So, the massage from last entry? Was great. Worth every last CFA that I paid for it, if just for the use of the hot (hot!) shower alone. It was also completely weird.
The first thing that I noticed about the massage was that my French vocabulary was pretty much not in any way up for the task. My French, like most school French, was learned in a series of themed units—“Talking about hobbies,” or “Makeup,” or “Describing the floors of buildings and their furnishings.” There are a variety of units that were not covered (“Insulting cat callers,” “Ordering mixed drinks,” and “Explaining to the tailor that you want a cuffed sleeve made out of the lining fabric,” among them), and unfortunately “Getting a massage” falls into this category. The massage therapist kept asking me questions about the kind of massage I wanted, and after enough smiling and nodding she basically just did what she wanted and told me to shout if it hurt.
Mostly, this was fine—I just had to concentrate on not laughing when she touched my feet and/or “My Heart Will Go On” came on the radio (twice). But then, the massage therapist gestured for me to roll over on my side. While trying to clutch a towel to my chest, I propped myself up so that the massage therapist could do some sort of crazy chiropractic stretches on my legs. (At this point she had stopped speaking, instead just moving me where she needed me.) Continue reading