illustration by cassandra rhodin
As many of you know, an article was published a few weeks ago in The New York Times that got a lot of people -- mostly the expat community here in Paris -- pretty miffed. And that's putting it lightly.
For me, the OpEd piece didn't incite the strong reaction that it did for so many, however, one of the writer's points did call forth one of my stranger memories I've had here in Paris. In the article, he laments that the decline of "seedy" hostess bars "marked by barely dressed women perched in the window" are sterilizing any vestige of the old Paris, eliminating its character and grit.
So I don't know exactly what happens in these hostess bars (one can guess), but it's understandable why such blatant establishments would become fewer. Perhaps a response to their decline is the rise of the more discreet (or are they?) massage parlors that seem to be popping up all over the city, some sadly offering the same idea. And I happened to stumble upon not one, but two of them. Only me, I swear.
It was around this time last year, I was waking up regularly with stress-induced stiff necks where I was needing to be hoisted up just to get out of bed in the morning. A normal reaction to this would be to go to a licensed chiropractor, but I didn't and sought out a cheap fix at one of the many massage shops located near Aurel's office over in the 9th.
It was a cold afternoon in November where the rain was charging down on a diagonal, rendering my umbrella completely useless. On a street lined with several parlors to choose from, at random I chose one with twinkling lights hanging in the window and a poster of an official looking back chart taped to the door.
I walked in and as much as I would like to say that I was greeted with service, I can't; the staff seemed kind of pissed that I had even entered. That should have been my first indication that I was in the wrong place. In front of me at the reception desk was an older woman, modestly dressed looking at me with a skeptical eye. On the couch to my right were two women eating snacks in mini skirts, high heels, and barely-there tops; one was purple lace revealing a red push-up bra; the other was thin white crew-neck top with an illustration of a rabbit on it. Dripping wet and overdressed in my rubber rain boots, wool leggings and hooded coat, I assessed the scene and decided that I was extremely uncomfortable. But of course that didn't stop me from leaving.
While I was paying upfront for my massage (indication number two), the two scantily women were having what I instinctively felt was a heated conversation, presumably pawning me off: the undesirable woman client. In a huff, the purple lace masseuse jolted up from the couch and guided me down a narrow hallway to an available back room.
Getting undressed, where I was directed to take my panties off to avoid ruining them during the massage, I noticed two identical signs posted on both the south and north facing walls. They were informing clients that the parlor is strictly for massages, no other services are offered, and touching the masseuse is strictly prohibited.
My "massage" which was consisted of me lying naked like a greased up pig on a table, while she slapped me with hot jasmine-scented oil and tugged at the first layer of my skin with absolute boredom. Bored myself, I opened my eyes to let my thoughts wander, guesstimating how much longer the treatment was going to last. It was then that I saw through the massage doughnut where my face was nestled, that she had pulled her skirt up revealing her beige panties along with a grown out shaved bikini line, mere inches away from my face.
(Indication number three! Indication number three!)
Obviously I was not interested in her up-sell but in a way, I did feel kind of bad. It's like when you don't buy the products used on you after a facial or at the hair salon. This gesture invited a host of questions flooding through my frantic mind: If I was interested, how would we even go about it? Would I have to pay upfront again? Was I wrong for feeling flattered? Did she really think I came in for hotsy-totsy? Or was this a silly misunderstanding and she was just getting some air? Did Aurélien finally download season two of The Client List? I had so many questions that I knew would never get answers to. (Except for the last one. He still hasn't done it.)
Being stark naked does add a level of vulnerability where simply walking out poses much more of a challenge than you'd expect. So I just closed my eyes, grateful that I didn't purchase an entire hour.
The massage itself was awful, I woke up the following day with bacne from the oil she had pickled me with, and having a crotch in my face during a massage will forever be burned in in my book of Paris memories. My second experience involved an actual physical proposal resulting in me screaming ça va pas -- again totally naked.
So if there is any question that Paris is losing it's grit and character, look closer, it's still here. It's just more cleverly concealed. After all, it is called the oldest profession for a reason.
