When I travel to Asian countries, I treat myself, as often as possible, to a massage. Massage is a part of the Asian culture and, as such, one can get very good massages very cheaply. I came to enjoy massages late in life–well, after the first shiatsu massage in Japan at 20 that left my shoulders aching for weeks and led to a determination to never have another. My attitude adjustment came in the lovely town of Chewton Glen. Hardly Asia but bucolic England where I was given a gift of an aromatherapy massage. I was hooked.

Many massages followed but the best and most varied have been a part of my Asian travels. Oil or not. Naked or not. Full body or not. Just the legs or the shoulders or the head! Hot stones or strong hands. I did opt out of the cupping which I do not regret after seeing the lumpy bruises of the brave souls who did try it. I have also avoided the “questionable” places of tabloid fame. What has become a favorite endeavor is to see how many massages can be worked into a crowded itinerary.

The best source, by far, in any of my travels, remains Sakai, the massage seeker par excellence and outstanding tour leader on a trip to Southeast Asia. The best thing to do was to stalk him when we came to a new town. He would always get a massage and he always knew the very best places. None in any travel books, of course. None of them luxurious. But, oh what massages. My personal favorite was the women’s prison in Chiang Mai where the women were on a work-release program, crossing the street every morning to learn the trade of massage. Most were serving time for drug transporting across the border and would be doomed to repeat the crime unless they found a way to survive on their own. I’m hoping that the program is a success and ongoing. They were a chatty, cheerful group.

The largest “community” massage took place at Wat Pho in Bangkok. This is a massage school and anyone can sign up to join the crowd and have the students practice on you. This can be a good or a bad thing. It takes place in a large open-air room,  the floor wall to wall with mats. Fully clothed, you are led to a mat where an instructor and a student await. Part of the fun is watching what is happening to others. Which students are the most capable, which ones are causing pain, which ones are merely going through the motions. It’s a bit like going to a beauty school for your haircuts.

There have been massages on mats laid out on the beach, in small, intensely hot little huts and lying on tables hidden by curtains wafting in the breeze. I’ve been walked on, pummeled, stretched beyond any reason, cried out in pain (my friend thought I was being tortured in Siem Riep) and, more often, entered into a delicious state of full relaxation and comfort. Always wanting more.

The most recent is the experience of the ayurvedic massage. With oil. Lots of oil. More oil than I have ever seen outside an Italian cold-press olive oil factory. The massage begins with me seated on a bench wearing only a pair of disposable underwear. The masseuse takes a bowl of oil and pours it on the top of my head and grabs hold massaging deep and hard. She pulls and flicks the hair and finally advises me to climb up on the table. The first experience is on an ancient wooden table–no cover, no mat, no pillow. It’s hard! She proceeds to pour on more oil. As I lie on my back, she rubs the oil all over. There is no muscle-work going on here. Just smearing oil everywhere. Not what I expected but it still feels good. When she has finished with that side, I am instructed to turn over on my stomach. Easy for her to say. There is no way I can get a purchase on the oil-slick wooden table. I am sliding from side to side not a little amused by how helpless I am. Together, we finally manipulate the turn and she begins work, i.e., more pouring of oil on the un-oiled parts of my body and more rubbing. As the table cuts into my knee, I am relieved when she indicates that time is up. Still, a largely relaxing and enjoyable experience, albeit requiring two showers to remove the oil.

I’m in India. Ayurvedic is the way to go so I am willing to try again. This time, a quick perusal of the space tells me this is more modern–there is a mat on the table–a good sign. The ritual is the same. Miniscule covering, (a diaper-like cloth with a “why bother” feel) bench, oil on head, instruction to climb onto the table; but the mat makes a tremendous difference in comfort. Still, sliding on the table is part of the experience. This time, I am asked to edge to the top of the table so my head and shoulders can be reached. No way. I can only wallow in oil as my heels slip on the mat. So the giggling masseuse grabs my hands and pulls. Slide, I do. The finish is different this time. I am eased off the mat, well basted and ready to be cooked. Well, steamed, at least. A quick shot of a potion of I-know-not-what and I’m hustled into the old-fashioned steam box–reminiscent of a New Yorker cartoon, towel around the neck and all. I steam, relaxed and satisfied.  Now I have been walked on, pummeled, stretched and cooked.

What next?  Perhaps a roll in the snow.  Maybe Mongolia!