You Haven't Lived Until You've had a Korean Baths Experience.
by Alan Patching
My sister-in-law is usually quite a nice person really. But the gift voucher for a visit for my wife and I to the local Korean Baths had me wondering what score she was trying to settle.
Annie and I headed off for the appointment, enthused by the vision of a romantic double massage in a luxuriously decorated room with the softest of nature sounds carrying us off to tweetie bird land. Ahhhh, pure bliss just a few kilometers away. I nudged the accelerator just a tad.
The sound of the receptionist's voice demonstrated 'soft' to much the same degree that Australia's recent achievements in dealing with 'illegal' immigrants demonstrates 'humanitarian hyper-sensitivity'. 'Key on wrist or ankle, lady to left, man to right, we call your number when ready.' Not even time for a parting glance. Customer service Stalag style!
I obeyed the dirty look that said 'get your shoes off' faster than I ever obeyed Sergeant Holroyd in the regimental days, and continued to obey the numerous signs that prompted visitors to get naked. The designer had the sensitivity to specify a minimal use of mirrors. I, for one, was grateful for that, and also for the fact many others in the room had a very sound basis for similar gratitude.
I'm old school to the core. Getting naked automatically triggers the 'where's the towel or gown' section of the brain. Especially in places where there are lots of other guys looking just as uncomfortable, but mainly because there were one or two other guys who looked particularly comfortable. And this in the week before Mardi Gras!
'No deal, towel when you are finished.' Golden tonsils again!
Never has water one degree above freezing been so appealing. I leapt into the pool. My heart leapt into my mouth. And something else leapt into my lower torso, but I lacked the courage to investigate what it was.
En route to the warm pool, I could not avoid the passing observation that water must be absolutely the only thing that actually increases in volume upon freezing. Further cursory observation drew me to the conclusion that certain individuals, the recipients of greater endowment than normal mortals, exploit Korean bath premises, and in particular the area around the cold bath, to exert their superiority with quite unnecessary showiness.
I dug deep into the entrepreneur within but as yet have arrived at no insight into how such exhibitionism might be exploited in some manner involving provision of access or images to my sister in law and her friends for financial gain. Indeed, I surmised it might well have been her insight into my entrepreneurial streak that prompted her to offer this gift to me, after she had failed miserably in determining access to the male quarters herself.
'Number 2!' It wasn't an announcement, it was an order. "Massage!'
I leapt from the warm pool quicker than I had from the cold. This had much to do with the fact that the command source had either been the original Odd Job (from James Bond movie fame) or, at the very least, a close relative.
The massage room was a small enclave off the pool area. What it lacked in the anticipated luxury, it made up for with, well, nothing really. The thought of displeasing Odd Job in any way caused my mind to quickly convert the disappointment of this nothingness to an appreciation of the Zen minimalism of the space. I figured the karmic consequence would be at least another day on planet earth.
My squat and robust friend spoke very little English, contributing nicely to both the authenticity of the place and my growing concern at what lay ahead.
'Lie on back.'
Any remaining self-consciousness was soon washed away with the bucket of luke-warm water (thank God for small mercies) that he doused over me; the pre-torture purification ceremony, no doubt. Then Odd Job got to work. Surprisingly, he turned concern into comfort with the most punishing yet purposeful shiatsu massage I have ever experienced. And he didn't lay a hand on me in the process. Feet, toes, knees, elbows, shins – yes, but not a hand to be seen or felt. These he used to maintain balance by grabbing the overhead railing each time the major evidence of my only win in the over-endowment department – serious love handles – threatened to collapse beyond their obvious elasticity limits and flick him mercilessly to the tiles.
Two experiences tie for session highlight. One was when he literally mounted my naked body to perform the 'press elbow to chest starting between shoulder blades' technique, the comprehension of the pain of which (by members of both sides) has undoubtedly been a major factor in North and South Korea avoiding escalation of their conflict for several decades.
It is part of the male condition to become as concerned when a same sex person assumes this position as when an opposite sex person relentlessly forbids the assumption of it. I recall confirming that Odd Job was still wearing his shorts just a nano-second before he snapped my neck back to the eyes front position quicker than good old Sergeant Holroyd ever could with his barking military commands.
It was a lesson in values really. What pain a broken neck as long as one's respectability is maintained.
The second concern was that when Odd Job read the bit that defined a lufa body scrub as an 'all over body experience' he took it literally, but the Doctor says I should be able to stop wearing the cotton wool in my undies by the end of the month.
I walked on air for a few days after, albeit with a wider stance than usual. Great experience really, and I will return. But not until well after Mardi Gras. The smiles on naked passers by during the mounted massage experience brought out a hint of something or other. Call it homophobia if you like. I prefer to think of it as simple self-preservation.
Why is it my sister-in law keeps smiling like that?
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