My massage mishap taught me one thing: Do your research or prepare to be rubbed up the wrong way
I’m in a European hotel during half-term. Naturally, something is off. I’m blindfolded and there’s a disconcerting scent of strawberry. Now, my Spanish is muy bad but my ability to tell a masseuse that I’m uncomfortable is worse. Well, I say “masseuse”; after 60 minutes in her company, I’m unconvinced that she is anything other than a woman who happened to be in the room when I walked in.
An hour ago she told me that she liked my nail polish and asked me to lie down on a table that was too short. (At about 177cm, I’m surely far from the tallest person who she has ever massaged.) The process began with my feet hanging off the end of her cradle, immediately creating an unpleasant ache in my lower back. “Perhaps this is how it’s done here,” I thought. “Might this simply be her way?” She had asked me to take all of my clothes off while she opened various cupboards and ran a tap that she didn’t use. But who was I to question her technique?
“Acuéstese por favor!” When I laid my nude body face down on the tiny bed, she let out a large yawn. Various small towels were placed all over me, furthering my theory that I was, in fact, a giant. A normal-sized person – someone whose feet would not hang over the end of that bed – would only need to have one towel draped over them. Was she using flannels to mess with me?
She banged the cupboards once more before letting out a big “Ah, ha!” and tying what I assumed was some sort of scarf over my eyes, lifting my head up with it as though she was polishing a bowling ball. The next thing I knew, she had whipped one of the towels off my back to squeeze goo on it from a bottle. It was cold and I flinched but the air smelled of strawberries. Not a completely awful diversion from the usual lemongrass but an unusual, childlike scent for a massage parlour. The lady proceeded to rub it into my skin as you would with garlic herb butter on a chicken that you hated, while I tried to breathe, relax and pray that the strawberry gel wasn’t lube. An array of abnormal prodding and tugging and folding followed. There was plenty of sighing (hers) and wincing (mine). At one point, she moved my legs into positions that only a lover or a gynaecologist would dare.
I’ve been on that table now for what feels like three (or even seven) hours and I find myself wondering what would take longer to learn: basic Spanish or basic massage? Is the real masseuse unconscious in a nearby cupboard? Would her relatives blame me for not sensing that something is up? Is this definitely not lube?
As we near the final third of the session, she flips me onto my back and, for reasons that we’ll never know, continues to try to massage it. She then heads to the cupboard once more and, soon enough, a new goo is administered all over my face. Butter? It smells like butter. Is butter good for faces? I’ve lost all perspective.
By the time the blindfold slides off and the nightmare is almost over, I am so desperate to leave that I do what any respectable tourist would: I blurt out a muchos gracias and give her a generous tip. I hobble back to my room, my lower back throbbing, hoping that my sticky face doesn’t attract a swarm of wasps. I make a mental note not to be stung again: never pick a hotel because of its kids’ club and proximity to the airport.
Emily Bryce-Perkins is a London-based writer. In the UK capital and in need of a few suggestions? Be sure to consult Monocle’s City Guide. For more opinion, analysis and insight, subscribe today.
