Jet belly
Seoul, Korea
I HAVE SCHEDULED a massage in Seoul, Korea. This is my first time here, and the flight attendants have told me about the fabulous, inexpensive massages at the spa in this 5-star hotel.
I walk down to the health club. It is beautiful, all granite and glass with huge windows overlooking the Han River. There are several swimming pools and hot tubs and a deep, icy cold plunge with a little waterfall. Some hotel guests are standing under it, shivering. The gym attendant, a handsome, muscular Korean guy, is a contender for the Mr. Universe title. This is a far cry from your typical hotel facility.
I change into a robe and walk into the massage room. There are three tables set up side by side and the masseuse is wearing a bathing suit. She is hosing down the room. Instantly I know this is going to be something special. I disrobe and lie on the table.
Miss Kim starts kneading my tired muscles with almond oil. She uses her hands and her elbows. She strokes me. She slaps me. She pulls my fingers and toes. She climbs up on the table and, steadying herself with one hand on the ceiling, walks on my back. She flips me over and starts on my face. She puts cucumber slices on my eyelids. She gently rubs my skin with almond meal. She wipes it off and puts chopped cucumber on my face. She swirls that around, removes it, then lays milk-soaked pads on my cheeks and forehead. She scrubs me briskly with a loofah. She throws a basin of warm water on my body and follows that with a basin of cold water.
The floor is a slippery mess. Now I understand why she was hosing down the room when I walked in. It’s heavenly and I decide right there I will treat myself to a massage every trip to Korea.
Miss Kim is small, but she is powerful. She vigorously massages my stomach. As she is pummeling me, I wince and ask her to be gentle. She looks at my beily and hesitates. “Bay-bee?” she asks with a tender look on her face, pointing at my stomach. She starts rattling off something in Korean to the other masseuses in the room. She smiles indulgently and says again, “Bay-bee?” She softly pats my stomach. The other masseuses smile and nod at me. I know I am a little bloated from the long flight, but I don’t think I look pregnant! There is no way to explain that to these women who speak rudimentary English.
That’s just great, I think to myself. Now I can’t come back for the next 6 months without a lot of questioning looks from the masseuses.