I have always loved a good massage: deep tissue, hot rocks, cranial sacral (which feels like some sort of magic). Anything except Swedish massage, because, what’s the point, really? My mother hooked me on massages. I was born and when she was almost 45 and she had plenty of aches and pains from birthing and raising my eight older siblings. She would often ask me, or anyone nearby to rub her “spot”, that place on her back that she just couldn’t reach. A bosomy, earthy woman, one of her “Love Languages” definitely was “physical touch” (which would explain those nine kids), and she spoke that language fluently. When I was very young, I would massage her by walking on her back, balancing carefully, digging my chubby heels into her aches and pains. 

And yet, many have stories of that one, awkward massage. Mine was back in May of 2001, when I was traveling with my dear friend, Kathy to Budapest, Hungary. My friend is Hungarian American and speaks fluent Hungarian. We grew up together, so I was excited to visit her cultural homeland. We traveled throughout the country, visiting her relatives, eating a lot of kolbasz (Hungarian sausage that’s eaten, honestly, for breakfast, lunch, and dinner) and drinking quite a bit of a Hungarian firewater liquor called Palinka that would take rust off a Buick. I was feeling a little weighed down by all that kolbasz when I found out about a very old, famous spa, Gellert, that has been a destination since the 12th century for its healing mineral waters. A grandiose art deco structure was built there in the 1920’s. It’s a whole thing. “We’ve got to go there to soak and get massages,” I pleaded. But she was very tepid to the idea, having never indulged in massage. “You’ve never had a massage? We must go,” I pleaded. “Besides, it says ‘healing massage’ and I could use some help moving all this kolbasz through my system. It will be great. Trust me.” 

And so, we went, my friend under duress, me with visions of cushy rooms, aromatherapy, and Enya soundtracks. Instead, as we entered the soaring structure, we were greeted with peeling paint and an air of oppression. “Hmm,” I thought. Not what I expected. Eastern Europe during this time was just creeping out from the tyranny of the Soviet Union and many of the beautiful old buildings of Budapest, like the one which houses Gellert, were like faded Hollywood stars from the Golden Age ... fine-looking, but rough around the edges, worn for wear. 

After quickly perusing the wall-length menu of massages and soaking options, we decided on a basic 20-minute massage. The gruff receptionist led us to the bleak, gray locker room, and gave us each a tattered numbered card – and a very small hand towel. “Get undressed and wait in the hallway,” she barked in broken English. I looked around the locker room. No scented candles, no cozy robes nor fluffy slippers. No waterfall walls or gurgling fountains. The drab room felt like a gulag where something very dire was about to happen.

I sheepishly looked down at the small towel, trying to decide which body part to partially cover with it ... boobs? A boob? Crotch? “Um ...” I had no words. We nervously shed our clothes in awkward silence, clutching our meager towels in front of us as if we were holding onto invisible shopping carts. I kept my eyes on the gulag wall while fidgeting with my numbered card. I cannot remember if there were any other women – or men, for that matter – sitting naked alongside us, waiting in that hallway. I started to hum nervously. 

Sitting bare-assed on the ancient wooden bench felt like we were being punished. Like a naked “time out.” It occurred to me that the hand towel was probably meant to be sat upon, but I was so distracted by the scenario in front me, I dared not move. We were plopped directly across from the door to a massage room, watching babushkad young women scurry in and out of a squeaky swinging door, shouting out numbers. “Number 7!” Off went a woman through the swinging door in front of me. “Number 8!” Off went another in another direction. Each time the door swung open, I got a glimpse inside and could see several tables – gurneys, really – one of which was directly in front of the swinging door, the naked woman laying on it had her feet towards me. Each time that door opened, I could see right up into that poor woman’s … um … soul. Overtaken with nervous giggles, I clutched my little towel and gave a sideways glance to my girlfriend. “I bet you a shot of Palinka one of us is getting on that bed, right there,” I said, jutting my chin towards the doorway. “Number 9!” My friend dipped her head over to peer in the door to see what I was seeing. “Yep,” she said wearily. 

“Number 10!” “That’s me,” Kathy sighed. And off she went, down the hallway. “Bye ...” she said weakly. 

“Number 11!”  That was me. And sure enough, in through the swinging doors I went, where I was gruffly instructed to lay face down on the very gurney I had been watching from the hallway. As I climbed onto the bed, I looked around to see a harsh room that felt like a slaughterhouse, full of other naked women and their respective, surly masseuses, all of whom were talking to each other, pounding on their patrons like chefs tenderizing flank steaks. “Yacketee yacketee, yadayada,”  Hungarian chitter chatter filled the room. After just a few minutes of making her way over my fore shank, my gal slapped my rump roast, “Ok, over.” Just then, as I clumsily turned over onto my back, in walked a young boy, maybe ten years old. Into a room full of naked women. Now, sure, I am a prude American who is not as comfortable with group nudity as my European dominatrix masseuse. But, come on! Who was this boy? Was he a child of one of the masseuses? Was this an ongoing prank? Was he a Hungarian massage Dougie Houser? Or just one clever, horny little Hungarian boy?

A roar of recognition went up. It seems all the masseuses were very familiar with this lad, but my gal was especially fond of him, calling him over to chat, she on one side of me, he on the other, me face up. Buck naked. More “yacketee yacketee, yadayada, Hungarian chitter chatter, blah blah blah.”

And then, she to him, “Pussy.”

Excuse me? 

She: “blah blah blah Pussy.” 

He: “chatter, chatter, giggle.” And then she and he leaned in, over the middle part of my nude frame, over my, well, you know ... pussy ...  and gave each other ... a kiss. 

“Well, that’s inappropriate,” I thought. “To say the least.” 

Somewhere in the back of my brain came a memory ... Hungarian chitter chatter from our childhood. “Serbus”means “Hello.” “Köszönöm” means “Thank you.” “Helydra” means “go to your place” (said to a dog) “Egészségere” is “cheers.” And “pussy” means ... “kiss”!! Like the French say “bissou” while giving a hello kiss or the Spanish say “besos” while kissing on the cheeks. They were not saying dirty words over my naked body, they were just greeting each other. 

 Over my naked body. 

And then it was over. Next thing I knew, I was back in the gulag hallway, tiptoeing towards the locker room when I ran into my friend.

“Um, how was your ... massage?” I asked. “Well ... it was ...” her voice trailed off and we looked at each other, clutching our hand towels, butt ass naked as other naked women walked by ... and just started to laugh. “Was there a little boy in your room?” she said, laughing, tears streaming down her face. “Why, yes there was, in fact!” I snorted. “What the hell was that all about?”

“I have no idea,” she said. “Let’s get out of here.” 

“Well, I’m really glad I was raised alongside you and eventually remembered that ‘pussy’ means ‘kiss’ in Hungarian,” I said. “Otherwise, that would have been weird.”

“That was weird,” she replied, speed walking ahead of me.

As we exited the dark foyer of The Gellert Spa, my friend Kathy stood in the grand art nouveau archway, silhouetted against the backdrop of Budapest, looking rattled. “Can I buy you lunch?” I offered. “I owe you.” Over a hefty kolbasz plate, we toasted each other with Palinka. “To making it through your first massage,” I said, raising my glass to her. And, giving her air kisses, “Pussy, pussy honey.”