It seemed like a good idea. A leisurely drive to Napa, California over Easter. Interesting stops along the way. Deep and meaningful conversation with my husband. A break from the day to day madness of our jobs. In reality, it was three days of torturous freeway driving in the blinding rain with the bulk of our conversation consisting of me screaming “Watch out!” and him repeatedly suggesting I take an ativan and/or sleep for the remainder of the drive . By the time we arrived in Napa, we were exhausted, cranky and stiff from three days of near death freeway experiences. But we were here. We had arrived. And we were gonna treat ourselves to spa treatments baby!!
The next morning I googled “spas”, placed one phone call and voila! I was booked for the trifecta of spa treatments – massage, manicure and pedicure. My husband was going for the mother of all massages – 90 minutes! Just driving to the spa, felt relaxing. The sun was shining, the birds were singing. All was well. Vacation had started off a little rough, but things were now rapidly improving.
As an aside, I have to tell you that when booking our treatments, I had been asked if I preferred a male or female masseuse and said it made no difference to me. I consider myself fairly liberal and non-prudish. I have had male masseuses in the past and always found them to be very professional (and generally quite nice looking – bonus!).
Upon arriving at the spa, I was a little concerned. The building seemed quite run down and bits of insulation were poking through holes in the ceiling. The waiting area consisted of some well used wicker furniture and a plethora of spider plants. Oh well, I thought. It’s obviously more of hippy spa. This is good. Big city spas are so stuffy and impersonal. This is much better. La, la, la . . .
When my masseuse came out to introduce himself, I was baffled. This gentleman was approximately 65 years old with long grey hair and a beard that had been woven into a long braid which almost reached his crotch. He was shorter than I and can best be described as a cross between David Suzuki and Tommy Chong. This man is going to rub me?? Me?? While walking to the treatment room, I told myself to be open minded. Don’t judge a book by its cover. You are on vacation. Live a little.
Upon entering the treatment room, I was instructed to take all my clothes off and lay face down on the table. Screw that! After he left the room, I scrambled out of my clothes and cursed the fact that I had chosen to wear a thong instead of the more practical enormous granny panties. Oh well, at least I wasn’t naked. The massage started out pretty standard and I began to think that perhaps I had overreacted and things were going to be just fine. It was around this time that I felt a tickle running up my back. What was that? It happened every time he rubbed my back and seemed to be going in the same motion as his hands. It felt like horse hair was being dragged up my back. Oh God. It’s his beard!! Gross! Gross, gross, gross! I was horrified. Although I hadn’t asked, I just assumed he would have restrained the nasty beard pony before starting the massage. I didn’t think he’d just let it run wild, whipping me in the back whilst I’m supposed to be relaxing! Nevertheless, I tried to clear my mind and tell myself to relax and focus on something else. La, la, la . . .
The rubbing and back scratching continued for a little while longer when it happened. The most shocking thing that has ever occurred to my while lying face down, mostly naked in a tiny room with a squat and very hairy man. He says (pause for the dry heave), “I got into massage therapy to get laid.” Eeeek! Panic! Everything tenses up. Everything. Who says these things?! I don’t know what to say. Should I say something? What? What should I say?! Despite my sudden silence, he appears to notice nothing and carries on telling me how that’s no longer the case and blah, blah, blah . . . all I can hear is the “get laid” bit repeating itself over and over again in my head. What if this man is a sex offender and I am now trapped in a room with him, all covered in oil? I can’t make a break for it – I’d never make it!
Again, I try to calm myself and the “treatment” continues. But it gets worse. This man is vile! He begins rubbing the backs of my thighs, then the backs of my upper thighs, and then my bum. Now, I am okay with the bum massage. In fact, I’m even in favor of it. It’s needed sometimes. Especially after long days of sitting in a car anticipating your firey freeway death. However, I was quite concerned to have the sex offender (as I am now calling him in my head), rubbing my bum. Now, it was bad enough to have him rubbing my bum, but I didn’t need him to blow smoke up my ass too. That’s right. Lots of smoke. Up my ass. Essentially, he wanted to know what I do to have such muscular legs. But it’s the way he asked that’s so creepy. “Oh girl. Oh girl. What have you done? What do you do? Oh girl.” Pause. Dry heave. After some time, I finally tell him that I go to pilates once a week. And by telling him this, I am just hoping the conversation will stop. Sadly, it gets worse. “That’s it!” he exclaims (while rubbing the full length of my leg and bum). “A pilates body. That’s what we’ve got here.” Oh Lord! Oh man! This guy is soooooo full of shit! I feel it’s necessary to explain that I am not a woman who suffers from abnormally low self-esteem; I’m a realist. And when people look at my legs (unclothed nonetheless), the LAST thing they think is, “Oh, that woman must do pilates.” Seriously. People are more likely to say, “Excuse me. Have you tried pilates? You should. It could help.”
And now, in the style of the truly gifted writer, I will bring us full-circle to my introductory paragraph. Do not. I repeat, do NOT book spa treatments online when traveling in foreign countries and suffering from terrible back pain. Just a suggestion. Maybe I should be a travel blogger . . .
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