Red-light massage

Never judge a book by its cover. However, you are fully encouraged to render judgment of a salon in Nha Trang.

Last night, I had a great massage. For the equivalent of $14.40, I was in a classy, sophisticated, brand-new salon that was head-to-toe bliss for an hour. Tuvan throat singing and Philip Glass-inspired tunes lazily played as quiet background music during the massage, which was followed by scented water and fresh watermelon at the end. The establishment was a mid-range spa, easily beating the over-extravagant spa down the road, and being pricier than the questionable place.

But, because I'm cheap, and a few dollars makes a difference on a tight budget, this morning I decided to patronize the questionable spa; a dark, narrow storefront sandwiched between a convenience store and an alleyway. $6 didn't sound bad for an hour-long foot massage, and since I sprained a tendon, that sounded great.

I knew I should have walked out the moment I catch a full glimpse of the spa. The tiny foyer was full of female employees, lounging in chairs and sprawled over sofas. All of them wore the uniform of tiny booty shorts and tank-tops that revealed a couple inches of skin and hip. They all wore metal bangles on their wrists, tinkling their siren song to potential clients whose intentions I'm sure are not all that honorable. I was quickly handed a menu and escorted to a seat, where I pointed out my choice - 1 hour foot massage, $6.

I had to pay upfront, which was odd. I would later realize that they probably had many a client who would try to balk out of payment. How strange, why on earth would that ever happen.. I locked up my bag in a locker, and was pointed to go up a stairway that ended in darkness. Uh. Okay.. I was led past a row of private cubicles that served as individual massage rooms and into a room that was, I guess, for foot massages. This is when I started to realize I may have walked into something a bit deceptive.

The roof was slanted, coming to a dangerous low point near the windows. Six loudly-colored vinyl recliners were lined up against the wall, and the cramped space also contained four massage tables like little sex-room soldiers. A big TV was on the wall, and I pretended to be very engrossed in the programming.

The man left me alone with a towel, and I sat there for a few moments wondering exactly what was going to happen. Finally, one of the booty-short-clad girls came in with a bucket. She grabbed a foot soaking machine from the corner. The water immediately turned a sick, muddy color when she put it in the soaker, which was aged and dirty and probably festering with a whole lot of.. well, I'm not sure I want to think about it.

For an awkward 10-15 minutes, I sat with my feet in this machine, the gross-colored water burping up, its little engine trying its damnedest to muster forth some sort of jacuzzi-like action. For awhile, I was left alone, watching the TV. As I surveyed the room, and imagined what sort of atrocities occur here on a nightly basis, an instrumental version of House of the Rising Sun began to play on the TV over a collage of images of pure, white virginal flowers and fields. I could barely contain my laughter over this irony. To top it off, when the girl returned, she turned off the main bank of lights and the room was cast in a sultry, red glow.

For brevity's sake (a talent of which I do not possess), I'll just say that the massage totally sucked, and I'm coated in a weird, greasy oil from the knees down. It didn't even end up being a full hour, and at the end, she handed me this notepad that was a feedback slip, and asked, "Tip? You tip me now?" I see she had already checked "Good" on the paper. Baffled, I said I had my money in my bag, and made a beeline for the locker. I thought I could escape, but she was already there, waiting, so I handed her a dollar and made way for freedom and fresh air.

Oh, and another bizarro thing. The whole time the TV was on, it was playing nice programs, like traveling in Venice and talking about the Carnival, and all of this nice stuff. Then, it showed some cool information about Akihabara in Tokyo, with lots of footage of technology and computer stores. As I was getting done, another segment with cats started. One boy was snuggling with a big fluffy grey-and-white cat. I thought how nice it was, then the next scene was a shaved, dead cat, hanging from its neck from the ceiling. A woman sliced the skin of its paw and put the limb to her mouth. The camera zoomed in on the skin as it ballooned up.

I should have taken the hints where 1) the windows of the business were tinted, 2) their operating hours are until midnight, 3) a harem of women waited in the foyer by the open door, 4) oh yeah, the place is so totally, obviously, undeniably a brothel, I can't believe I allowed myself to go in there. So excuse me now, I think I have a bottle of industrial-strength cleaner that I'm going to soak my extremities in.

The positive aspect of this? At least I still have all of my organs intact.