Monica Reports Again

Hi everyone, I'm back for another stint as the guest blogger. I've been assigned to report on "Japanese Massage Parlors: A Study in Contrasts."

B. Gardens Spa, Tokyo
Friday, June 23, 10:30 p.m.

Julie and I had just left a Spanish tapas bar, where the KSA office had thrown a going away party for Shinya. David was walking us to the subway station and along the way we passed a spa called B. Gardens. "How great would a massage be right now?" we wondered, noticing they were open til 5am (how random is that?). David, who is bilingual, dispelled any fears that this was one of "those" kinds of massage places. We decided to partake in aromatherapy massages so David communicated to the Japanese receptionist what we wanted. There was some fear that as a twisted joke he had asked them in Japanese to set Julie and me up for a couples massage, but this was not the case and the experience turned out to be nothing less than sublime. We each had hour long massages that were undeniably the best we'd ever had, better than the best massage in the states. Lavender scented hot towels, fuzzy robes, flickering candles, buckwheat eye masks-- we got the whole nine yards. Floating on air, we were escorted into the waiting area and given glasses of fresh squeezed yuzu juice as we dealt with our denial about having to return to the real world. The massage therapists didn't speak much English, but I think they understood through our ear-to-ear grins and jello-like posture that we were very happy. We asked them their names for our next visit, and as we left the spa they followed us halfway down the block bowing and waving. This was a definite win.


No name massage parlor, 4th floor, random building in Tokyo
Friday, July 30, 11:30 p.m.
"Claire... omigod, you have to come to this spa with us next time. We got the most amazing massages-- we're dying to go back!" This was part of the conversation Julie, Claire and I had over dinner at Fish Bank. Three flights of wine later, we've paid our bill and have decided to go by B. Gardens for massages...after all, it's only 11:00 pm and they're open all night. We were met with complete and total and utter disappointment at B. Gardens when they told us they were booked for the next 2 hours. Well surely there had to be something similar down the street, right? We must have passed countless sandwich boards and signs for massages along the way.

Call it impaired judgment, call it stupidity, whatever... but we ended up at some random massage place on the 4th floor of a nameless building. They could accommodate the 3 of us at the same time, and within 10 minutes. Sold! Were we concerned that the waiting area smelled like smoke, the sofa was covered in clear plastic (like at your grandmother's house), that a TV was blaring a Japanese game show? Not so much. Were we concerned that the massage area was a mere 5 feet away and we could see a man's arms and legs being maneuvered to and fro by the masseuse? Not so much. Were we concerned when 10 minutes later said man came out from behind a curtain zipping his fly? Maybe a little bit. Ok, so obviously you're all asking, "Why the hell didn't you guys leave?" Unfortunately, I do not have a good answer to this question.

Moving on...the three of us are escorted to the back, where we're shown three beds side by side by side, with hospital curtains pulled open so that it's one big room. "Ummm...not so much," Julie said and drew the curtains back together so each bed was closed off. We put on the flannel pajamas that were provided, and thus began the nightmare. The "massage" consisted of a series of moves that nobody in their right mind would subject themselves to. They dug their fingers and knuckles into random parts of our backs and as the pain became unbearable and we pulled away, they would push harder. They hooked a towel under our chins and jerked it back. They stuck their fingers in our ears and wiggled (yes, WTF?). They yanked our arms out of the sockets. They stacked towels on our backs and butts and actually climbed onto the bed and JUMPED on us. In my head, I was actually rehearsing a conversation with Jerry, the MD of the North America practice, explaining to him why we had to attend the upcoming steering committee meeting in traction and in neck braces. Each of us was having our own personal preview of hell-- separately yet simultaneously. After the torture session ended and they stopped violating us, the three of us quickly got dressed, paid, and got into the elevator without talking or making eye contact. At that point, I burst into tears. Definitely not a happy ending, at least not for us.