Well, that was...relaxing?

First, let me clarify that the massage portion was in fact totally relaxing.  Trying to naviagte through a spa in a foreign language, not so much.

The woman at the reception desk spoke some english... enough to explain to me that I would be going to see someone else to have all of the procedures explained to me. Turned out the explantion woman spoke NO english whatsoever.  She did however speak French to me TRES slowly and TRES clearly as though that might help.  There was a lot of pointing and she handed over several items; a bathrobe (a SPA bathrobe that would replace the hotel bathrobe I was required to wear in order to enter the spa), a pair of flip-flops made of foam that magically turn into mini ice-rinks when you've been sent out of the massage room oiled up, a plastic bag (I assume for wet swimwear? or maybe to take home some spa water?) and, lastly, a tiny cup.  She mimed that I would use this to drink from... I guess so I wouldn't return with a urine sample for her.

I wandered around the locker rooms until I found locker 4 and proceeded to give thanks that the instructions for coding the lockers were in picture form. So, I locked my things up and wore the officially sanctioned robe and flipflops to the almost warm waiting area. I flipped through some magazines but the only words I could understand were celebrity names and "anti-fast food". I don't know why this country would ever need fast food... isn't a wheel of brie fast enough for you? But given the number of McDonald's, KFC, and Subways we've seen here I can certainly understand the anti-fast food sentiment. If Le Jared had spent as much time walking in France as we have he wouldn't have needed to subsist on the  subway diet in order to go from grand to petit.

My service, not my name, was called by my therapist and I only knew to go to her since there was no one else in the room.  Given that, in fact, it may have made more sense for her to just approach me instead of calling out my service loud enough to wake the dead in a tiled echo chamber of...one. But we got past all that and she took me to my private mini-hut, which, again, was nearly warm, nothing relaxes the muscles like shivering. She spoke enough english to put me at ease, tell me to hang  up my robe and bikini then put on the supplied hair band and "string", while miming putting on pantied. So, I unfurled the paper "string" and was confronted with something akin to an oversized surgical mask. uhhhhh... I stood there contemplating it for a moment (or several) before realizing if I just turned it sideways it suddenly made sense. Am I getting to dumb to get massaged?!  For my hair it was less "band" and more lunch lady hair net -- tres chic.

I laid down on the massage table and burrowed my nose through the 7 layers of paper sheeting so I wouldn't suffocate, albeit a very hygenic suffocation.  The massage itself was fine, nothing much to speak of though she used enough massage oil to make BP blush.

When we were done she released me back into the hut maze which I, thankfully, escaped without incident despite slipping and sliding inside my shoes.  I went to the steam room immediately so I could sit and unwind from my harrowing massage experience!

xoxo
kd