Shoe-In at the Spa

Years ago while traveling in France, I passed a sign that said Thalassotherapy. French friends told me that thalasso places use seawater for health benefits and that the French government sponsors these health spas. Apparently the French government no longer pays for thalassotherapy, and that had been my favorite part of the story. I'd love to think my government would pay for spa treatments. The real truth is that the French coast is dotted with these saltwater healing plants and everyone is welcome to go and pay their own way.

Andria and I showed up this morning for our treatment package. We were taken to a room with portable lockers. We were given red hanger kits to put our outdoor clothing on. In return we received a peignoir (terry cloth bathrobe), blue paper booties, and a towel. Most people wore flip-flops from home. We didn't really plan to go to a spa so were stuck wearing the blue booties. And for once, the Little Black Shoe didn't work.

Andria remarked that when we walked into the spa waiting room we took the average age down to 90. She was close. The women in the brochures are lithe and lovely; the reality is a lot more real. Mostly old, mostly heavy, and very happy to be there, the clientele clearly are regulars. It didn't matter much that I don't understand spoken French so well or that I didn't know what I was doing. The therapists asked me something each time my treatment started and I answered yes. I only learned on my last therapy that I was being asked if I was familiar with the treatment.

So I walked into a room with a thing that looked like a tanning bed spouting jets of water. "Do you know this therapy?" I said yes. Of course I didn't know that I would lie for fifteen minutes with warm seawater jetting at my back while the woman squeezed weird smelling seaweed gooey stuff on my body. It felt great and now that I do know that therapy, I'd do it again.

My next therapy was a seaweed wrap. I responded that I knew what she was doing, but my confusion surely gave me away. I ended up wrapped up like a Chipotle burrito, warm in my tin foil with skin itching like crazy. About halfway through, it began to feel really good and I was sorry when she came to turn me out of my foil wrap and hose me down.

The final treatment was a massage. Great massage and the guy spoke English-that's how I learned what the others had been asking. After the massage, I asked where the showers were and was sent down to the pool. I looked around and found a place with four shower heads. I asked if that is where I should shower. Two women said yes. I hung my toiletries on the door, put my robe on the hook and walked into the shower nude. I had conditioner on my hair when I heard someone come in. At the last shower head stood a guy in his swimsuit. I know he was as shocked to find me in my altogether as I was to see him there. I turned to the wall and acted as if I didn't see him, rinsed my hair and got out as quickly as possible.

It's very good therapy with a geriatric waiting room feel at a very good cost. Although most of the places have hotels attached, it's usually easier to find an inexpensive room nearby and get the day rate at the spa. We went to the first thallaso place-the one in Roscoff.

 

After lunch of our new favorite seafood, bulot, (common Northern whelk) we left for England on the Brittany Ferries. Back in Plymouth, we made our way to the Camelot Hotel near the Hoe. We had a lovely room in a converted mansion with lots of room and beautiful furnishings. Vera, a young woman from Hungary helped us with our bags and even brought us a bowl of cereal as we arrived too late for dinner. Great place. Do check it out.