We live in a world where massage, like tattoos have taken on a commonly accepted presence—one with a clearly perceived value. When I was young, tattoos were a little scary and tended to be on scary people—and massage? Well, “massage parlor” in San Diego when I grew up was code for something altogether different than a therapeutic health-enhancing process where your body and mind relax—-with gentle voices and eucalyptus scent.
My first massage was when I was in college. It took place behind closed doors with a girlfriend and she was attempting to convince me of its therapeutic value all the while knowing that my mind was elsewhere……
While that was nice, it became clear to me at an early age that I am no sensualist. As the years passed, more and more, the subject would come up in a health care setting. I remember considering the question, “is massage a legitimate form of therapy for a set of physical ailments or does it simply feel good?” A digression: in the world of medicine, one should not knock, “feeling good” as an intervention. When I asked my orthopedist if an elastic sleeve on my knee would help with arthritic pain, is response was, “about as much as a hug from your grandmother.” I took that he meant, “not much.” On reflection, hugs from my grandmother actually did make me feel better. I use that sleeve once in a while and believe I get some relief from it.
If a patient sought my endorsement for massage therapy, usually with insurance coverage front and center, I was left of center—willing to indulge but not endlessly in the hope that some psychological or physical benefit might follow. But with the idea that it might just be a sensual escape? I did not and do not think insurance should pay for that. It can be a slippery slope, having that kind of power.
Back to not being a sensualist: with time and money, I have had the opportunity to have a number of massages done in a number of styles. I am deeply ambiguous about what they do and don’t do for me. I don’t feel that a day after a massage, I am any better than I would have been without it. On the other hand, I like having my muscles tweaked—I enjoy having a stranger work the muscles. The experience is much better when done with a minimal of talking though occasionally (and only occasionally), I have had great conversations with masseuses.
Kernie and I met a counter-cultural female masseuse in our early Olympia years. She moved to San Francisco after awhile but came once a month to Olympia for a few days to continue work with her regulars. She would present herself, set up a table in our living room, and massage first Kernie for an hour and then me. Her style was “deep tissue massage.” She being a woman and me being a young man, these sessions were often psychological battles over my saving face and staying relaxed as she found pressure point and after pressure point and induced pain, determined to take what was originally a crepitant muscle (crinkly noise when massaged) and render it silent to her touch. One group of shoulder muscles could command her attention for forty minutes of our hour. I often found myself a bit sore in the following days. I rationalized the value much as I would sore muscles after an extra long jog. Somehow, the effort’s pain seemed like evidence of improvement.
Sorting through not being a sensualist, an interesting dilemma: a local Chinese establishment offered limited massages for thirty minutes, the focus being on face, shoulders, and feet. Kernie had gone with a friend and I joined them a couple times. Chinese being conservative, I drew the one male masseuse whose specialty, as it turned out, was reflexology, an interest of mine. Of the thirty minute massage, twenty was spent on my feet. At first, this experience found me thinking that perhaps I overstated the “I am not a sensualist” sentiment but he challenged that by demonstrating that manual laborers from Asia have exceptional grip strength. Again, my composure was tested as various pressure points were pressed to the bone with the force that could implode a submarine. Again, twenty-four hours later? Digestion, good, breathing, good, urination, good, sense of well being, normal………
The most relaxing massage I ever had took thirty minutes. It was the result of a Christmas gift. Robbin, Kernie’s facial lady found me in her establishment. I was not sure what to expect. Was this a way for Kernie to introduce me to someone to help clear up a facial deformity that as a man I was totally blind to? Robbin has a voice of velvet; just listening to her speak has a calming quality that finds me relaxing. Robbin had a pre-determined notion of what my “facial” was to be and I was puzzled when she started by putting warm lotion on my feet and then little booties. She had me lie back and proceeded to massage my face and neck. That was sensual—-and I was asleep in five minutes, waking up when she was done actually feeling like a different person. It may have been a, “one off” experience but decades later, it is still the high water mark of positive massage experiences.
The funniest story about massage? My friend Tom was in the Navy. He traveled a lot and was in a Seul hotel for 48 hours after a long trans-Pacific flight. The menu of in-room services included, “blind massage.” He was curious. He ordered it and sure enough, at the appointed hour, a kimono clad woman presented herself at the door and indeed appeared to be blind. She spoke Pidgin English and they agreed on terms. She told him to strip and lie down. She proceeded to massage him. At one point, she asked if he was in the military. Tom said proudly, “Yes, I am in the Navy.” She giggled and said, “I know.” Tom asked how she knew and she said, “Army boys have much bigger muscles!”
Our experience at Semester at Sea found us with a nurse who purposely had a massage at a number of ports: Salvador, Brazil, Cape Town, South Africa, Mombasa, Kenya, Madras, India, Penang, Malaysia, Singapore, and Kobe, Japan. She was not forthcoming on details of the experience other than her experience which mirrored mine in a five star hotel in Singapore (where a young American had been caned for a misdemeanor infraction of the civil code) when her hotel sponsored masseuse tried to negotiate a “happy ending” to her massage.
“I sat right up, looked her in the eye, and asked, ‘No thank you, but what is that about?’”
The answer, she was told, that of the $75 dollars charged by the hotel, she only received $7 for the 80 minute massage. She needed to make ends meet. The nurse like me, managed a generous tip hearing this bleak economic reality.
Years went by with no further massage experiences. I did not miss them. On a trip to Turkey, we stayed in Antalya. The exercise room at our hotel featured a set of “specials” that suggested we should try the famous “Turkish baths.” I saw “tourist trap.” Kernie saw, “a really cool foreign experience.” We traveled with Kernie’s sister and husband. They did not seem too interested. Kernie persisted and brokered a deal: all four of us could have a 90 minute Turkish bath experience for fifty Euros each. We were in. The locker room was from ancient Roman times and a little crinkled man managed the entry and exit as well as, for a small fee, retention of ones clothing. We were in towels when we entered the massage area: this was a large eight foot by eight foot raised marble platform surrounded on one side by an amphitheater of marble seats. Four young women came in and invited us to lie face down on the marble. The marble was nicely heated. They tactfully covered us with towels and then generated bubbles in towels while threw them in the air. Before long, all of us, each taking a side was straddled by a standing woman and a sea of soap bubbles. It was then that I noted the amphitheater will filling up with the occasional lone guy or couple. We proceded to have reasonably firm massages alternating with hot and cold water applications, an application with dripped honey, cleansing showers with hot and cold streams, more bubbles, a featured “bubble dance,” with one of the young women unexpectedly had taken off her top. At some point we were asked to lie on our back. Kernie’s sister insisted I keep my eyes closed. I did. Her husband, did not……..and on reflection, I don’t think she did either……..
At the end of the day, a great experience! I would recommend it given that when done, the amphitheater had emptied.
Budapest was the scene of my most depressing massage. There is a huge local and tourist industry attached to large baths in this city and they appear to have been built in antiquity as well. My brother in-law of Turkish bath fame joined me in the locker room where a little crinkly old man with memories of the Great Patriotic War etched on his face spoke to us as if the cold war was still active. For a small fee he gave us keys to ancient lockers and then directed us to the pool area in clipped military tones. This spa was recommended by no less than Rick Steves and I had seen videos of this place. We sought a huge common pool to enjoy with our wives who had been ushered into the women’s side. We found ourselves in a large marble pool filled with men. We were in baggy bathing suits as neither of us could handle wearing the jockstrap wannabe featured at the spa. This is what the locals wore. Try as we might, we could not figure how to reach the common pool and after awhile, gave up. It was time for the complementary massage for which we were given plastic “chits” that I had put in my bathing suit pocket. We ambled to where the massages were being given. The cold war was ever present. Pockets of men in loin clothes clustered in small rooms where one at a time, they were massaged as they smoked non filtered cigarettes. One specific pool without a long line featured hardware that made it clear it was usually reserved for handicapped people. There were pulleys and slides and ladders to help accommodate coming into and out of the pool. One person was ahead in line as the 350 pound male masseuse chatted away, cigarette burning between his teeth. I found I had lost my chit. My brother in law said, “No problem, you can have mine.” He gave it to me and was gone.
I was appraised by this giant man, clad only in his loincloth. He gestured to the table. I lay face-down, and he proceeded to massage my calfs as he spoke to one of the group by the poolside. The cigarette remained dangling as he gave my left calf a really cursory rub down, one handed. I met brother-in-law Rick in the locker room shortly thereafter, he with a big smile on his face…..
Most irritating massage? My fourth Seattle to Portland bicycle event led to her very thoughtful plan to have us stay in downtown Portland in a nice hotel. We were going to have romantic celebratory dinner on the day the event ended (I had ridden a hundred miles on my bike that day) but first Kernie arranged for an in-room massage. So sweet! The masseuse was a young woman, extremely skinny, and as she proceeded to do a reasonably deep massage, proved herself to be a talker. Not only did she have a lot to say, she was opinionated. When I responded to the question, “What do you do for a living?” I was lectured for the next thirty minutes about the value and benefits of being a vegan, practicing yoga, getting regular massages, and avoiding antibiotics, vaccines, and doctors in general.
Half-way across the world, in Luang Prabang (Laos) Kernie and I yearned for a deep massage. The heat and energy in that town were inspiring and we went with the flow. Just down the street from where we stayed, a corner massage parlor with very reasonable rates was found. We had a 120 minute massage scheduled for the mid afternoon. We arrived and were ushered into a daylight basement. We were directed onto mattresses lying on a concrete floor. Rails for curtains were seen in the ceiling but there were not many curtains attached. We were the only two people in the 20x20 foot common room. We disrobed and lay down. We had magnificent massages done in silence though punctuated with simple instructions to turn, bend a knee, and so on. At one point, lying on my back, the masseuse was stretching my right hamstring with strong firm pressure. My eyes opened with the effort of not fighting the stretch to see an exotic middle aged French couple examining us with close attention. It was a bit off-putting but I adapted a technique I learned from reading about a woman getting pap smears in Japan in a group setting: I put a little washcloth over my face. Kernie was not so relaxed. As the French woman seemed intent on watching in detail, when we were done, Kernie made a point of returning the favor. I was discreetly paying the bill. I think the French woman was fine with the exchange. Vive la diferrénce!
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