Today, I visited the hotel spa and had a massage. I am not a big fan of massages, but the rest of the family--sans 2-year old--booked massages, so I did not want to be a party pooper. My wife usually has massages, when we stay at a resort, but I rarely do. I find them to be a waste of time and money, as well as providing little pleasure.
Each massage has been a Que sera moment. With the exception of oily skin, I feel the same after the massage as before. I tell myself that the oil is good for my skin, but that might be merely rationalization.
We have stayed at two hotels in Dubai this time (I know, wretched excess). Each has a beautiful spa, ranked with the best in the world. One is reached by boat and is located amongst palm trees. The other is more modern, located on the fourth floor of the hotel. Each has advantages and disadvantages, when one bothers to compare, but each is very pleasant. I did not use the one in the first hotel.
My masseur looked like a young Lurch. His name was Nikita. When he spoke, he sounded Russian, but was from Bulgaria. He had worked in a hospital, where he had learned about physiology. I told him that he was lucky to have ended up in a spa in a luxury hotel, rather than a third world hospital. He agreed. Fortunately, he did not place his hands around my neck and squeeze.
Prior to writing novels, the author enjoyed a multifaceted career: from decorated combat aviator to advertising professional to global communications director of a major consumer brand. He has traveled the world and met sports, film and television stars, political leaders, and royalty. He graduated from Middlebury College, is married, lives in Germany, and has two grown children.