The Great Massage Debacle of 2011
Hottie and I recently discovered a place just off of a nearby metro station called "The Foot Shop." It may sound cheesy, but the place is freakin' phenomenal. I mean SUPERB.
If there is one thing that you learn from living in a big city, it's that walking everywhere (because it really is faster than driving) leads to very sore feet. Especially when you are a pretty little lady (read: Diva) who loves her delicate albeit painful high heels.
The benefit of living in Seoul if stuck in a big city is that little Korean ladies can beat the daylight out of you by means of your feet. These ladies are mean, and in a really good way. I have never in my life seen a grown man cry the way these little women make big manly-man Hottie cry while massaging his tender soles. They must have regionally inherited super powers than enable such small delicate creatures to have such awe-inspiring hand strength.
Hottie has a theory that Asians massage this way because they fundamentally feel pain much differently than us soft, weak Westerners. This may be true, and I would also hypothesize that it is acquired as the result of decades of Jedi mind-training and self-inflicted pain to trick themselves into thinking that this form of abuse feels good. This is so that the ancient torture practice of beating the bottoms of feet with bamboo sticks could have no effect on them. We've also discovered that locals hoard information like gold, so my theory is reinforced by the idea that valuable information can in no way ever be physically tortured out of them. Smart people, these Koreans. Meanwhile, these tiny Korean ladies laugh at us while we squirm under their merciless touch.
I belabor the point: Koreans give awesome foot massages. After discovering this truth, we surmised that they must also give fantastic body massages, so Hottie and I made an appointment at the same place for a couple's sports massage. The receptionist at the front booked us and later checked us in with her limited pidgin English made more effective through large smiles and hand gestures. Generally gestures and made-up sign language are very effective in overcoming language barriers, but today they failed us miserably. This is where the REAL story begins.
But first, I must digress a moment to describe my very first massage in Korea. Massages are vital to me. They are as essential as air, water, whipped cream, and all other things I simply can't live without. Being the high-strung person that I have always been, I tighten up into a painful ball of tangled nerves and mangled muscles without at least a touch of therapeutic magic every month or two. It's pretty sad, actually. Anyway, after arriving in Korea and surviving the disaster that was my voyage abroad (refer to "Around the World in What Feels Like 80 Days"), I very much needed a massage, but I didn't yet know my way around the more international parts of the city to find a traditional local spa. I did what every good Army wife does: I defaulted instead to "Stylique" -- the military's attempt at providing and effectively managing a salon and day spa on base. It's not terrible -- just not fantastic either.
I discovered upon checking in that the entire staff at this Stylique is Korean, so I wasn't sure whether or not to expect Korean customs or American customs, given that most of the place's clientele are American service members and their dependents. I followed a gregarious little female masseuse with a brightly painted face and enthusiastic broken English into a tiny massage room at the back of the salon. I waited a moment for her to leave so that I could disrobe. She didn't. I then did what every lost person should do: take off your clothes. When customs are in question, just get naked. Just kidding. Seriously, though, I started slowly removing clothing items while watching her closely to see if she would react and direct me through customary gesticulations to do otherwise. She didn't, so I undressed. All the way down to my undergarments. Again, I stared at her. Still, she waited. With horror, I realized that I'd have to completely undress right in front of her. Hushing the still-terrified-of-the-locker-room-thirteen-year-old within me, I took a deep breath and made it happen. Thankfully, an only slightly uncomfortable massage ensued (due to moments at which I knew the small towel on top of me couldn't possibly be covering all of my nether-regions), and all-in-all the massage was pretty darn good. She beat the crap out of me, and that was exactly what I needed.
Fast forward now to the scene at the Foot Shop with Hottie awaiting our massage. After the introductory foot soak and tea, we were led into the back massage room for two, at which moment Hottie left for a moment to go the restroom. My male masseuse left to direct him, while Hottie's female masseuse led me into the room. She waited expectantly for me to proceed without my husband, and I once more encountered that precarious moment of questioning terror: Was I to disrobe in front of her? The door to the room was open, but shaded by a dense curtain of hanging wood beads, and she stood in front of me staring with that same expectant look, so I did, again slowly at first. When she did not react, I took my spa-issued top off, but held it in front of myself to cover my chest, while still analyzing her face. She was still frozen, looking at me, so I took it all the way off, little Lisa boobs dangling in front of me. Suddenly, she panicked, arms flailing and Korean words hurdling painfully at me in a shrill voice. Like a deer caught in the headlights, I stared back, taking in the scene of the frightened young girl, now running out the door and chasing away the male masseuse who had approached sans Hottie. I jumped into action, grabbing at the loose blouse, which I had tossed aside, while the girl ran out to get the English-speaking receptionist, confusedly dodging back in again, out again, and in again with the same look of absolute panic. It was as if I had blasphemed the inner sanctum of the temple of massage -- like their whole world was about to come crashing down on them now that I had scarred the virginal eyes of their most pure young priestess, while committing the terrible sin of ALMOST showing my body accidentally to their most innocent of men. The young man walked away, covering his eyes and shaking his head, while the receptionist likewise stared at me in astonishment, the gear cogs in her head turning laboriously, looking for the words she needed to guide me. With my shirt now on I asked, "shirt on?" No answer. "Shirt off?" Still no answer -- just a frightened, dumb-founded look. I asked the questions again, this time using hand motions to illustrate each. The girl suddenly lighted up, shaking her head and repeating the word, "ON!" over and over again. I laid down, clothes on and waited for the male masseuse to return. He began the massage, while Hottie quietly slipped into the room, noticed that I was clothed and so copied me in lying down directly onto the table. I was seething inside, angry that I had to be the one to endure the mortifying moment alone.
Luckily, we were not shunned from the place, and they still gave us one of the world's best massages, which left us each sore for days. I'm not yet sure if they'll let us back after I dirtied the purity of the place with my terrible, naughty nakedness, though I hope they do. Still, I'm left wondering that if this more recent experience defines the typical Korean spa, what in the world was up with that first massage? ....
If there is one thing that you learn from living in a big city, it's that walking everywhere (because it really is faster than driving) leads to very sore feet. Especially when you are a pretty little lady (read: Diva) who loves her delicate albeit painful high heels.
The benefit of living in Seoul if stuck in a big city is that little Korean ladies can beat the daylight out of you by means of your feet. These ladies are mean, and in a really good way. I have never in my life seen a grown man cry the way these little women make big manly-man Hottie cry while massaging his tender soles. They must have regionally inherited super powers than enable such small delicate creatures to have such awe-inspiring hand strength.
Hottie has a theory that Asians massage this way because they fundamentally feel pain much differently than us soft, weak Westerners. This may be true, and I would also hypothesize that it is acquired as the result of decades of Jedi mind-training and self-inflicted pain to trick themselves into thinking that this form of abuse feels good. This is so that the ancient torture practice of beating the bottoms of feet with bamboo sticks could have no effect on them. We've also discovered that locals hoard information like gold, so my theory is reinforced by the idea that valuable information can in no way ever be physically tortured out of them. Smart people, these Koreans. Meanwhile, these tiny Korean ladies laugh at us while we squirm under their merciless touch.
I belabor the point: Koreans give awesome foot massages. After discovering this truth, we surmised that they must also give fantastic body massages, so Hottie and I made an appointment at the same place for a couple's sports massage. The receptionist at the front booked us and later checked us in with her limited pidgin English made more effective through large smiles and hand gestures. Generally gestures and made-up sign language are very effective in overcoming language barriers, but today they failed us miserably. This is where the REAL story begins.
But first, I must digress a moment to describe my very first massage in Korea. Massages are vital to me. They are as essential as air, water, whipped cream, and all other things I simply can't live without. Being the high-strung person that I have always been, I tighten up into a painful ball of tangled nerves and mangled muscles without at least a touch of therapeutic magic every month or two. It's pretty sad, actually. Anyway, after arriving in Korea and surviving the disaster that was my voyage abroad (refer to "Around the World in What Feels Like 80 Days"), I very much needed a massage, but I didn't yet know my way around the more international parts of the city to find a traditional local spa. I did what every good Army wife does: I defaulted instead to "Stylique" -- the military's attempt at providing and effectively managing a salon and day spa on base. It's not terrible -- just not fantastic either.
I discovered upon checking in that the entire staff at this Stylique is Korean, so I wasn't sure whether or not to expect Korean customs or American customs, given that most of the place's clientele are American service members and their dependents. I followed a gregarious little female masseuse with a brightly painted face and enthusiastic broken English into a tiny massage room at the back of the salon. I waited a moment for her to leave so that I could disrobe. She didn't. I then did what every lost person should do: take off your clothes. When customs are in question, just get naked. Just kidding. Seriously, though, I started slowly removing clothing items while watching her closely to see if she would react and direct me through customary gesticulations to do otherwise. She didn't, so I undressed. All the way down to my undergarments. Again, I stared at her. Still, she waited. With horror, I realized that I'd have to completely undress right in front of her. Hushing the still-terrified-of-the-locker-room-thirteen-year-old within me, I took a deep breath and made it happen. Thankfully, an only slightly uncomfortable massage ensued (due to moments at which I knew the small towel on top of me couldn't possibly be covering all of my nether-regions), and all-in-all the massage was pretty darn good. She beat the crap out of me, and that was exactly what I needed.
Fast forward now to the scene at the Foot Shop with Hottie awaiting our massage. After the introductory foot soak and tea, we were led into the back massage room for two, at which moment Hottie left for a moment to go the restroom. My male masseuse left to direct him, while Hottie's female masseuse led me into the room. She waited expectantly for me to proceed without my husband, and I once more encountered that precarious moment of questioning terror: Was I to disrobe in front of her? The door to the room was open, but shaded by a dense curtain of hanging wood beads, and she stood in front of me staring with that same expectant look, so I did, again slowly at first. When she did not react, I took my spa-issued top off, but held it in front of myself to cover my chest, while still analyzing her face. She was still frozen, looking at me, so I took it all the way off, little Lisa boobs dangling in front of me. Suddenly, she panicked, arms flailing and Korean words hurdling painfully at me in a shrill voice. Like a deer caught in the headlights, I stared back, taking in the scene of the frightened young girl, now running out the door and chasing away the male masseuse who had approached sans Hottie. I jumped into action, grabbing at the loose blouse, which I had tossed aside, while the girl ran out to get the English-speaking receptionist, confusedly dodging back in again, out again, and in again with the same look of absolute panic. It was as if I had blasphemed the inner sanctum of the temple of massage -- like their whole world was about to come crashing down on them now that I had scarred the virginal eyes of their most pure young priestess, while committing the terrible sin of ALMOST showing my body accidentally to their most innocent of men. The young man walked away, covering his eyes and shaking his head, while the receptionist likewise stared at me in astonishment, the gear cogs in her head turning laboriously, looking for the words she needed to guide me. With my shirt now on I asked, "shirt on?" No answer. "Shirt off?" Still no answer -- just a frightened, dumb-founded look. I asked the questions again, this time using hand motions to illustrate each. The girl suddenly lighted up, shaking her head and repeating the word, "ON!" over and over again. I laid down, clothes on and waited for the male masseuse to return. He began the massage, while Hottie quietly slipped into the room, noticed that I was clothed and so copied me in lying down directly onto the table. I was seething inside, angry that I had to be the one to endure the mortifying moment alone.
Luckily, we were not shunned from the place, and they still gave us one of the world's best massages, which left us each sore for days. I'm not yet sure if they'll let us back after I dirtied the purity of the place with my terrible, naughty nakedness, though I hope they do. Still, I'm left wondering that if this more recent experience defines the typical Korean spa, what in the world was up with that first massage? ....
This is the most funny thing I have ever read in my whole life, and why am I not being notified of your embarrassing posts when they occur? Jeez. I miss you! And I need one of those massages, with or without shirt. :D
ReplyDeleteHmmm....I'd use my magic internet wand to fix it if I could, but I don't think my magic wand actually has any magic powers. Especially against the internet. Not very useful, is it?
ReplyDeleteMy best logical guess is that the notifications are going to your spam/junk box. Boooooh!
:)