When the feeling of longing and desire flows over me, I draw a hot bath. Then I immerse myself in it.
Usually at this time of the year, I migrate to venues larger than my bathtub, seeking the warm sand under my feet along the water’s edge. After hours in the aforementioned water I might churn my toes in the silken sands while savoring a refreshing drink, then saunter off to the spa for a "speciality of the house" treatment.
As I steep in my own in house substitute, reminiscing about the spas of the past has become somewhat of a ritual pastime.
My introduction into the world of spas began at a red door. The Red Door salon on Fifth Avenue New York (part of the Elizabeth Arden empire) opened in 1910. It opened to me in the late 1960s for one memorable massage. Sadly, I’ve long forgotten the masseuse’s name, but not her manner or technique. She hailed from Finland, sturdy and straightforward: her blond braid wrapped around her head as tightly as the belted bathrobe I was given. Her strong hands kneaded me like I do to my bread dough to start the awakening process.
But the piece de resistance came after the hand massage and into the shower scene. The sergeant-major of hose manipulation stood several yards away from me, and while I stood moving according to her commands, she expertly manipulated two hoses spewing warm water from head to toe caressing and cajoling my naked body into a kind of physical rebirth. I was hooked. She created a massage addict, and ever since I have sought, in my varied travels, unique iterations of the original sin.
In no chronological order or particular preference, several subsequent spa experiences are worthy contenders for the realm of sublime.
At the Splendido Hotel in Portofino, Italy, In the '90s, I encountered the Italian counterpart to my Finnish specialist. This time, the spa space was pared down to the bare bones of necessity, not because the hotel wasn't one of the finest I have ever been blessed to stay in, but in a pragmatic belief, that luxury was to be found within the hands and body of the cigarette smoking masseuse who took no prisoners. At the appointed hour I was instructed to strip, lie down on the spa table and submit to her ministrations. When I say used her body, I mean, she jumped on the table, on top of me, and using her weight and nimble limbs, turned me into a veritable pretzel. I became as pliable as a string of spaghetti, and that feeling of being stretched and released lasted longer than any platonic physical activity I have since engaged in.
What a contrast to the gentle renderings of a young masseuse in the stand-alone spa complex of the incomparable Oberoi Udaivilas on the shore of Lake Pichola, Ubdaipur. After a swim in the 91-yard infinity pool, I strolled over to one of the spacious suites each housing its own bathing area and steam room. My masseuse began the Balinese massage with a scented foot-bath and ended with a steam bath. She handed me an aromatic Indian tea while I rested on a chaise lounge. Any Maharahi would have approved. I was infused with a lingering languor all day.
A favorite resort found in my travels created an almost mystical sensation. Sayan, a Four Seasons property in Bali, unfolded its unique beauty as did its water lilies rooted in a calm pond. Serenity just begins to unveil the superlatives I could bestow. On a bed shrouded in warm sheets, I received the fragrant oil treatment. It was deftly poured slowly unto the middle of my forehead, inducing such exquisite hypnotic sensations that it was transporting. I fell into a deep sleep, awakened only to the sound of soft chimes. Back in my perfect villa, I rested beside a plunge pool overlooking a rice paddy as far as the eye could see.
Being Hammamed in Marrakech was perhaps the most unique of my forays into the skin trade. Several years ago, I wrote an essay about the experience. One memorable excerpt:
“I stepped into a 9-by-12 foot cellar lined with blue flowered mosaics, lights were dim and the room was hot. The Moroccan masseuse ordered me to lie down, naked of course. My eyes closed and soon warm water was filling up the entire floor and flooding over me. She washed me with perfumed soap and then left for what seemed like hours, but merely a few moments, she returned with a rough brush and small wooden bucket. The brush sloughed off the outer layer of dry skin, which fell off my body like pie dough on a rolling pin, while the bucket of scented water flushed the offended detritus away. The result: skin as soft as a baby’s bottom and glowing as if I had been blessed by the sun goddess herself.”
On my last trip before COVID-19 reared its ugly head, I spent a glorious few days at Playa Cativo Lodge on Costa Rica’s Osa Peninsula. The Lotus Wellness Spa supervisor, Berny Naranjo, gifted me with a massage on the terrace of my suite overlooking the sea. Votive candles circled the space, while the strum of his guitar serenaded the evening bird song. As the blood red sun hovered over the horizon, and the warm breeze filtered through the trees, the massage, long past now, is remembered as I soak in my bathtub at home and dream about my next sojourn into spaland.
