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Thais that bind | page 1, 2
Tatia was laying on her back, completely naked, her head in the lap of her masseuse. As the massage ended, her masseuse cupped both of Tatia's breasts in her hands, squeezing them a little, and she and the other lady laughed heartily. After they had gone, Tatia told me she'd felt a little uncomfortable with all the attention on her body. Even with my headache I was able to muster a superior attitude, as I tried to dismiss Tatia's concerns. "Oh, it's just an East-West thing," I assured her. "When I was in Bali, they always massaged your breasts, even on the beach with people all around, and they just acted so blasé, like they were touching your arm. It means nothing to them." "Well, it meant something to me. I was embarrassed. After all, she grabbed my breasts, not yours." The next day, despite the bliss of the previous night's two-hour massage, I remained quite sick with a migraine. Tatia was out exploring the little non-touristy town we now called Pitstop, and I was alone in the room, keeping it dark and quiet. I called down to the massage service again. The masseuse arrived. In the darkness and in my pained state I didn't pay much attention to her. I explained that I had a headache, and wanted a massage for only that. After about an hour of massage she began talking to me. She could take me on her motor scooter for a treatment for my headache to a nearby wat (a Buddhist temple) later that afternoon. I was unsure of her, what exactly she meant, and she quickly made the unclear situation more murky. "I have no husband," she said, "and I have no madam like you do" -- at this she put her index fingers together, parallel to each other. Although I had never encountered the gesture before, something of its meaning was conveyed to me in the way her eyes lingered on me through her dark eyelashes. A small "uh-oh" sounded in my brain. "Men are no good," she continued. "Did you have a husband?" I asked her. She nodded yes, looking glum. "What happened to your husband?" I asked. She ran her finger across her throat, making a ripping sound. Oh, great, I thought. She slit his throat, and now she wants me to go away with her on her motor scooter. I tried to convey to her that I could not agree to go to the wat with her, that I would have to talk to my friend. OK, she would come back at 4:30 to take to me to the wat for treatments. To my relief, she left. A little while later Tatia returned, bearing gifts from the world of Pitstop -- beautifully fragrant tiny blessing leis of white flowers and purple ribbons, which I hung on the bedpost beside my head, along with medicines from the local pharmacy. The cool moist perfume of the flowers reminded me of gardenias and I felt blessed. I told Tatia of my encounter with the masseuse while she was gone, and how she wanted to take me to a wat for further treatments. Suddenly, my feminine Tatia turned into Barbara Stanwyck. "You ain't goin' nowhere, honey," she said in her Jewish-Western accent, "especially not with no madam-hunting little Thai masseuse." Tatia in chaps and fringe and serious boots flashed before my eyes, and I heard the crack of her whip. "She's going to be here at 4:30," I said. "And so will I." "Maybe this is one of those cultural misunderstanding things," I said, not sure who I was trying to convince. "Show me again how she put her fingers when she said that thing about you having a madam." I complied. "Nope, no misunderstanding, my little madam. I'm staying right here." At 4:30 sharp there was a knock on the door. I cowered in bed, and Tatia let the masseuse in. Basic words of Thai and English went back and forth. Tatia conveyed to her that I was too sick to go get well at the wat, and the masseuse left. "That was Ms. Shampoo, my masseuse from last night! I told you something was going on with her," Tatia remonstrated. "God, I was so sick I didn't notice it was your masseuse." The next day I continued to languish in the room, and Tatia brought me steamed jasmine rice and custard from the outside world. I held the bowl of rice and the warm aroma of jasmine caressed my face. The silky blandness of the custard slithered down my throat. Thus strengthened, I called the massage service again and this time quite carefully clarified that I wanted the same woman as I'd had the first night. I was relieved when she showed up. Through the entire massage, Tatia sat beside the bed, reading her novel, saying nothing, acting as if she weren't paying the least bit of attention. My masseuse gave another excellent massage. After she left I said to Tatia, "You know, I never thought I'd need a bodyguard to get a massage." Tatia looked at me over her glasses, and a slow smile grew on her face. She chuckled, a chuckle I would hear again when we returned home, whenever someone asked if we'd had any trouble with the men in Thailand.
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