A SPActacular World

Coatimundi steals food at Le Kliff Restaurant

R2 has been an intrepid, adventurous husband, providing me opportunity to explore 20 plus countries whether it is for his work or our pleasure. This is why I willingly get sucked into a vortex of craziness when he gets a "brilliant" idea. Who can forget the day he declared we were going to give up eating for two weeks and only drink a concoction with lemons, cayenne and maple syrup. This from a man who takes more pleasure in food than a chunky kid in a donut factory. I am still suffering the horrible black Ginseng stint he decided would improve our energy levels. Then there was the time he insisted we elope and secretly flew my children and I to Puerto Vallarta to exchange handwritten vows overlooking the cliffs of Mismaloya, Jalisco. Granted, that idea was one of his better, because I didn't lift a finger.  He arranged everything from my hair, the ceremony, our travel, the photographer and included an uninvited wedding dinner guest, a coatimundi.

When R2 gets an idea, I know to go with it or get out of his way because nothing can stop him. Perhaps that is why he is so respected world-wide for, well...whatever it is he does with that mystical computer.  There is one madcap passion of his I can say I have come to enjoy in every locale we visit, and that is his love of spa massages.

Many people take holidays and deplete their money on All-Inclusives, tours, nightclubs or shopping until their suitcases are ready to pop. Not us. We only travel with carry-on so extra purchases are out, we cringe at the idea of AI or tours and while we enjoy our tequila, two is usually our limit.  That leaves us with the quest for the best massage in the world.  And lord, have we experienced some exotic sessions.

We have been squeezed, smoked, squished, brushed, polished, and bent into positions I didn't think my body would survive. I have heard cracks from R2's back that left me wondering if I would need to roll him out of the torture chamber in a wheelchair. We have sought out spas in Delhi, Paris, Nassau, Hong Kong, Ho Chi Minh, Langkawi, Singapore, Radner, Denver, Victoria, Darmstadt, Brussels, Bad Wildbad, Sydney and on and on but there is nothing that comes close to the treatment we received in Ixtapa, Mexico.

No molestar - I am having a massage

From the moment you enter the tiny, private spa in Melia Azul, you know you are in for a treat by the silent greeting and bow you receive from the diminutive women. You are led into a couples' room and for the next 90 minutes you might as well dismiss everything in your mind. These minuscule females give you a treatment that makes you feel like you are drugged and when you groggily leave, you almost float. That was four years ago, returning two years after to make certain we weren't dreaming. While other massages in Mexico come a close second, they still lack what the Melia Azul has accomplished.

Running from the bats

The bat cave massage

Until we find another utopia that offers such a service, our quest continues. There was the massage in Sandals Bahamas where the woman was so strong, she was able to effortlessly lift me off the table. A massage in Hong Kong that had us crying like little girls; we found out that the more you scream and squirm in China the better. The masseuse thinks she has done her job. We were whacked with a sacred bush in Chichen Itza and then covered in sticky aloe straight from huge leaves, we have been blessed with holy water in Uxmal, one that was supposed to be received in an underground cave until I saw the mosquitos and bats swarming. The treatment in Langkawi, Malyasia had a  man walking across my back and putting my ribs through the table. Of course, I can't forget  Xalapa, Veracruz where I had a rain stick shaken over my supine form while R2 had cow bells jingling over him. We thought it was  to ward off his wicked ways. 

In Edmonton, I had a young lady blather through the entire treatment about my tattoo and what “Beach Bum” meant – duh!  But this takes me to one of the strangest massage R2 has talked me into. A few months after we married he decided we needed a second honeymoon and flew to Germany, where to fit in with the locals you must be au natural in the baths. Naked and Layna are not synonymous.  I can wear a piece of dental floss as a swimming costume, but being buff is not my nature. I am from Canada, it is cold, we wear clothes, lots and lots of them.

Baden Baden Spa - leave your clothes at home

After R2 told me Canadians are uptight, prudish, square, Victorian and straight-laced, I caved. I said I would try one bath but if I didn't like it, I was bailing for the bikini hills. In Baden Baden, Germany, clothing is NOT an option at their world famous spa.  You enter a series of pools and steam rooms at different temperatures that is meant to loosen up and detoxify you. Who could relax with all that flesh flopping around me? R2 assured me no one was looking at me, but I was definitely looking at them so that story didn't hold any water with me.

To make matters worse, you change in a coed locker room with Hans and Franz watching your every move, and they guard you to make sure you have a shower before you enter the hallowed water. R2 decided we needed a massage to soothe “Mrs. Jittery-Canadian Prude.”  So to calm me, I laid on a freezing cold slab of marble while a Fräulein from the German Olympic Shotput team scrubbed my nakedness with a rough, horse-hair brush. She managed to alleviate me of two pounds of my pasty, colourless skin with lye soap.  Okay, it wasn't lye, but it felt that way to me under the harsh lights. People were sauntering by watching this procedure.  Oh yes, it definitely de-stressed me. 

I got excited in Singapore because the spas are extraordinarily expensive but dollars do not equate to service. While many of the spas we have gone to are decent, they always ruin it by trying to “upsell” you after you are finished so you to shell out for $2,000 worth of treatments. Not happening.

There are many “spas” around our home in Singy, ranging from Thai to Javanese but the worst was three weeks ago. Around the corner from our home, we found a small spa but the women spoke no English, except for the receptionist. We were guided to the couples room and we laid down hoping for the best, but fearing the worst.  Two Chinese ladies that blathered away in Mandarin through the entire 60 minutes  gave the most pathetic massage in my history.  It was obvious they were imported as cheap labour and had no training whatsoever.  At one point, I thought she was plucking a chicken. I was so annoyed, I was about to jump up and show her a few massage moves and to tell them to shut the hell up. Pointless really, she didn't speak the language and I would look like a crazy person. R2 fared a little better but now I am a cranky spa customer.  I question every place I go, and I tell them “No Talking.”  Too bad, they interpret that as “No Stocking,” and they remove their socks.

There are many more countries to continue our spa search until we can return to our much missed Mexico. It doesn't matter if you pay $25 on the streets of Puerto Vallarta or pay $200 in the upscale Hilton in Cancun. You can be assured the massage is second to none.  As for Baden Baden, “The City so nice, they named it twice,” if you find my bikini, please airmail to me; no one there will be needing it. 

A little nibble on the feet at the Oriental Village fish spa

Having a zen moment in this quaint spa - Langkawi, Malyasia

Can't forget the Moose Jaw Spa

An outdoor spa in Nassau, Bahamas

Tree of Life Spa in Jaipur, India - very beautiful

Celeb spotting @ The Beverly Wilshire Spa on Rodeo Drive 

Almost my turn at Hacienda Temozon, Uxmal, Mexico

(Follow Layna in Asia on Mexico on My Mind site for her perspective of travels in Mexico)