Long overdue for a good massage, Eitan and I booked appointments at the Hyatt’s Arya Spa.
We showed up a few minutes early and were seated in the spa’s reception area on the seventh floor to wait for our massage therapists. I half-browsed a tourist brochure I had picked up in the hotel lobby while I looked out the window, but I didn’t have much time to kill. After only a few minutes, our therapists arrived and escorted us to our treatment rooms.
My therapist, Gloria, showed me to my room and gave me a minute to change. Then we got started.
“Sit here and put your feet here,” she instructed.
I took a seat and put my feet in a basin full of hot water on the floor. Gloria sat on the floor and began rubbing what felt like coarse salt on my feet.
“Wow!” she exclaimed. “They are so big!”
My shoe size is a U.S. 10 ½ (42/44 European), which isn’t exactly one for the record books.
“Perhaps,” I thought, “your basin is on the small side.”
I didn’t make any actual comment, though, and she continued washing. Once my feet were scrubbed, rinsed, and dried, Gloria laid out my slippers. I put them on and walked three feet to the massage table.
“Lay down on your stomach,” she told me, “and loosen up your towel.”
I did as instructed, and Gloria unceremoniously pulled the towel away. Laying on the table naked, save for the see-through paper underwear she had given me, I felt a bit exposed.
Gloria took a moment to look me over.
“Nice!” she remarked. “Do you play football?”
“Three or four times a week,” I lied.
“And your friend?” she asked, referring to Eitan.
“He doesn’t play football,” I told her. “Bad knees.”
Then she covered me up with a fresh towel and began the massage, exposing each area of my body as she worked on it.
With two unexpected comments from Gloria in the first five minutes of the treatment, I wondered what else might be on her mind. She didn’t offer any more observations, though.
I had booked a 75-minute Swedish, and she kneaded and oiled me up, front and back, head to toe.
She ended by massaging my neck, and then she excused herself while I changed back into my clothes.
As I took my clothes out of the locker, I noticed something I had initially overlooked. Toward the back of one of the locker’s shelves sat a pair of grey boxer-briefs – Calvin Klein, to be exact.
I was unsure of what to do about these mystery briefs. Initially, I was inclined to ignore them, but then it struck me that Gloria would probably check the room after I left and finding the underwear, she would likely think they were mine. This didn’t appeal to me.
I got dressed and met Gloria in the hall.
“Sorry to be a bother,” I told her, “but there are some underwear in the locker that aren’t mine.”
She followed me into the room, and I pointed them out.
“And what should I do with them?” she asked.
She clearly had not understood what I was telling her as I’m quite sure she had not intentionally given me a room that wasn’t fully cleaned.
“These are not mine,” I repeated.
I pulled my jeans down a bit, exposing the waistband on my own underwear, and then she got it.
“Oh, my goodness!” she replied, clearly flustered. “I don’t know who these belong to! I’m so sorry!”
I told her it was no big deal, and she placed the briefs in a plastic bag.
As we walked back to the desk, Gloria articulated the very thing I had pondered myself.
“Who would leave the panty behind?” she mused.
The way I see it, there are three possible scenarios. This man either left wearing the paper underwear or he decided to go commando or he had brought extra underwear to the session. The motivation for any of these options, however, escapes me.
Gloria was equally flummoxed, and we had a bit of a laugh over the whole situation.
We showed up a few minutes early and were seated in the spa’s reception area on the seventh floor to wait for our massage therapists. I half-browsed a tourist brochure I had picked up in the hotel lobby while I looked out the window, but I didn’t have much time to kill. After only a few minutes, our therapists arrived and escorted us to our treatment rooms.
My therapist, Gloria, showed me to my room and gave me a minute to change. Then we got started.
“Sit here and put your feet here,” she instructed.
I took a seat and put my feet in a basin full of hot water on the floor. Gloria sat on the floor and began rubbing what felt like coarse salt on my feet.
“Wow!” she exclaimed. “They are so big!”
My shoe size is a U.S. 10 ½ (42/44 European), which isn’t exactly one for the record books.
“Perhaps,” I thought, “your basin is on the small side.”
I didn’t make any actual comment, though, and she continued washing. Once my feet were scrubbed, rinsed, and dried, Gloria laid out my slippers. I put them on and walked three feet to the massage table.
“Lay down on your stomach,” she told me, “and loosen up your towel.”
I did as instructed, and Gloria unceremoniously pulled the towel away. Laying on the table naked, save for the see-through paper underwear she had given me, I felt a bit exposed.
Gloria took a moment to look me over.
“Nice!” she remarked. “Do you play football?”
“Three or four times a week,” I lied.
“And your friend?” she asked, referring to Eitan.
“He doesn’t play football,” I told her. “Bad knees.”
Then she covered me up with a fresh towel and began the massage, exposing each area of my body as she worked on it.
With two unexpected comments from Gloria in the first five minutes of the treatment, I wondered what else might be on her mind. She didn’t offer any more observations, though.
I had booked a 75-minute Swedish, and she kneaded and oiled me up, front and back, head to toe.
She ended by massaging my neck, and then she excused herself while I changed back into my clothes.
As I took my clothes out of the locker, I noticed something I had initially overlooked. Toward the back of one of the locker’s shelves sat a pair of grey boxer-briefs – Calvin Klein, to be exact.
I was unsure of what to do about these mystery briefs. Initially, I was inclined to ignore them, but then it struck me that Gloria would probably check the room after I left and finding the underwear, she would likely think they were mine. This didn’t appeal to me.
I got dressed and met Gloria in the hall.
“Sorry to be a bother,” I told her, “but there are some underwear in the locker that aren’t mine.”
She followed me into the room, and I pointed them out.
“And what should I do with them?” she asked.
She clearly had not understood what I was telling her as I’m quite sure she had not intentionally given me a room that wasn’t fully cleaned.
“These are not mine,” I repeated.
I pulled my jeans down a bit, exposing the waistband on my own underwear, and then she got it.
“Oh, my goodness!” she replied, clearly flustered. “I don’t know who these belong to! I’m so sorry!”
I told her it was no big deal, and she placed the briefs in a plastic bag.
As we walked back to the desk, Gloria articulated the very thing I had pondered myself.
“Who would leave the panty behind?” she mused.
The way I see it, there are three possible scenarios. This man either left wearing the paper underwear or he decided to go commando or he had brought extra underwear to the session. The motivation for any of these options, however, escapes me.
Gloria was equally flummoxed, and we had a bit of a laugh over the whole situation.
