The back-story"Hey," I said to a Friend, "I found this amazing Spa deal on FB, must be a Ramadan Special. Fancy it?"
She said "Sure".
What happened next, I blame her for entirely.
If only she had said 'Naaaaaaaaaaah."
So, turns out "I too much liking your body" will make you feel really uncomfortable at the start of a Moroccan Bath.
This, from very cheerful but exasperatingly chatty Massage Technician, as she sat, swinging her legs watching me undress.
Lady, this isn't a floor show.
(this will be my sole train of thought for the next 40 minutes, though it will feel like 40 days).
From hereonin it will become increasingly, & horribly, obvious that I am very actually going to hate this.
One doesn't wish to come across prudish (perhaps, in that case, One should avoid using words like 'One')
a Princess (I am aware that this falls smack-bang in the #FirstWorldPains category of woes) but, seriously?
No private dis-robing area?
No robe or towel at all, for that matter?
Not even freaking leaving the room to give me a moment and the chance for a few deep breaths?!
You are just going to sit there, swinging your legs, head cocked to one side cheerfully, & copiously sharing with me your every, no-holds barred observations as 'stuff' is eyes-firmly-fixed-to-a-point-on-the-wall, agonisingly 'revealed'.
I am a British AND Chinese. Historically, neither of my people are known for their exhibitionism & 'grooviness with nudey bodies' culture. #tooBritishforthis, also #tooChinesetoo
Why didn't I stop? For the same above reason. Neither of my people like to 'make a fuss'.
I will not go into the sweaty, scrapy nuts & bolts of it - if you have had a Moroccan Bath, you will know what has been endured.
We will look into each other's eyes and we will see the knowingness reflected back. We will know the places we have been taken to.
Seems people, non-Moroccan People maybe? only ever have ONE Moroccan Bath.
Dear Lord, Moroccan People, what is up with your baths?????!!!!!
Me, I like a soaky, drifty-away, relaxing bath, ideally with a book.
If I am screwing up my face, making noises like "oooof!" and "YEOW!" it would be fair to assume:
a) I am not relaxed &
b) I am not having a nice time.
Yes, my skin was super-soft afterwards but, jeeez, the return of soft-skin was not enough.
Turn back the clock about 25 years and we might be on to something here.
If the experience could do that, you might see me back but no, I am done.
Apart from the Too-much naked, Sandpapery nightmare, the other Low was the 'sitting perched on the edge of an empty bath for the steam' part of it all.
First, nothing happened. Just me, naked as the day I was born, sitting. Perched.
Then, from the depths of somewhere, cappuccino-like burbles began and steam began to percolate out of the nozzles around me. The glass doors were shut, I was sealed in.
Time might have passed easier had I been able to read but, steam, sweat and paper are not friends.
I could see my magazine, through the steamed up glass doors, sitting there in the little shelf. Just out of reach. Mocking me. Taunting me.
So near. So far.
My magazine and, my pants.