Pampered or Punked?/Adventures in Spa Land…read more
Comment: Let's start with what Villa Donna is not: it's not a villa Under the Tuscan Sun. It's not a resort. It's not what one might typically associate with a spa.
Villa Donna consists of a single-story brick house in Tauriko. Just follow the sign set against a bicycle and head for the carport to get inside.
Two friends and I have driven here from Tauranga for a day of pampering, combined with a cooking class. I'd encouraged my fellow running mates to spend $60 for a voucher on deal website Treat Me. http://treatme.co.nz/. The retreat was billed as a 'healing, relaxing, enlightening and fun day...' with '2-3 hours in the kitchen making and sampling ridiculously tasty food that's extremely good for you...'
Two other women are waiting when we arrive. We'll have at least five hours from start to finish. We spend 45 minutes in the kitchen. We make no food. Instead, we listen to owner Donna Bodell tell us 80 percent of diseases are caused by eating acid-forming foods such as meat, sugar and dairy which promote inflammation. She says eating alkaline foods - vegetables, fruits, seeds, beans, nuts... can stop or reverse these conditions.
Wasn't the acid-alkaline diet 2013's fad?
Donna asks if it's okay if her dogs join us in the kitchen. Two fluffy Pomeranian-style pooches enter from the pantry. One of them jumps up beside me on the couch and starts pawing.
Donna tells us running will eventually ruin joints. "Those marathoners are crazy. I always ask if they're running to something, or running from something," she says.
My friend replies, "Actually, the three of us are in a running club. We all run marathons."
Donna continues, undeterred: "If a client wants a running plan, I send her to a friend up the road. I won't do it."
She delivers a five-minute rhapsody about food steamers before serving us steamed pumpkin and broccoli mixed with chick pea curry she squeezes from a packet. "I bought these two for five dollars," she says.
I duck into a 1970's or 80's-style bathroom to use the toilet. Cobwebs dangle from the ceiling and a slightly damp bath-sized towel hangs from a rod by the sink. I wipe my hands on my jeans.
For the next part of our pampering day, we can choose an hour sauna and spa or personal training session.
We try the sauna first. Next, we step into the spa pool, where a brown film clings just beneath whirling white bubbles. I snap a picture as we ponder the gunk's origin. "Maybe they don't use chemicals, and it's natural, like what washes up from the sea?" asks my friend, Paula, with hope in her voice.
Our pampering day ends with a 45-minute massage. Donna and her husband, Gordon, take turns massaging the five of us.
My friends are wary of man massage. I've been kneaded by at least a dozen therapists, about a quarter of whom were men. I volunteer for Gordon.
His business card says, 'Body Wizard.' Gordon asks me if I have any trouble spots. I mention a dodgy shoulder and say my legs are tight, thanks to running.
"Oh, I hate running," says Gordon.
"It's great," I insist. "I got out on the beach before sunrise this morning at low tide and it was beautiful."
"Well, joy to the f***ing world," says Gordon.
Do they teach that at massage school? Instruct your client to lay face down with her head in the cradle and say 'f***.' A lot.
Gordon searches the cause of my sore shoulder, first around my neck, then, in my forearm. "Bingo," he says. Then, "F***, yeah."
I stop counting after eight 'f****s.' I have a three (spoken) 'f***' massage maximum. Any more than that, and I'll out you. Like this.
"Alright, beautiful. I'm going to hold the towel up and have you roll over," says Gordon.
He ends with a head and neck massage, pauses at the end, then says, "You are beautiful. Take your time getting up."
Beautiful, like in a Zen 'life is beautiful way,' right? A Buddha figure sits atop a corner desk. Four-foot-tall Shrek and Donkey plush toys adorn another corner. Siddhartha and DreamWorks are battling for my mind. Or my body.
I quickly pull the robe back on and Gordon re-enters the room. "I want to see if I can fix that shoulder, once and for all." He steps behind me and asks if the robe is closed at the front. It is. "Good," he says. "You know, this job would be a hell of a lot easier if I were blind or gay."
He kneads my shoulder, then kneels before me, his palm parallel to mine. I'm guessing he thinks he's channeling some kind of energy. "Bingo," he says. "F***, yeah."
My dodgy shoulder got some relief that day. Still, I question the wisdom of spending $60 and five hours with strangers at their home in the boondocks. At least my friends and I have something to laugh about.
Joy to the f***ing world.
(read the unedited post here): http://pickendawn.blogspot.co.nz/2014_06_01_archive.html