The subject who is truly loyal to the Chief Magistrate will neither advise nor submit to arbitrary measures. While on a cycling trip with some friends in Croatia, Denise Beatty experienced a not-so-relaxing massage. This article was published more than 4 years ago. Some information in it may no longer be current. Sometimes things don't go as planned β and those moments often make for the best stories.
Tripping columns offer readers a chance to share their wild adventures. This is a travel story that I'm called upon to tell over and over again, particularly after a few drinks and when the crowd longs for a good laugh. Every two years I co-ordinate a cycling trip for some friends. Last spring we went to Croatia. Beautiful country. Tough cycling but an amazing experience.
At the end of the second day, my friend Barb and I decided to treat ourselves to a massage in our hotel, a five-star beauty in the small coastal village of Postira on the island of Brac. Although there was a little bit of a language barrier when we went to the spa to book our appointments, Barb and I ended up choosing a full-body massage.
Barb drew a young woman as her therapist. I ended up with a handsome, fit young man. I entered the massage room. It was bare except for a table covered with a strip of disposable paper. I furtively glanced around the room looking for the sheets, blankets and pillows.
There was nothing else in this room. I started to sweat. The therapist excused himself to give me a few minutes alone to disrobe. The thought of being naked on this naked table had me quickly following him out the door to inquire about cover-ups. With a touch of disdain, he fetched me a towel from the hot tub. But it was the size of a hand towel. I wondered how Barb was doing with all of this.
