European massage -- how do I say this -- observes a different standard of modesty than American massage. Thank goodness I've had a lot of massages and thank goodness for the kindness of Donna Long who'd had one before and clued me in before the experience.
And thank goodness for Norma, the grandmotherly manager of the spa, who hailed from Birmingham, England and spoke English. Otherwise I might have wound up putting my paper panties on my head. Yep, we were each handed packets containing a shower cap and a pair of (Norma's term) paper panties -- more like a strip of gauzy paper on a rubber band!
I carefully arranged myself on the massage table, covering as much of me as possible with the towel I found there. I needn't have bothered. Let's put it this way -- my first panicked thought was "I should have checked to make sure I don't have belly-button lint!"
What the heck, it was a great massage; the masseuse was a professional and, well, I suppose if you've seen one, you've seen them both!
And, in case you wondered, that's me in the Niagara bath -- a jetted tub full of spring water with clay and minerals.
