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| European spas are popular relaxation vacations (Courtesy: Pixabay) |
CHARLOTTE, NC — For as long as I can remember,
whenever I have read a travel story by a female writer who had been to a spa,
words would gush forth with so much adulation and euphoria that it seemed impossible
that one human being could feel so totally renewed from a little bit of
scrubbing, polishing, waxing, exfoliating and rubbing.
Words
like “pamper” and “divine” and “luscious” and “exquisite” and “marvelous” are
just a few of the buzzwords necessary to write a top-notch article about
wellness.
Using
that premise as the source of my inspiration, I decided that spa hopping should
no longer be the personal domain of a totally feminine pursuit. I was determined that I was going to scour
the globe in search of the perfect massage.
After
all, why should the gals have all the fun? So I determined that I was going to
find out what all the fuss was about, even at the risk of turning into a
girlie-man.
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| Spa at Baden Baden, Germany (Courtesy: Baden Baden Tourism) |
I lost
my spa virginity at Champneys which is located in the small town of Tring London , over the
years Champneys has become one of the most popular spa destinations in Great Britain United Kingdom
Since I
was new to the game, I chose a basic massage, although there were so many
choices it was practically impossible to know what to try; Aromatherapy, Body Radiance, Babor Scen-Tao,
Dry Flotation, Citrus Body Glow, Indian Head Massage, Reflexology, Shiatsu and
on and on. And that was only a partial
list.
There
was even something called a “Chocolate Wrapper” which was some sort of
chocolate therapy. For all I knew that
was where you slathered yourself in milk chocolate and decided whether to call
yourself a Snickers or a Three Musketeers.
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| Abrasives help exfoliation (Courtesy: Pixabay) |
The
first order of business was to take a shower and exfoliate using sea salt. The guys in our group took turns scrubbing
each other's backs.
We all agreed
that the salt rubbing process would be backs only and above the waist. All other areas were off-limits and would
either be self-administered or simply remain "foliated."
After
drying off, each of us was escorted to a separate dimly lit room with pastoral
music playing in the background. I was
told to remove my towel, get under the sheet, lay face down on the table and my
therapist would be with me in a moment.
In the
end, my first massage turned out to be a rather pleasant experience, but I still
wasn’t ready to spew forth all those glorious accolades I had read about in the
travel magazines just yet.
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| Entrance to Champneys at Tring (Photo: George F -- licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution 2.0
Generic
license)
|
For one
thing, I discovered right away that European-style health farms are not the
same as the spas back home. Or at least
Champneys wasn’t.
To begin
with, most of the clients were walking around in dressing gowns and
slippers. It was supposed to be an
elegant health and wellness resort, but for me it felt more like a hospital or
a sanitarium. That ambience alone was immediately off-putting.
When
afternoon tea rolled around, clients would drink various mineral or herbal
concoctions and nibble on melba toast.
Meals, though most assuredly healthy, consisted of small portions of
broiled this and that, several varieties of lettuce which appeared that they
could just have easily been clippings from something the gardener had been doing
on the grounds earlier that afternoon, and any number of veggies that were
unrecognizable. As I looked around, I
realized that a glass of water was considered dessert.
The
grounds were beautiful. The resort was
luxurious. The staff and the service were
superb. But the manner in which the
clientele utilized the facility made me more uncomfortable than relaxed. I was sure that the dress code was designed
for comfort and convenience, but “wellness” was not the term I would have used
to describe how everyone looked.
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| A healthy diet (Courtesy: Pixabay) |
The next opportunity for my massage research came
in Istanbul Istanbul
Obviously,
being in Istanbul
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| Istanbul is a city of mystery and intrigue (Courtesy: Pixabay) |
On my
way down to the hammam, which simply means “bathroom,” I passed a fellow member
of our group who was just leaving.
“How was
it?” I asked.
“Go for
it,” he said with a big smile on his face.
Somehow
his devilish smirk didn’t strike me as being the endorsement I was seeking.
Nevertheless, this was part of my discovery process, and I was determined to
find out what a real Turkish bath was like.
Though I
didn’t know it at the time, a Turkish bath is sort of a combination sauna and
massage. I walked into the bath-house
and looked around. It was an impressive
facility filled with marble columns and floors and the soothing sounds of
flowing water from a fountain in the center of the room.
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| Inside a typical Turkish "hamman" (bath house)
(Photo: San -- licensed
under the Creative Commons
Attribution 3.0 Unported license)
|
An
attendant saw me and asked, “Ahh yooo Missa Tayla?”
“Yes,” I
said and nodded.
“Vurrry
goot. Yooo like get reddy, now?”
“Sure. What do I do?”
“Ahh,
yes. Firs’, yooo mus go ‘nutha room an’
undress. Yes. Then, yooo go firs’ room an’ unlax. Yooo know unlax. Take easy.
Jus’ res’ little bit, maybe.
Yes.”
After
the man said it twice I realized he was trying to say “relax” so I smiled in
agreement and listened to the rest of his instructions.
“Firs’
room warm room. Make yooo sweat maybe,
huh. Yes. Afta that, yooo move nex’ room. Hot room.
Much warmer, I think. Yes. Stay in hot room little while, then come out. OK?
Yes.”
“OK. Yes.”
Now I felt like I was even talking like him. “Where dI change?”
“Ova’
theah. In tha’ room. Thank you, sah.”
I walked
to the changing room and got undressed.
I found a huge Turkish towel, wrapped it around me and strolled into the
first room.
There
was a steady flow of hot, dry air permeating the room. Having always been susceptible to heat, it
didn't take long for me to work up a
sweat. My rule of thumb in a sauna has
always been to remain until it is no longer comfortable.
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| Turkish Bath Cubicle (Photo: licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 International license) |
After
ten minutes or so, I was becoming moist and juicy, so I followed instructions
and headed to the hot room.
Hot was
right! The room was practically
unbearable. I was trying to figure out
why the second step was even necessary, but I wasn’t coming up with anything
logical. Especially for me since I was
already dripping from my time in the warm room.
I stayed in the hot room for as long as I could stand it, which wasn’t
very long. Five minutes max, and
probably not even that.
The
three-room system was similar to that of the Romans. The difference came after the second area
when a bather entered the cold chamber.
For the Romans, it was a matter of splashing cool water on their faces
and perhaps doing a full body wash. A
Turkish bath features the full body wash followed by a massage.
When I entered
the cold room, an attendant was waiting for me.
He rinsed me off with a shower of cool water. The water temperature was probably warmer
than it felt because of the time I had spent in the other two heated rooms. After a thorough cleansing, I was instructed
to go to one of the arched cubicles lining the perimeter of the bath and to sit
down and wait.
There
were approximately twelve cubicles and each had barely enough space for one
person to sit. The main room was
completely done in marble with a fountain in the middle that splashed
continuously with relaxing water sounds.
Though small, the cubicle was comfortable.
I sat
there in the altogether, quietly waiting to see what was going to happen next. I didn’t have to wait long. A small man entered
the room wearing nothing but a large diaper that was tied at both sides. It probably wasn’t a real diaper, but it
looked like one. At this point, I was so intimidated that I had no intention of
asking what it was called.
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| Exfoliation scrub (Courtesy: Pixabay) |
The
therapist was muscular and solidly built with a slender frame that didn’t have
an ounce of body fat. I looked at down
myself and wondered if he might like to borrow some of mine.
He was
hairy, too, with a full head of jet black, curly hair, as well as chest hair,
leg hair, arm hair, facial hair and back hair.
Honestly, the man looked sinister to me
As the
tiny Turkish hair ball in a diaper moved toward me, I realized there was no
place for me to go. After all, I was
sitting there naked in a marble cubicle with barely enough room for my arms and
legs.
I
cowered as he approached. Images that he
might be getting ready to slit my throat raced through my mind, until I
realized he had no place to hide a knife.
This was certainly not the “relaxation” I had been hoping for.
I
thought about jumping up and making a break for it, but the Turk was too
close. I had no shot. I was about to receive a true Turkish
bath.
The
attendant didn’t say a word. He was all
business. As his diapered frame stood
before me, he reached up and pulled down a bucket of water filled with several
sponges. He placed the bucket on the
floor and then strategically put one of his hairy little legs between mine and
began washing me. It was truly a “full” body
wash.
The Turk
scrubbed, scoured, exfoliated and rinsed, and then he did it some more. I was panic stricken, but damned if I wasn’t
clean. For fifteen solid minutes, the human
fur ball worked me over. I didn’t spend
that much time detailing my car.
When he
finished, I was exhausted, but I wasn’t quite sure whether it was fear or a
massive dose of wellness that had done me in.
“Rest
now,” he said and walked out of the room.
I knew
there was supposed to be a massage that followed, but I didn’t wait around to
complete the project. I raced to the
dressing room as quickly as I could, put my clothes on and left.
As I
sprinted out the door, another attendant saw me and yelled, “Wait! No finish.
Is more. Yooo come back. Yes?”
“No,” I
yelled back. “Put it on my bill.”
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| Temple in Kyoto, Japan (Courtesy: JNTO) |
When I
went to Japan China , Thailand
as well as Japan
Ashiatsu
is a method of massage where you lie on the floor and the practitioner walks
across your back and neck using her feet to target specific pressure points.
As luck
would have it, there was a placard on the front desk advertising the
availability of Ashiatsu right in the hotel.
All that was necessary was to call the concierge and request an
appointment.
As it
turned out, there were no spa facilities in the hotel. The therapist would personally come to my
room to perform the massage.
Just
before 8:30, I turned off the TV to wait for the therapist to arrive. At the precise appointment time, there was a
knock at the door. I walked across the
room and opened the door to greet the Japanese woman who would soon be
alleviating all my aches and pains with her unique barefoot technique.
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| Back walking (Courtesy: U.S. Army Corps of Engineers Europe --
licensed
under the Creative
Commons Attribution 2.0
Generic
license)
|
I had
barely opened the door when a small Asian blur streaked past me and ran to the
television. She quickly turned it on and
then rushed back toward me. When she
reached where I was standing, she propped open the door and motioned me toward
the center of the room. I had no clue
what was happening, and I certainly didn’t know why there was such urgency.
The TV
was now blaring away with the sounds of the Japanese World Series. The tiny Japanese woman lowered the sound
just enough to be able to hear the play-by-play. Then she started to undo my belt. She whipped it open and just as rapidly
unzipped my pants. Within seconds she
pushed me toward the bed and in a single two-handed movement ripped my pants
off and flung them into the corner.
Next she
took a pillow from the bed and plopped it on the floor. She looked at me and motioned that I lay down
face first.
“You
lay. Put face down,” was all she said.
Within
seconds I was on the floor with my head facing the television set watching a
baseball game from beneath the screen.
I had no
chance to voice my opinion, however. I
was on the mat quicker than Sonny Liston after a punch from Muhammad Ali. Within
seconds, there was a small Japanese woman stomping on my back with her bare
feet.
Her
haste had been so that she could watch the game as she pounded me into oblivion
like a vat of Chianti grapes.
Still, I
had to ask myself, why did I have to be the lucky soul to get the only
therapist in Tokyo
After a
few minutes I realized I didn’t need to watch the game. I could tell exactly what was happening by
the way she moved her feet. If Seibu
struck out, she stomped. If they got a
base hit, she wiggled her toes into the small of my back. A double resulted in her running in place on
my spine. Thank God, nobody hit a home
run.
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| Massage can eliminate tension and revitalize you (Courtesy: Pixabay) |
Intermingled
among the regime of perpetual hopscotch movements, there would be periodic
squeals of glee or grunts of anger depending upon the status of her beloved
Lions.
All I
could hear was the reactionary vocalisms of my Asian tormentor and the rhythmic
noise of the thunder sticks that are so typical at Japanese baseball games.
Mercifully
the treatment came to an end 50 minutes and an inning and a half later. I could only thank the Almighty that Seibu
didn’t score during my session, thereby leaving me only partially dead.
My aches
and pains were now transferred to my chest.
Tiny as she was, I was convinced that my sadistic little therapist
became a yeti once she mounted my back.
This was
merely the first half of my global search for the ultimate in therapeutic
relaxation. There was a long way to go before I would reach that Fourth of July
"ooohhh, aaahhh" moment. But that's for next week's installment.
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