In the spa, the locker room has floor-to-ceiling windows. The 15th-floor vertical view on the limitless ocean below is unreal. I am not supposed to be here. It feels so inappropriate to be here, in the middle of winter, when everyone else is slaving away on their grant submissions (I did get two out before I left).
I move to the waiting room, which has the same view, just better seats and start filling the two-page questionnaire of silly questions. "Do you ever experience symptoms such as: skin dryness, blotching, under eye swelling, redness, breakouts, small wrinkles.." Duh! The list goes on for half a page in small characters. "On a scale of 1 to 10, how stressed are you?" "What goal are you looking to achieve by your session here today?" How much time do you have? Oh, half a line. OK, forget it.
Noticing that I hadn't made much of an effort at filling the questionnaire, the pretty Philippina (yes, I asked) looks me up and down, and sighs "OK, I'll do the whole-body assessment as we go". She gives me a pair of highly esthetically pleasing, black, disposable, one-size-fits-most, panties. (Can't help wondering how it'll look on my dad - maybe they have manlier versions...) and instructs me to lie on my back, head forward; the small towel is for the breasts. When she returns, she expertly wraps my hair in another towel and starts slapping away the warm sea weed concoction all over my body. No smell, just the heat. When she's done spreading the marinade, she wraps me in a gigantic piece of alu foil, then in a rubber survival blanket, and... removes the plank under my back. I am dipped into the water. A baptism of sorts (never too late, is it?!). Except you never get wet - you float in a waterproof hammock in a big bath tub, swaying at the rhythm of the ship. Being both steamed and boiled at the same time. Poached, maybe.
That's when the scalp massage starts...
Now, before you hate me completely, let me say that this one is not going to be in the orgasm-inducting category of scalp massages - too much acupressure, not enough stroking. But still, it has the effect of any respectable scalp massage - my sinuses are dripping all inside me. Scalp massages have to be one of my favorite things in the world. Wonder if someone would pay me to write a guide...
After what I'd been told would be 20 minutes, she unfolds the papillote and sends me to the shower - "leave the underwear on the floor". I wash off the green goo and go back to lie down, still on my back but head aft this time, and with the longer towel covering the length of my body. She expertly replaces the towel by the alu foil, and I am re-wrapped - minus the marinade - and re-dipped. This time she starts massaging my feet. She's better on the feet than the skull, but hers is never going to be the type of massage that reverberates throughout your body for hours after she's finished touching you. This time, I'm truly steaming - probably didn't dry my skin well enough after the shower. It starts feeling uncomfortably cramped in there, so I take my arms out and raise them around my head.... Ahh, so much better. After another 20 minutes, I get to shower again, to rinse the sweat (and toxins) off, I suppose.
Then it's time for the half-body massage. I am curious to see what half... this time there is no underwear anymore, and I am instructed to lie face down and cover up with the "first towel". There are three on the table, and it's not immediately clear which one is "first". I improvise. It appears I might have picked the right one, but apparently didn't quite position it as was expected. She slides it up to cover my shoulders (how am I supposed to do that?!). OK, then it's going to be a lower half massage? No, she immediately slides it back down. I guess she's now done the full body assessment and either judged my legs too hopeless, or decided that the upper body needed more urgent help. Anyway, the towel now slides to cover my legs. But not quite my ass. This is when you know you're not in America anymore - it's a Philippine masseuse on a Dutch ship... My butt cheeks will get some of that scrumptious warm aromatic oil that never quite makes it there in the good old U. S. of A.... My face is buried in the torture circle. Yes, it's cushioned by a towel, but you still can't breathe, your sinuses are still dripping inside, and you know you'll have the red mark in the middle of the forehead for lunch! She attacks my right shoulder, with the full length of her forearm and massages her way around my upper half expertly. Apart from some pain between the shoulder blades at the third passage (and the 4th, and 5th - she only stops when I audibly cry. I guess she couldn't see me wince before), it's quite good.
It's over too soon. Technically, it's not a half-body massage, more like a quarter body. I have a full other hemisphere that remained untouched. I get to put the robe back on, get a glass of water, and the check. Only then come the instructions. Drink as much water as you can. OK. Pretty standard so far. "You've got to eliminate all the toxins that all those systems we have activated are going to release". I am starting to feel nauseated imagining years of accumulated old gunk spewed by my kidneys, my pancreas, my liver, my lymph nodes, my adrenals into my poor veins and guts. I am so lost in that image of my interiors that I barely hear the rest. "At lunch, lots of fibers and proteins". OK. "No red meat for three days and no alcohol for 3 hours". Excuse-me?!!! C'est maintenant que tu dis ça, ma poule ?!
The meat I can understand. We don't pay for anything on the ship, so it's cheaper for the organizers if anyone who goes through the spa can't eat the most expensive item on the menu, through half the cruise. But the alcohol - man, if they can't sell the alcohol, they're going down!
I don't get it. Just then it hits me. It's time for the Playboy T-shirt party. Free drinks for 2 hours, provided you wear the Playboy T-shirt they gave us. There's the scam...
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