2005-02-09
Beware of words with dual meanings....
Lest I forget one of the more amusing moments of my Mexican vacation...
The Aventura Spa Palace specializes in the "spa" part of their name. Many activities offered -- things like "morning exercise with Juan!" and "aromatherapy" and "messages" and "yoga" and "5am bird watch walks", most of which we fat-ass Michiganders avoid like the plague, opting for "liver therapy" at the pool bar instead, however even we will succumb to being slathered with soothing stinky oil and having our muscles messaged into gooey nothingness -- as long as it doesn't take away from too much tanning/drinking time (read: 1 hour).
In fact, as part of being a "member" (I'll explain this fun little phenomenon in a separate post) you get a "package" for every visit. This year our package included
(1) an exfoliating rub
(2) a leg massage
(3) a back message and a leg massage
(4) a foot message and more leg massaging
(5) a facial; and
(6) a scalp message.
The first 5 things were done in the "spa" area, and required that you get a locker, take all of your clothes off (I think?), put on the One-Size-Fits-Most-Size-6-Women Bathrobe, and wait for your masseuse to arrive to lead you to muscle-jelly-splendor.
The one thing I've noticed about this place is that the deeper you get into the hotel, the more feeble the grasp of the English language by the service personnel. The massage therapists clearly had only made it through Chapter 1 of English for Spanish Dummies. My case in point.
You never really understand what you are supposed to do, where you are supposed to go, and what you are supposed to wear. Much hand gesturing, vigorous nodding, and shoulder shrugging finally got me to Venezuala, my Massage Specialist, and her soothing pink room.
There she mimes that I should take off my bathrobe and put on this "thing" that looked like a confused thong -- cotton -- no elastic around the legs -- so more like a mini-Suma Wrestler thing without any discernable support. I was thinking it might be good in a Suma Wrestler porn ("wacka wacka wacka PING PING"). Being the brash American I strip down right in front of her, only to realize that she was telling me to do this while she was GONE and to "get on ze bed" and that she would be back in "many min-ooots".
After getting over the hysterics of this thong-suma-bikini thing (should I make it ride up my ass a-la-thong? let it hang loosely a-la-Jesus-What-IS-This?), I took my position on the table, my face in the face-holder thing with the convenient hole so you can try to spell your name with drool on the floor below you.
She comes back in and starts the exfoliation process. Try to imagine someone using a sanding belt on your tender skin for 40 minutes. It was one of those things which I *knew* was good for me so I put up with it, but "soothing" and "relaxing" are not the adjectives I would use to describe the process. When I asked her if this would "remove my tan" she nodded vigorously and enthusiastically. "Si, si, Lay-dee! it is good, no?" Yes. Perfect. It is precisely why I spent the last month in a stinky tanning bed.
After I looked like I'd been in a rock tumbler for about 10 hours, she tells me "eet ess time to take shower". There is a shower in the room, but again, it's fairly unclear whether I do this with her there, wait for her to leave, ask her to dance, or what.
Being the brash American that I am I bolt from the table right in front of her. She quickly takes the top sheet off the massage table and holds it up in front of me as I walk to the shower to provide privacy (more likely to protect herself from seeing me and my suma-panties now hanging down to my knees. I ask her if I should take the WTFs off or leave them on. "Si." she responds. Alrighty then. I peel them off. So far so good.
While I'm IN the shower she hangs the sheet over the glass door for additional privacy, and tells me "no shampooing!" Since there is only soap in the shower I figure I'm safe, but lest I piss off Venezueiliana, I just give myself a good rinse. Granted, my skin feels soft, but so does a two-by-four when you sand belt the shit out of it.
A hand appears over the top of the shower door holding a small pot of the evil exfoliating cream. Now what, I think.
"La-dee. here. this eez for your.... oh,... not know word... leeps! Yes! Leeps!"
"Lips?" I repeat.
"Jezz! And button. of the Belly."
"Belly button?"
"JESS!" (she's so excited we're finally communicating).
So, I figure WTF and smear some of this sandy shit on my lips and in my belly button. I was getting a little hysterical about all of this because... well. Why? Why the lips and the belly button? Why?
I'll tell you why. Because her English sucks and I'm an idiot.
When I get out of the shower (discretely wrapped in a towel now that I understand that Venelauhara doesnot WANT to see me naked -- I mean, who DOES?) -- she smiles at me and demonstrates the part of the body she was trying to describe through the towel-covered shower door.
She rubs the top inner most part of her thighs -- ladies, what we would know as the "bikini shave" area -- and says "you see? Eet eez theeze area that I am not knowing the name of."
"CROTCH!" I tell her. "THESE are lips." (pointing to my mouth, clearly encrusted with sandy exfoliating cream.)
This is the first time I see Venelouisa smile, let alone laugh.
Apparently I was to use the exfoliating cream for those "special areas" where Massage Therapists are forbidden from wandering, unless you're at the Velvet Touch off I-94, like your "bikini area" (question: why the HELL would anyone want to rub sand into an area that is all red and bumpy and sore already?!!!).
I am quite sure that Venelorizia had a wonderful time with that story for the rest of the week, and that it gained her popularity and seniority -- hell, maybe even a raise.
Either that, or it's an inside joke and they all place bets on how many "stoopid Gringos" will actually do what I did. I hope they're happy, those bastards.
Meanwhile, my lips are very soft. Gimme a kiss.
xquzme at sometime today