Rating: Painfully amazing
I call to make an appointment for a massage. "BRC Spa and Sauna," says a gruff Russian-accented voice at the other end of the line. I awkwardly bumble something about wanting a massage at 11:15, because I have a lifetime of unjustifiable inferiority complexes built up regarding conversing with Russian adults. On the other end: silence. "So, um," I eloquently wrap up. Some more silence, followed by, "I'm listening."
Most of my interactions with the desk clerks at the banya, as my people refer to it, go pretty much that way. It's hard to explain to a person with limited experience talking to Russians that those guys are actually really nice. But I will try anyway.
Asa and I arrive at the banya at 11. Have I mentioned that it is run by a gentleman who is lovingly known as - and this is true - "Metal Pete"? Metal Pete isn't at the desk this time, though, and we are greeted by the only other person I ever see working there. Let's call him Boris the Knife. I tell him about my upcoming appointment and he nods vaguely. We put our valuables into a plastic bag in exchange for a locker room key.
When I come out, fully bathing suited and bath robed, Boris the Knife asks me, in Russian, if I'm ready for my massage. This is the first time he's said a word in Russian to me because, perennially embarrassed about my accent in my mother tongue, I speak English whenever I can. "Oh, sorry," he recovers in English. But I finally decide to stop hiding behind my American intonations and tell him, in Russian, that I am in fact ready. His buddy (Mikhail Kalashnikov, say) has been leaning menacingly over the counter, and he suddenly laughs. Boris the Knife tells me, while never marring his hard expression with a smile, that he and Misha here were just discussing that I must be Russian, because beautiful women always are. I laugh awkwardly and give them what I must assume is a smile so charming, it disables their ability to make any further conversation. The Knife leads me silently to the massage room.
Which brings me to what this review is actually about: Annie. Sweet, tiny, painfully strong Korean Annie.
She does not speak In English sentences, but she can communicate with me pretty effectively just by using a word or two. "Robe," she points to a hook on the door. "Bathing suit," she points to an empty space by the sink. "Face down," she points to the massage table. "Muscle good," she says, looking at my back. This is cryptic, but clearly a compliment, so I mutter thanks, and she gets to work. And hot stones, does she know what she's doing. She finds my sore and tight spots within nanoseconds, and wastes no time. "Hurts," she laughs, and continues shoving her thumb into my neck. "Mrvvrrrth," I sort of respond, maybe. This conversation doesn't matter anymore. After years of the pathological caution I've grown accustomed to at American massage places, her unapologetic assailment of my anxiety-constricted muscles is disorienting and amazing. I actually feel like those ladies in massage commercials who seem transported to a wonderful place by the relaxing aroma, the mountain view behind them, and the gentle touch of their masseuses. Except I'm in what I think used to be a broom closet and instead of looking like a beautiful model with a peaceful expression unmarred by a lifetime of actual human concern, I think I'm drooling.
"Married?" Annie asks suddenly. There is a pause while I get my drool under control, which she mistakes for a lack of understanding. "Have baby?" she clarifies. She's asking this while she massages my butt, so I'm not sure this cryptic question is quite complimentary. "Not... yet?" I say somewhat doubtfully, since I'm starting to think she understands my body better than I do, so maybe she knows something that I don't. "Have baby," she assures me. Before I can really worry that this is a statement of fact, she elaborates, "Have baby, happy every day." For some reason I assure her I'll have a baby soon (anything for you, Annie), and with this out of the way, she happily resumes the massage.
When she's done, I'm pretty much a pile of vaguely connected body parts. She must be aware of this, because she pushes me into a sitting position. I wait for her to leave before putting on my bathing suit, but she doesn't seem particularly inclined to do so. Whatever, I think, and put on my bikini in front of her. "Russian woman?" she asks me while observing me out of the corner of her eye. "Happy woman," she mutters sagely when I nod. I thank her profusely for the amazing massage (have I mentioned that I can turn my head to the left for the first time in months?) and my tiny masseuse grins at me. "Have baby soon," she says in place of a goodbye.
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