A Little Pampering
Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.
Where we are: Bonaire, where I’m learning to do water aerobics with the aid of a pool noodle. Pretty certain this’ll turn me into a mermaid, right?
A Little Pampering
I don’t know about y’all, but I’d love a good spa day right about now. Sadly, spa days are in the category of ‘things that are not so much fun while wearing a mask,’ so I’ll just wait until we’ve all been vaccinated, thankyouverymuch. Yes, I know it’s going to be a while. I wonder if I could convince Lee to complete an online massage certification? Hmmm . . .
We’ve been to some places where spas are part of the local culture, and because we are fundamentally lazy, we always have to sort of convince each other to make the effort.
It’s usually worth it—and always memorable.
Tbilisi, the capital of the Republic of Georgia, is built on top of a series of hot sulfur springs (often a sign of seismic activity, but they don’t tell you that in the tourist brochures). Legend has it that the prince who founded the city chose the location because his falcon dove into one of the springs and was boiled to death.
The spas in Tbilisi are all constructed to take advantage of these theoretically beneficial waters. I read all about them, and was determined that we needed to try it out. Smooth skin! Healthy joints! Supple muscles! A deep sense of calm and relaxation! Who doesn’t need that?
Problem number one: we don’t speak Georgian. I dug around on the interwebs and figured out which spa was most recommended by travel bloggers; that one would be likely to have some English-speaking staff. Plus it had rooms for couples, and was meant to be quite beautiful. The interiors of Tbilisi’s spas are known for being lined with intricate tile-work; I was looking forward to a day of physical and aesthetic luxury.
In reality, no one spoke English, but being intrepid types, we forged ahead.
We were given a couple of ‘towels’ (actually bedsheets), and ushered into a long, low cavern of white tile. The first room had a shower, and a marble slab against one wall. The second room had another marble slab, and two tiled pools of water, like deep bathtubs. Wisps of steam rose from one of the tubs. We stripped down, excited about a long, relaxing soak.
The warm tub was more like scalding. We spent fifteen minutes trying and failing to immerse ourselves, and laughing about our silliness. Lee managed to put his feet in, but they quickly turned bright red. We stood there, staring at this boiling hot water, having great sympathy for the long ago falcon that boiled to death, and wondering how we were going to spend our hour. The cool tub was, of course, unpleasantly cool. Plus, soaking in cool water is just no fun.
But then an older Georgian woman came in, wearing a bathing suit and a pair of rain boots. She tossed Lee his bedsheet and waved him into the other room, then directed me to shower, then lie down on the slab next to the tubs, on my stomach.
I have no idea what she used, but hoo-boy was that a scrub. Maybe it was an actual pumice stone? All I knew was that my skin was being removed—pretty much all of it. I was sliding around on that marble slab like a raw fish, totally naked, face down, with my eyes screwed shut, waiting for it to be over.
And then: she dumped a bucket of that scalding hot water on my back. I yelped something colorful, and she giggled. Y’all, she giggled. As if torturing me was the most fun she’d had all day. Then she flipped me over, and we did the whole routine again. Scrub, cringe, slide, grab, shriek, giggle.
Then she handed me my (now quite wet) bedsheet, and left. I sort of sat there, stunned, wondering how long it would take my skin to grow back, until a man walked in, also clad in a bathing suit and rain boots. It was Lee’s turn.
By this time, my body was so irritated that the cool water actually felt pretty good. I managed to get into that tub and sort of shrink into the corner, behind the wall, and wait while Lee went through the torture session. I asked him, just now, how he had spent the time during my session, and he he had no idea, because he’d blocked out the entire trauma.
We eventually limped out, sweaty and raw, cursing all the travel bloggers who’d raved about their Georgian spa experiences.
Lee, of course, being a smart guy, had learned his lesson. When I started making noise about going to a spa in Marrakech (still looking for that beautiful, relaxing experience), he immediately declined. Nope, no thanks, no way. Absolutely not.
So I went by myself. The spa I chose (in our hotel) was indeed beautiful. Because it was in the hotel, there was a little bit of English. My massage was relaxing. But the scrub.
She had me shower first, then stand in the middle of the room. She started with my neck, and scrubbed her way down my back. Then I turned around, and she repeated the process. By the end, she was kneeling in front of me scrubbing the insides of my legs, while I tried not to look down at the top of her head. It was So. Awkward.
Maybe I’m too sensitive to awkwardness? Maybe I’m just a prude. Maybe I should join a nudist colony, and really embrace the freedom. I believe I read somewhere that nudist colonies are requiring masks these days. Works for me.
Take care,
Lisa
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