My first time was in Mexico. Though not technically a massage, the woman doing my pedicure did rub my feet and calves before applying polish. It was relaxing and pampering; for this I did not require repeat exposure to develop an addiction. Unfortunately, regular pedicures were not in the meager budget of a mendicant college student. Semesters passed and I had almost forgotten how nice it felt to be rubbed by a complete stranger who was not trying to have sex with me.
A few years and steady paychecks later I became a massage adventurer; it all began in Korea. Hedonism was not on the itinerary when I booked a budget-tourist excursion to the Korean cultural capital of Kyongju. As this was a bargain tour, some quid pro quo was required. Prior to checking in at the swanky Kyongju resort my tour group was booked at, the tour bus was forced to swing by the cities of Pohang and Ulsan to visit to a steel mill, shipyard, and a bus factory. It was a kind of “shock and awe” of Korean industrial might. The second half of this incongruous tour was scheduled to take place at a resort in what was described as the Santa Fe of Korea by someone who evidently had never been to the Santa Fe of New Mexico; no adobe, pueblos, or pretentious art galleries. There were however, a lot of headless Buddha statues, a big bell, some mound-shaped graves, and coach-loads of tourists.
Regarding the headless statues; it was not a Venus de Milo thing where the heads accidentally fell off or were eroded off over the centuries. These were deliberate decapitations and the statues were not the only victims. My trip to Kyongju may have been budget conscious, but in addition to learning that in 2004 South Korea surpassed Japan as the world’s leading ship builder, I also learned that when Confucianism supplanted Buddhism in Korea in the 14th century, heads rolled.
My obligations fulfilled, the first item on my weekend agenda was a visit to the ladies’ spa. It was cavernous and damp with apple-shaped retirees wearing matching black maillots right out of a Lands’ End catalog. In plain view of everyone were two massage tables. Two masseuses stood at the ready. Unfamiliar with the world of massaging it did not occur to me that this was in any way unusual. But the masseuses were both clad in their underwear and bras; lacy ones. One of my female traveling companions saw me eyeing the tables and suggested I give it a try. I hopped up on the damp table, they apparently hosed if off between guests, and I was promptly doused with a generous portion of oil. The term portion is not accidental, as the oil had a faintly culinary scent. For the next hour I was rubbed with sesame oil by a lingerie-clad masseuse. I wondered if this was how human sacrifices were prepared before being tossed to the ravenous Aztec gods; the richly scented air, the pounding and kneading, and let’s not forget the gathering audience looking on in anticipation.
Initiated into the world of spa indulgence, I was eager to partake upon my arrival in Japan. Japanese love their bath houses. Colleagues were unanimously enthusiastic about the experience and strongly urged I give it a try. I did not have to look hard to find a bathhouse--Japan is famous for them and they are in plentiful supply. I checked in one Saturday morning at one not far from my home. The Japanese are particular about showering and cleaning yourself off before slipping into the water. They also segregate the genders, so there is no need to wander around with your gut sucked in, so much more relaxing letting it all hang out. And bathhouses are more than merely public hot tubs. They are entertainment complexes that just happen to be centered on being clean. Leaving the bathing area for one of the other entertainment options, patrons don what can only be described as pajamas. Cotton, pressed, and comfy, I padded around the halls in slippers, smiling at my co-bathers dressed in the same pajamas. Everyone appeared happy and sedate, as if we had all just taken our meds. Some people sat in electric massage chairs located in sunny atriums. Others dined in the cafe. And for the really adventurous, there was the karaoke lounge.
I followed the siren call to the massage room. Similar to my Korean experience, the massage beds were communally located. I grew concerned as there seemed to be no gender segregation. I need not have worried. Pajamas were not to be removed and additional towels were draped over me--so I resembled an accident scene victim. Of the six beds lined up in the room, only one other was occupied when I arrived. The masseuse pointed to a bed and I obediently climbed up and laid face down. That is when my hour of torture began.
Apparently I am not as culturally relativistic as I aspire to be. You would think the point of massage would be universal; rub sore, tired, or tense muscles to provide relief. But, just as different cultures have different ideas about what tastes good, Vegemite, there appears to be a departure in what constitutes enjoyable massage. I had signed up for shiatsu massage. Shiatsu sounds disturbingly like “me beat you.” Turns out, that is not far from the truth.
I wistfully recalled those oily, scantily-clad Korean ladies the entire time Tojo was avenging my back. At one point I wondered if she had called in reinforcements. There were simply too many things touching me at once. It was then I realized she was on top of me working me over with her bony knees and tiny hands. At another point I thought she was gouging me with a broom handle, only to realize it must have been her elbow. No, I did not cry out. Whoever was on the other table did not utter so much as a grunt. I would not be the first to break. The only sound I made was the sigh of relief when the towel was pulled back indicating I had survived, and was being released.
Chastened by my Japanese experience, but determined to give massage addiction another shot, I visited one of the ubiquitous “blind man” massage establishments in Shanghai. While some of the masseuses are blind, many are not. My masseuse was a young man who had his eyesight. I mention this to other expats, veterans of blind man massage parlors, and they wince; evidently you never go with a young male. This guy made Tojo seem like Hello Kitty. The problem was, instead of massaging muscles, this guy was targeting bones and joints. One of us was in the wrong place. I was trying to get a massage and this guy was trying to get state secrets.
In Palm Springs I was offered a menu of massage choices. Typically a creature of habit, I decided to instead try something new and exotic; what a mistake. My exotic massage consisted a stream of oil poured onto my forehead. I was cross-eyed by the end of the hour. Episodes like this only confirm why I always order the same thing--deviation from the norm only courts disaster.
A fellow expat who had recently visited Turkey described her experience with a male masseuse there. She said the experience was rather unsettling as his hands often wandered out of bounds and just as she would begin to object they would flitter back to safe territory. So rather than relaxing, she spent the remainder of the massage vigilant for any illegal immigration. I never experienced border intrusions, but I did receive a chest massage from a female masseuse while I was in Singapore; yes, my entire chest. One thing I was beginning to understand about massage, masseuses bring their personality to the table. A young woman in Shanghai remarked while she was rubbing my legs, “You have a very beautiful bottom.” I politely thanked her, but I bet she says that to all her customers.
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