Wheaton’s Way: Spa bliss

Last week, my BFF Lynne and I decided to check out the new Meraki Spa on the island.
It was an amazing experience; an oasis from the noise of the world … with robes big enough to properly cross in the front of me with no gappage. I always find in hotels and spas that the complimentary bathrobes have a hard time completely encompassing my bum girth, so either I end up tying the belt like a tourniquet, or I walk everywhere holding a large towel that hangs down from waist-to-knees to cover the “curtains.”

I’ll get back to the highlights of that visit in a bit, but as I lay there on a lounger in the relaxation room, I thought about my spa journeys over the years that had brought me to this point.

I didn’t have my first massage until I was well into my 20s. It wasn’t even on my radar in those days; it was something other people did. It was only when my friend Caroline rhapsodised about a massage she’d just had and encouraged me to follow suit, that I considered it.

“Honestly, it was amazing,” she enthused. “My body felt so loose and relaxed afterwards.”

Okay, maybe there was something to this being-rubbed-down thing. I made an appointment with a recommended therapist, and disrobed down to my bra and panties. I wasn’t yet ready to go the Full Monty. As I lay on the bed, I prepared to indulge in a sumptuous fest of coddling that would leave me as loose and relaxed as Caroline.
Being a complete newbie, I had no idea that my friend was a deep tissue fan. I didn’t even realise there were levels of pressure. Well, I learned pretty fast that day. Thumbs started in on my shoulders and neck like slow jackhammers.

“You seem to have a lot of tension in this area,” my therapist said, as she repeated the prodding and pushing while I gripped the table. Gee, I wonder where the tension was coming from?

She asked me if it was okay so far, and I foolishly said “yes” because I didn’t know any better. I didn’t want to come across as a wuss. If this was what massage was supposed to be, and lots of people got it on a daily basis, I just needed to put my big girl pants on and suffer through it.

Kidneys, calves, feet … all were strongly inspected and pummelled over the hour. What the hell was Caroline talking about? I didn’t feel loose or relaxed – I felt like I’d gone through MI5 interrogation training.

I hobbled out of there at the end, drinking lots of water as I’d been instructed. The next day, I was bruised and battered like a cod fillet. This massage lark was for the birds, I thought.

Well, of course, I discovered afterwards that I didn’t have to go the deep tissue route. I could choose Swedish or aromatherapy. I wasn’t some elite athlete; my Olympics days were behind me. I learned to speak up when asked if the pressure was fine.

I went through a similar learning process when it came to facials. My skin was being smoothed and swaddled in lush creams and tinctures – I was nearly drifting off to sleep – when a physical eye mask was put in place and a light the strength and brightness of a surgical theatre was positioned directly overhead. Then the blackhead extractions began in earnest.

Ow. Ow. OW! I was not a fan of this at all. I didn’t care if I looked like Peppermint Patty; from now on, let’s skip those, thank you very much.

Spas and massage rooms can greatly differ from country to country. When we were in Prague, we booked Thai massages in a fairly nondescript place that we found while walking around sightseeing. The next day, as we headed there, we’d clearly forgotten that it was about halfway up a pretty unforgiving slope. We’d been on the way down when we made our appointments and now we had to climb a steep gradient to get back there. At least we knew that once we got to the spa it would be worth it.

We huffed and puffed through the main door and announced our arrival. I had gone for a typical massage, while Lynne had booked a traditional Thai treatment. We hadn’t previously seen the area where the magic happened, which turned out to be a bunch of basic cubicles along each side of a room with only thin curtains for walls. It was like a long hospital ward. And there were no beds – only mattresses on the floor.

I would have preferred trying to descend to ground level with no witnesses, but my therapist wasn’t going anywhere. So, she watched stony-faced as I gingerly tried to lower myself at strange angles without shattering a kneecap. There was a distinct “thump” as gravity kicked in and my bottom half quickly closed the distance twixt thigh and mattress. Once down there, I squirmed into position like a hapless inverted turtle and when she figured this was as good as it was going to get, she started the massage.

It was disconcerting to have only curtains between myself and other clients. Beyond that, over the music floating through the room I could hear grunting and moaning a few cubicles down. I didn’t want to think what that was all about.

Turns out, the guttural sounds were from Lynne. Her body was being pulled and stretched into endless kinds of unnatural positions and she was understandably groaning through it. She was getting the real Thai deal and she hadn’t known what that meant.

That day was one for the books.

Another first was when we attended the Blue Lagoon Spa in Iceland. Our transatlantic cruise made a couple of stops in Norway, but the main draw was three stops in Iceland, including an overnight in Reykjavik. Lynne had heard all about the Blue Lagoon and really wanted to go, so I managed to get tickets but only for the last slots of the night. We had a rental car and drove across an unearthly dark landscape, following our GPS as a horizontal rich orange band of light separated the land from the sky – the last ebbs of a sunset that seemed to go on forever. We’d never seen anything like it; it really was otherworldly.

Just when I thought we’d taken a wrong turn at Albuquerque, we saw the signs for the Blue Lagoon. Whew.

The spa building was huge and stunning, with shelves of products everywhere. There was a long lineup at reception, and when we got to the desk agent, it was none of your usual flowery “Welcome-we’re-thrilled-to-have-you” nonsense. They were built for speed, not for niceties.

Locker keys. Passes. Robes. Towels. Drink tickets. You must shower before the lagoon. Next!

The showers were completely open, no private rooms, and there was a sea of naked women crowding around the lockers. They were either getting ready to leave or hastily preparing to go to the lagoon. It was a hive of nude activity. Lynne and I clutched our robes and towels to us like this was our first day in prison.

In fairness, despite thinking that my exposed white form would draw lots of curious attention, nobody paid me any mind … but I’ve never showered so quickly in my life. I pulled on my swimsuit in such haste that a leg initially went through an armhole.

The lagoon itself was incredible, all lit up under the night sky with steam rising off the top. We got our two included face masks and martinis and basked in the soft, naturally heated waters. Absolute bliss.

The Meraki Spa took us back there, in a way, but without the crowded lockers (and they have a private changing room). We revelled in the mineral pool, followed the Hydrotherapy Odyssey through multiple stops, including sauna and Frigidarium (a cold plunge that I’m proud to say I lasted a whole minute in), and enjoyed luxurious massages without any groaning included. My favourite stop in the HO was the Snow Room. We didn’t see the Northern Lights in Iceland, but they play across the ceiling of this small, winter woodland.

I’ve come a long way from those early days of massage. With age comes the confidence to state exactly what I want and don’t want. So, single for life, but great spa treatments in my future.