Story: Cured

"Inspirez, serrez, soufflez," she insisted as she pointed the pressure hose at my gut. I stared up at her, my slightly bloated, buck-naked form swimming before my eyes (and hers) in the salt-water filled Jacuzzi tub. The room, dripping moisture, was dimly lit, tiled from floor to ceiling in clinical green with all the charm of an early 20th century sanitarium (rent the 1994 "Road to Wellsville" movie to see what I mean). I blinked, struggled to move past "bonjour," and finally tightened my gut as she sprayed little circles on my well-fed belly. It was day one of a week of thalassotherapy in Ars en Re, France.

What a great deal, I'd raved when I locked in the timeshare on this pretty island that resembles Cape Cod off the Atlantic Coast of France. There was one little hitch – one person in the room had to sign up for the spa treatments. These would be four a day for five days at a cost of about 460 euros. Hmmm, I mused, imagining massages, facials, manicures, and other pampering with a French twist ...

... And jumped at it with both feet (and belly), dragging my favorite guy along for the ride. "Do it with me! It'll be great …"

I researched the thalassotherapy concept briefly, but available details were vague. It was described as a traditional 'cure' based on sea water for skin problems, stress, arthritis, and several other complaints we in the over 40 crowd occasionally confess to.

And I like new things – adventure, I reminded myself as I looked up into the deep brown eyes willing me to understand her words. "Votre ami ne comprend rien …" she laughed and babbled on in a string of French I lost amid bubbles and salt spray that stung my eyes. No, he wouldn't understand a thing, I thought. She's right. I turned onto my side as directed and found that having my butt and legs power sprayed by a chubby young brunette was not bad at all. Maybe my guy would find a little kick in the process, too. The personal attention was over in ten minutes and she left me to lie back and relax in the steamy bubbles for the next 20 minutes. I sighed contentedly, my eyes closing against the salt and my mind relaxing from the French cramp squeezing my temples.

I met my guy again in the corridor outside the treatment rooms, clad in a plush white bathrobe and blue rubber flops like all guests at the spa. His eyes were wide, the smile a bit rigid. I imagined him like this emerging from that first night deployed in Iraq – a mixture of shock, confusion and satisfaction at having survived freezing the masculine lines of his face into place.

"Did you strip?"

"Was I supposed to?"

"Monsieur S …" another young woman beckoned my friend into another dim chamber. He rose and followed, his eyes still a touch wider than usual as he cast a final glimpse back.

A South African lady sat down beside me. "Makes me feel so stupid …" she began. Her French was challenged as well, I realized with relief. "… and then they wrapped me up like a mummy ... I managed to inch my arms out …" She described the algae 'cure' she had just escaped in the room my friend had just entered.

He'll be fine, I willed silently, and marched off to my next treatment: Gymnastique Marine cure. Water aerobics (with a bathing cap) – got it. No worries – just do what the others do. Which would have worked … if the others had ever participated in an exercise class in their lives. The French didn't quite know what the heck they were supposed to be doing any more than the two Americans in the class. But we laughed. And tried. And exasperated the young man trying to coax coordinated effort from the little group of eight. I followed a gentleman up the ladder to my waiting bathrobe, amused as always that a bathing cap would be needed on a balding man when his back hair was more profuse than that on many a head.

Again, I passed my guy briefly in the corridor. This time the look he shot me was more relaxed – rather like the one he wears after a few glasses of whiskey. Having fun or reaching the limits of his sanity, I wondered briefly as I moved on to my algae cure. An American woman – a native French speaker – seemed to have him in hand. He would be fine. Just fine.

I entered another cool, tiled room and stood next to what reminded me of an operating room table draped in a plastic sheet. I don't recall what she said, but it was clear. Strip down – again (had he?) – and get on the table. A little smirk touched my lips as I imagined an American woman used to American-style massages where no personal body parts are ever exposed to view suddenly walking in here and being told to strip under the eyes of a woman in a huge green rubber apron and galoshes, a bucket of green slime tucked under one strong arm. She glopped it on with an industrial paint brush – my back, my arms and legs and belly (curiously avoiding breasts – modesty? at this stage? odd, I decided, but didn't ask). I laid back and she folded the plastic sheet and heat blanket around me. "Vous n'etes pas claustrophobe?"

Nope, and yes, music would be nice and yes, you may dim the lights. I was getting it and rather enjoying this part. Another 20 minutes of relaxation followed. No mummy complex, no worries (though my bare feet felt unappreciated as they dangled off the end of the table, chilled and unadorned by green goop). She returned to find me in a blissful meditative haze. I struggled up, and then came to abruptly as she announced, "Je fais le dos … I'll do your back" motioning me toward the shower.

I would wait for 40 minutes until the next (and last) treatment of the afternoon, and so chose to spend the time in the wading pool – good for the circulation, they said. Damn cold, I thought, but eased into the water that hit hip level and began a slow march around the oval track, splashing water (inadvertently … really) onto the adjacent seating area. I was soon joined by another lady – the one who had attached herself to my guy before the water aerobics class, and we chatted of her life, how she had immigrated to the states as a young woman and fallen in love – with a man and a country.

Modelage sous DAF cure. I entered another green cubicle and looked at another OP table, a one foot wide by six foot long shower head dribbling a constant stream of steamy water onto the floor next to it. I briefly flashed to imagined scenarios of torture and interrogation, screaming, pleading, and succumbing … then stripped … again … and laid face down as instructed. The shower was moved over my body and the warm salt rain began to play on my skin. Warm hands, slick with oil, began moving from ankles to shoulders, kneading gently under the salt rain. French? Who cares about language at a time like this!? I relaxed into her hands and the rain and drifted off. She left after a while, but the warm rain continued and I lay there … yeah, this was good. This was what – better than what – I had imagined. I confess. I confess … just do it some more.

That evening – over a huge bucket of steaming mussels at the little restaurant on the medieval stone-paved village square a twenty minute walk from the hotel – my friend and I laughed over our day. I taught him some French: "avec" means with, "sans" without. Just grab your shorts, and raise your eyebrows, I told him. That should work out the main issue. The rest they would just have to pantomime. We laughed some more, slurped at the mingled white wine and mussel juices running down chins and fingers, and ordered another beer. The sun shone late into the evening. The cool wind rustled in the pine trees as we fell asleep, content.

Birdsong – not the traffic I'm used to – greeted us in the morning. We were set for the day two treatments – a traditional massage, another water gymnastics class, and two more mysterious cures.

I felt like a seasoned veteran, relaxed and confident as I tossed out a couple of 'bonjours' to my fellow spa-goers that morning. Then they called my name and I entered a new room … and froze. It was a long narrow, chilly room with hand holds attached to the end wall. The plump brunette of my first treatment stood at the opposite end, a fire hose securely draped from her sturdy frame, ready to administer the douche a jet cure. "Une autre torture …?" I asked, tongue in cheek (I hope she believed). She pointed to the wall and said (I think), hang on! The water came on and I was power-massaged from 20 feet away. "Inspirez, serrez, soufflez …" Got it. Turn. Hold on. Hand over your breast (yeah, I could see why). Face the wall. Arms down, hands open. The woman had an excellent aim. On your toes. Turn. And it felt very nice, except that the salt stung my eyes and lingering allergies liberally contributed to the salt streaming down my face (but that's a different article). And I did get to keep my suit on. "Merci, … a plus tard (till the next torture)," I smiled at her at the end. And she returned the smile.

The next cure, "boues marines," a mud pack, involved another warm, mummified rest break, this time aiming to ease arthritic joints (so hands and feet got more attention). Afterward, no offer came to rinse my back, which was noticed shortly thereafter by my guy as he joined me in the water aerobics class. "You're still muddy," he told me, and rubbed at the brown clumps glued to my spine.

At least we had a class together for a change. And we enjoyed it (except when he got stuck in some kind of whirlpool that left him kicking in place while the rest of us paddled across the pool). "Damn jets," he mumbled (for a couple of days … male egos … sigh). Some private time in the sauna followed, and another walk around the wading pool – he and I together, this time. Then we split up for the final massages of the day – real (oily, not wet) massages with the yoga music and the absence of chatter (in French or English). Real nice. Real, real nice.

Wednesday and Friday's schedule would repeat Monday's schedule, and Thursday's would repeat Tuesday's. Beach-walking, mussel-eating, sight-seeing, and snoozing through naps to the sounds of wind and birds followed. We did play hooky Friday (been there, done that … nice, but …), instead visiting the resort city of La Rochelle across the causeway from the island. I'm not sure our little aches and pains improved as a result of all that salt water, but we were definitely relaxed. And though the 'deal' wasn't inexpensive at all – not for two anyway, it sure was a new experience to toss in the growing pile of our joint adventures – one more memory to smile about in coming years.

My recommendation? Rent one of the many little cottages on the Ile de Re. Enjoy the mussels, the views, the weather. And invest the 460 euros in 8 or 9 "real" – traditional – massages. Oh, and get naked with your guy, not a bunch of women in rubber aprons with fire hoses.