Memorable moments: The longest wait

A friend of mine once shared a story from a solo trip to Thailand that serves as a cautionary tale about the perils of travel-induced optimism. He had gone for a massage and, finding the masseuse quite attractive, soon found himself in a state of unmistakable physical arousal.

The woman looked down, looked back at him, and asked a direct, three-word question: "You want wank?"

Being single and on holiday in a far-flung land, he didn't take long to weigh his options. He figured, “Why not? I’m miles from home, I’m unattached—let's go with the flow.” He gave her a nod of consent.

She smiled and immediately left the room. My friend lay there, his heart racing with anticipation, assuming she had gone to fetch some oil or perhaps to prepare for the "service."

She was gone for a surprisingly long time. He waited in the quiet room, his expectations mounting with every passing minute of the silence. Finally, after a significant delay, the door opened and she stepped back inside. She looked at him with a pleasant, professional curiosity and asked:

"You have good wank?"

It turned out she wasn't offering her services; she was simply offering him the room for a bit of "private time" while she went off to have a tea break. He had spent ten minutes in a state of high-alert romantic anticipation, while she had simply been waiting for him to finish the job himself.

Memorable moments: The gauntlet of relaxation

Some of the most painful experiences of my life have been grooming and massages. It began in 1997, when I decided to visit a traditional Turkish Bath. After prepping in a steam-filled room, a massive, muscle-bound attendant began the Kese—a traditional scrub using a coarse handmade mitt. There was no soap, just water and pure, aggressive friction. He used long, firm strokes with such ferocity that I saw "rolls" of dark material shedding off my skin. It was a visceral process of shedding years of environmental pollutants, but the intensity was so high I honestly thought my skin might peel off right then and there.

I was relieved when it was over, assuming the peak of physical intensity was behind me. I was wrong.

In India, I went for a haircut and shave. The barber gave me a scalp massage that was, briefly, heavenly. But then, without warning, he took my head firmly in his hands and gave my neck a massive, bone-jarring "crick." It was totally unexpected and not altogether welcome.

In Thailand, I sought out a massage to help with my tight muscles. The masseuse took my lack of flexibility as a personal affront. She pulled me into all sorts of contorted, impossible positions and seemed to view my cries of pain as a sign that she was finally "winning."

The finale took place in Singapore, while I was on my way to the Arctic. I decided on a foot massage, which turned out to be the most painful experience of my life. She pushed so deeply into the soles of my feet that I felt the pressure in my very marrow. I came close to yelling, "Okay, okay, I confess!"—certain she was looking for state secrets rather than tension.

Looking back on my travels, there is a strange irony in seeking out peace and ending up in a state of physical combat. From the scrub of a muscle-bound Turk to the sudden, neck-snapping "crick" in India, I have been scrubbed, contorted, and pressured into a version of relaxation I’m not sure I ever actually agreed to. It’s a vivid reminder that the body has its own story to tell, and sometimes, the only way to "find yourself" is to have a stranger in Singapore try to push your soul out through the bottom of your feet.

A wonderful massage

 A glorious massage to relax my body ahead of my big flight home.