
photo: Seoul, South Korea
Being a flight attendant came with a certain degree of worldliness, whether imagined or real. I prided myself on having a strong sense of adventure that made me, in my own mind, a combination of Ernest Hemmingway lounging in a Cuban cafe and a valkyrie. That is, if Ernest Hemmingway wore heels and served coffee.
This overblown view of my own pioneering attitude did little to prepare me for the realities of a real Korean spa. I am the product of an American culture that is not exactly known for being comfortable with the human body in all its nude abundance. Or, for that matter, the bodies of total strangers. The American in me screams that I come from a land founded by Puritans. The Chinese in me remembers all those movies I have seen with my elderly grandmother where lovemaking consists of the woman laying her head on the man’s chest and sighing. Both are always fully clothed. As these two sides of me rebelled against the idea of being naked in front of a shower room full of other women, I decided to do as the Romans (and Koreans) do…
When another flight attendant suggested a visit to a local Korean spa (also called a jjimjilbang) on a Seoul layover, I eagerly agreed. After all, my only previous experience with a spa involved a gift certificate to the Mandalay Bay Spa in Las Vegas. I imagined the fragrant oils that would soon be mixed with French sea salt, the gentle murmurs of the masseuse as she rubbed the heavenly mixture over my modestly, and strategically, covered body. I would hear Enya playing in the background. After my salt scrub, the masseuse would leave me to emerge at my leisure from my cocoon of comfort. Chamomile tea would be offered to me, and I would accept it dressed in my fluffy white robe of Egyptian cotton. The lounge would be painted in tones of peach and taupe and my only companion would be a man-made waterfall engineered by a savvy interior designer.
While waiting in my hotel lobby for my flying partner, I was reassured by the concierge that the spa we had chosen was top notch (Central Spa) and she herself had had a scrub there the day before. As I set out with visions of pampering dancing in my head, I wondered why we were descending into the bowels of a busy bus station. Tucked in between the turnstiles and a noodle stand was a small, unassuming door. The other flight attendant had been here before and she entered without a backward glance in my direction. As I let the door close behind me, the sounds of the train station were muffled and then quiet.
The Korean woman working at the reception desk was small but looked like she could command a battalion as well as she could command a spa. She unceremoniously handed me a key and two facecloths and pointed at a door to her right. I scampered ahead, carrying my tiny towels and what turned out to be a locker key.
My bravado was wearing thin, especially because my coworker was nowhere in sight. As I turned a corner, I came face to face with my coworker’s breasts. I looked away, embarrassed and horrified at the same time. I only worked with this girl. Was it twisted that she was the only one, besides my husband and my doctor, who was going to see me naked? Could I play this off as not being the huge deal for me that it was? I had come too far to use the old stomachache excuse. Only my stubbornness kept me from running back to my hotel. That, and the fact that I had no idea which direction my hotel was in.

The lockers
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