handed me 2 pain pills left over from various surgeries and a bottle of water.