The Massage Monologues, Part I

     Looking back on my time in school earning a degree in massage therapy, I can guarantee you that there is nothing that my teachers could have said that would have prepared me for what it would be like to work in the spa of a luxury hotel in the middle of Rome. Though they definitely tried to prepare us for how to handle the occasional inappropriate client, I'm afraid that even their imaginations couldn't begin to fathom what I would be up against.

      I was lucky enough to find work rather easily in one of the most prestigious hotels on Via Veneto. Given the caliber of the hotel and it's upper crust location, one can imagine the kind of guests it attracts. For instance, I can say first hand that the Saudi Arabian princes and princesses that I have had the honor of meeting through my line of work have been some of my most courteous, gracious, and modest clients. I admit that initially I was wary given the middle east's reputation for how it views women, but as it turns out there was nothing to worry about. Then one afternoon the president of [small middle eastern country that will remain nameless] arrived. Apparently a pseudo-democratically elected presidential dictator just doesn't have the class of royal blood lines.

      It was towards the end of my shift and he was to be my last client of the day. He was staying in the cupola, which for all intents and purposes is a house within the hotel. It is two stories, with a full gym and spa, complete with sauna, steam room, jacuzzi, and a stunning nearly 360° view. Of course he would be having an in-room massage. (Actually this was already his second massage in two days. I learned from the previous therapist that he had insisted upon receiving the first massage within the steam room. Shockingly, she actually appeased this ridiculous request, setting up an unfortunate precedent that I knew I would never be able to uphold.)

      The appointment was for 4pm, but we were to wait until his assistant called down to the spa to say that he was ready. We waited. And waited. At nearly 4:30 I told reception that I was leaving since I was meeting my then-boyfriend (now-husband) at around 5:30 and who knew when we would actually get started once this guy finally called. So I got changed and was about to leave, when as life would have it, the call came down that He was ready. Part of me wanted to stick it to this egocentric asshole who clearly believed that no one had anything better to do than wait on him, but I guess curiosity got the better of me. So I changed back into my white spa pants and headed up along with the esthetician who would be doing his facial.

      The hallway outside of the door to this “room” had been set up almost like airport security. There were tables upon which his personal security officers examined anything that would be brought inside; sheets, towels, massage table, etc. Of course we were both given a generic pat down and then forced to leave our cell phones, my MP3 player, and my mini speakers outside in a box. (No music for this massage.) Fair enough. I mean he was the president of a small country after all. When President Obama stayed at the hotel, he didn't have a massage but I'm sure that if he had, the security measures outside of his room would have been similar if not even more stringent.

      Once inside I admit that both of us were somewhat in awe of the accommodations. I had never imagined that hidden inside the hotel's labyrinth of hallways was an entire house. I felt like I had just entered the wardrobe and found myself in Narnia. We were led through the hallway, catching glimpses of the decadent and very purposefully designed interior rooms. The only clue that we were not in a real home was the lack of personality, which really lent the whole setting a very Twilight Zone kind of feel. Eventually we arrived at the small interior elevator which brought us directly up into the private spa and gym.

      Again, awe. The elevator spat us out into a small alcove which led directly to a large, frescoed, sun-lit room with an entire wall of windows facing out onto a private terrace. In the middle of this room was an enormous in-floor jacuzzi that could easily have accommodated up to 10 people comfortably. To the right two side by side doors, one in frosted glass and one in wood, led to the steam room and the sauna, respectively, and the work out equipment could be seen through yet another doorway. The president was still nowhere to be seen, so we took our time figuring out the best place to set up the massage table. This ended up being next to the jacuzzi, a choice that would come back to bite us in the ass.

      At last, probably about an hour after the original appointment time, his royal presidentialness made his appearance in slippers and white fluffy bath robe. He greeted us, without eye contact, putting forth his hand as though expecting us to kiss the jewels in his rings. We immediately perceived that, in addition to a challenging language barrier, we would have to deal with unabashed middle eastern sexism and self imposed class snobbery. Not a good combination. Luckily the concept of laying down on a massage table can be easily communicated with fairly simple gestures and, even more luckily, when he dropped that bathrobe, he had underwear on.

      For the next half-hourish the massage and facial proceeded normally. Eventually it was time to turn him over onto his stomach, at which point the esthetician's job was done. However he insisted that she massage him as well. She and I warily looked at each other, but since she had some minimal training as a massage therapist and since she had to wait for me to finish anyway, there was no real reason to refuse. After another half-hourish, we concluded the appointment with only that minor glitch.... Or so we thought.

      Once he was all covered up and we were simply waiting for him to get up so that we could fold up the table, he began gesticulating and saying things we didn't understand. His assistant/translator informed us that he wanted to extend the massage another half hour. I was already super late as is and getting antsy, sure that my boyfriend was starting to wonder about my whereabouts. I politely declined, and then turned to the esthetician. She locked her big, innocent, Swedish, blue eyes on mine and just said, very quietly, “Please don't leave me here.” I almost laughed. It was this poor girl's first week on the job.

      “I'm sorry, we aren't available. We have clients waiting for us downstairs,” I informed the assistant. He communicated this to Mr. President, who, based on his reaction, didn't seem to hear or understand. He indicated the table and said something else, probably the same thing he had said before.

      I shook my head and tried to smile. “No, I'm sorry. We really have to get going.”

      Still no sign of comprehension, though I'm sure that even his limited English vocabulary included the word “no”. The assistant seemed to be doing his best, but clearly this lack of understanding was conceptual and had little to do with language.

      I looked at the other girl again, at a loss for how to extricate ourselves from this situation. In truth I was finding the whole thing border-line amusing and expected to see that sentiment mirrored back at me. Instead I was confronted with those alarmed eyes and again, “Please don't leave me here.” I can't imagine why she thought that I would ever do that, but it was clear that for all intents and purposes I was in this alone.

      Then, before we were really aware of what was happening, the president got up from the table, pulled off his underwear, and splooshed into the jacuzzi. Not missing a beat, he began gesturing for us to join him. The two of us stood there speechless as I internally cursed the previous therapist who had agreed to do the massage in the steam room.

      “You come to massage here.”

      “No.” I indicated our clothes. “We have to go.”

      “Is okay. Is okay. You take off.” And he mimed for us how to do that. It couldn't possibly be that two inferior beings would deign to say “no” to Him.

      “No.”

      I turned to the assistant, who at this point appeared both embarrassed and entertained, and asked him to please explain that we were not going to continue the massage in the jacuzzi and that we were already late and had to leave, though I do believe that he was probably already doing his best to communicate this. Given the apologetic look on his face, it was pretty clear that of the two he was the one with a better sense of the inappropriate, or at least that he had more experience dealing with emancipated women.

      After several more back-and-forths regarding our willingness to enter the jacuzzi, the president abruptly lifted himself out and wrapped himself back up in the fluffy bathrobe. With a nod of confirmation from the assistant, we wasted no more time in folding up the massage table and gathering together sheets, towels, oil, etc. The president was now engrossed in the contents of a black binder and surrounded by several men in dark suits who had appeared out of nowhere. It felt strange to leave without saying anything so I glanced in his direction, trying to figure out how to handle our exit. Apparently he saw me out of the corner of his eye because he raised his arm and shooed us away.

      It was such a relief to finally be out of there, changed, and waiting for my boyfriend outside. That whole post-massage debacle had eaten up another half hour, bringing the total time dedicated to that appointment to about two and a half hours (which I had already made sure I would be paid for). My boyfriend pulled up and I collapsed into the front seat as he leaned over to give me a kiss.

      “So how was work?”

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