Look at the latest star on SITCA's site!
I have traveled far and wide and now I have earned my
spot on SITCA's website (the cooking
school I attended in Thailand)... Jay and I both
agree that my face seems to be stretched a
little though 
I swear I didn't eat that much
Thai food!
I swear I didn't eat that much
Thai food!
|
Big Mama's Massage Parlor
When I was in junior high in Alabama, some of my
friends and I went through a brief phase when we
listened to a band of longhaired rockers called ‘The
Cult.’ The Cult was a pretty popular rock band for a
long time with plenty of worthwhile albums and even a
greatest hits CD. At the time of our 'Cult' phase, I
think their most popular song was a wonderful little
ditty called ‘Fire Woman.’ It was not Fire Woman,
though, but a different tune of theirs dancing
through my head during our last week in Thailand. The
song I couldn’t escape from was called ‘Bangkok
Rain.’ 'Bangkok Rain' didn’t win any Grammy Awards
that I’m aware of. Nor should it have. The song’s
magnificently creative lyrics essentially describe
someone sitting at a bar in Bangkok waiting for the
rain to stop. But the rain doesn’t stop in Bangkok,
so most of the song is a relentless – yet
surprisingly catchy – screaming of the following
chorus: “Bangkok rain keeps on […dramatic pause
featuring rhythmic drum banging…] coming down!”
Given all this, I’m sure it will come as no surprise to anyone still reading, that, in fact, it rained a whole heck of a lot while Miranda and I were in Bangkok. And now maybe I will go to iTunes and buy that Cult album again just to play Bangkok Rain again. Like clockwork, really, we could expect every decent morning of humid sightseeing and spicy street food sampling to be followed by powerful afternoon and evening thunderstorms that lasted way into the night.
Due to the predictability of the rain, we were often looking for indoor activities to pass some of the time. One day I decided to treat myself to an authentic Thai foot massage. This was a little tricky. We had heard that there was a blurry line between massage parlor and brothel, that many times the masseurs will try to convince you to get your massage in some kind of seedy back room where anything goes. This wasn’t what I had in mind, so I looked carefully for an upstanding looking establishment. Around one corner I passed a well-lit place with three cheery young women singing, “massage,” as I walked by. The place had a wholesome name – Mama’s – and a wooden sign propped in the window reading “strictly nonsexual massage.” It doesn't get more upstanding than that, so I decided to try it out.
Well, I don’t know where the three cheery young women went, but when I sat down for my foot massage, out walked a very sturdy older woman with rippling forearm muscles and triceps as thick as my thighs. She said hello with a tight lipped smile and introduced herself: I had just met Mama, whom henceforth I will only refer to using her GLOW wresting handle, Big Mama.
Now, I haven’t really gotten many massages in my life, so I’m not sure what they’re supposed to feel like. What I can say is that Big Mama had hands of iron and fingers forged by steel. When she grabbed hold of my foot and clamped down, my pulse quickened, and I was just barely able to stop my face from contorting into a humiliating wince. Just relax, I reminded myself. This is a massage, for God’s sake. It’s supposed to make you feel good. But relaxing was pretty hard to do when all I could think about was what a humongous wimp I was being. After a while I managed to calm down, but then big Mama took out this wooden poker and started applying focused pressure to different spots on the bones of my toes and the balls of my feet. She pressed and pressed, using the full girth of her frame for better leverage. The pain was sharp and intense. When she dug into my big toe bone, I actually suppressed a yelp. It took all my energy to prevent my body from writhing under the pressure. I hated myself for being such a wimp, but it really hurt! Finally, I thought of Jack Bauer from the show 24 being tortured with knives, electricity and who knows what for inspiration to show no pain. If Jack could resist torture from the Chinese, but I couldn’t handle a foot massage in Thailand, what does that say about me? At the very least it says I am no secret agent. But had Jack Bauer faced off against Big Mama? No sir.
Given all this, I’m sure it will come as no surprise to anyone still reading, that, in fact, it rained a whole heck of a lot while Miranda and I were in Bangkok. And now maybe I will go to iTunes and buy that Cult album again just to play Bangkok Rain again. Like clockwork, really, we could expect every decent morning of humid sightseeing and spicy street food sampling to be followed by powerful afternoon and evening thunderstorms that lasted way into the night.
Due to the predictability of the rain, we were often looking for indoor activities to pass some of the time. One day I decided to treat myself to an authentic Thai foot massage. This was a little tricky. We had heard that there was a blurry line between massage parlor and brothel, that many times the masseurs will try to convince you to get your massage in some kind of seedy back room where anything goes. This wasn’t what I had in mind, so I looked carefully for an upstanding looking establishment. Around one corner I passed a well-lit place with three cheery young women singing, “massage,” as I walked by. The place had a wholesome name – Mama’s – and a wooden sign propped in the window reading “strictly nonsexual massage.” It doesn't get more upstanding than that, so I decided to try it out.
Well, I don’t know where the three cheery young women went, but when I sat down for my foot massage, out walked a very sturdy older woman with rippling forearm muscles and triceps as thick as my thighs. She said hello with a tight lipped smile and introduced herself: I had just met Mama, whom henceforth I will only refer to using her GLOW wresting handle, Big Mama.
Now, I haven’t really gotten many massages in my life, so I’m not sure what they’re supposed to feel like. What I can say is that Big Mama had hands of iron and fingers forged by steel. When she grabbed hold of my foot and clamped down, my pulse quickened, and I was just barely able to stop my face from contorting into a humiliating wince. Just relax, I reminded myself. This is a massage, for God’s sake. It’s supposed to make you feel good. But relaxing was pretty hard to do when all I could think about was what a humongous wimp I was being. After a while I managed to calm down, but then big Mama took out this wooden poker and started applying focused pressure to different spots on the bones of my toes and the balls of my feet. She pressed and pressed, using the full girth of her frame for better leverage. The pain was sharp and intense. When she dug into my big toe bone, I actually suppressed a yelp. It took all my energy to prevent my body from writhing under the pressure. I hated myself for being such a wimp, but it really hurt! Finally, I thought of Jack Bauer from the show 24 being tortured with knives, electricity and who knows what for inspiration to show no pain. If Jack could resist torture from the Chinese, but I couldn’t handle a foot massage in Thailand, what does that say about me? At the very least it says I am no secret agent. But had Jack Bauer faced off against Big Mama? No sir.