Aah, the spa. Don’t we all love that fragrant corner of the luxury hotel, that tranquil haven where the tensions of a working life melt away in an enchanting world of exotic unguents and seraphic smiles?
Not me—I don’t love spas. They make me nervous. Believe it or not—and I realize how perverse, how ornery, how cantankerous this makes me sound—I tend to come out of a spa with a greater level of stress than when I went in.
I’ve done it all in my time—the oil drip in Dharamsala, marma in Mauritius, Tibetan singing bowls in Tulum. So I know what spas are meant to do. They are meant to make you go all gooey. They are meant to sink you gently into a deep well of blissed-out serenity. The trouble is that in my case they usually have the opposite effect.
Before we go any further, and before masseurs and masseuses all over the world throw up their sinewy hands in horror, I’d like to make clear that this diatribe doesn’t apply to the kind of small Central European town where you might go to “take the waters” and are forced to chew every mouthful 50 times. See, I have always fancied myself as the world-weary Dirk Bogarde figure in a white robe at some down-at-heel fin de siècle bathhouse reeking of sulphur, with muscly Teutons to pummel me into submission. I also have no quibble with traditional Thai massage, Finnish saunas, and other culturally sanctioned practices which at least have their feet on the ground of common sense.
No, I’m talking about hotel spas—the ones with the wind chimes and the overpriced organic wellness products by Earthwise, Geneviève de Courcy, and Ritual Origins. (I made those up.) The ones that are shoved away in a basement where you can practically hear the conversation at the planning meeting when some executive from the Big Hotel Chain says “shit, what about the spa?”
I am of course aware that, as in any other service industry, hotel spas run the gamut of quality and that many of their clients have only positive things to say about them. It’s my considered opinion, however, that, for the most part, they suck.
I happen to know whereof I speak. I am a travel writer specializing in the upper end of the market, so assignments involving a stay in a five-star hotel are the (Poilâne) bread and (Isigny) butter of my trade. It follows that mooching around in spas is something I do quite regularly. When the PR person suggests I “experience” one of the hotel’s signature spa treatments—say, an anti-aging yogic cleanse with “gua sha” tools and tangy citrus scrub, or maybe a pearl-infused remineralizing body mask—I’m professionally obliged to take up the invitation. Though I’…….