Pardon My French

I had a lot of pre-conceived ideas about what it would be like to spend time at a day spa. TV had me imagining myself in a bath robe, lying in a recliner chair, my skin coated in a cool green goop, cucumber slices over my eyelids all the while listening to “The Very Best of Enya.”

As fate would have it, that’s not quite how things are done at traditional Korean spas.

A few months ago, my friend Holly bought us a Groupon to a day spa: an afternoon of soaking in a jacuzzi tub, drying off in a sauna and a relaxing massage and body scrub. Time got away from us, though, and this offer was scheduled to expire within days. We made the decision to head over late one Saturday afternoon.

I met Holly inside the lobby of the huge building and we followed a series of hallways and elevators to the area of the spa designated for women. (Fun Fact: There’s a separate spa for men.)

At the front desk, we struggled a bit with the language barrier as we checked in for our body scrub and massage appointments. After they found our names in their appointment book, we were each handed a key with a number on it (mine was #9) and a corresponding numbered plastic container that closely resembled the bins you put your carry-on luggage and shoes into when you go through airport security. These bins each contained two towels and a bathrobe.

Because we experienced some difficulty with even basic communication, other than a woman pointing her finger in the direction opposite of where we can in, we had no idea where to go.

We shuffled down a narrow hallway, just completely captivated by how brand new and immaculately clean everything looked. I remember mentioning aloud how I thought that this spa might be a nice place to take my mom and sister when they came to visit.

We found the locker room and numbered storage locker’s without issue, put robes on over bathing suits and started looking for the massage rooms. Right away, we both noticed that there were a lot of people wandering around the locker room stark naked, without a care in the world. I smiled to myself, thinking about how my Michigan upbringing included lockers room full of teenage girls going to great lengths to ensure that we fully covered ourselves up as we changed after gym class and swim practice. (Man, the Midwest is prude!)

While looking for these private rooms, we noticed that the sign on the door leading out to the spa mentioned that no clothing of any kind was allowed. It wasn’t until another we talked to another English-speaking white girl (an ethnic spa veteran, it turns out) that we really understood what Naturaspa was all about.

It boiled down to this: We were at a naked spa. If we wanted to use any of the spa’s amenities: Jacuzzi tubs, steam sauna, dry sauna or any of the number of “Jade” and “Clay” rooms, we would have to go in our birthday suits. Because we were signed up for massages and body scrubs, that meant that we would again have to be completely naked AND share a room with other naked people who would also be receiving massages. Those bathing suits and bathrobes were gonna have to come off.

At this point I realized that it’s a good thing that 1.) I’m open-minded, 2.) I’m secure with myself, and 3.) Holly and I are such good friends.

We ventured into the spa area, wearing nothing but our flip flops, passing other naked bodies as we walked, and acted like this was the most natural thing in the world for us to be doing.

As we entered, we noticed the small enclosure, where there were at least two dozen people lying on massage tables. Each was being aggressively rubbed down and massaged by chubby Korean women, all of whom were wearing matching black bras and panties.

We presumed that we needed to wait our turn and stood nearby, trying not to make eye contact or awkwardly stare at anyone in the massage area. After a few moments, one woman in the standard issue black bra/panty uniform came over and pointed at the showers to convey that we would first have to rinse off.

So we wandered over, washed with soap and water, and a few minutes later were back in position one: waiting for our massages.

Another Korean spa employee came over to us and indicated that we weren’t getting it. We needed to back over to the showers and stay there until we were called. Embarrassed, we walked back over to the bathing area and each obediently took a hand-held shower head off the hook.

After several minutes, I was pretending to be cleaning myself (I had finished earlier!), when I heard someone yell “NUMBER 9!” with a heavy Korean accent. My locker number! So, it was… my turn? I stepped apprehensively in the direction of the massage area and stuttered something about how I was the number 9 that they were looking for. A member of the spa’s staff, her stomach exploding over her black bottoms, grabbed my by the arm, lead me into the massage enclosure and then pointed to the table where I was supposed to lay down.

As soon as I got situated, she dumped a bucket of warm water on me and started forcefully scrubbing my body with a sharp sponge. I winced in pain. This was not the gentle body exfoliation I had imagined when I forked over my $40. I didn’t feel relaxed or warm and fuzzy inside. When fully analyzing my situation, I felt like this was what showering in prison might be like.

It took a little while for me to phase out my surroundings and to just enjoy the scrub and massage; to just completely let go.

When the scrub was over, some 25 minutes later, the massage began. It was overall much more comfortable and relaxing– I just had to adapt to the buckets of water being dumped across my body every few minutes (to get rid of excess oil) and the fact that the masseuse would slap my leg whenever she wanted me to turn over. She was really good at what she did as she managed to work out my muscle knots and every bit of tension in my body.

After about a half hour, she put a green cucumber mask on my face (this was very cold, as though it had just come out of the fridge), washed my hair and then said something in Korean to let me know that she was finished.

I sat up feeling light headed and a bit high. She was clearly used to this reaction and gave me her hand in order to help me pull myself to my feet. With a goofy smile on my face, I wobbled my way back over the showers. I liked the tingly feeling on my skin and how smooth my arms felt– It made any pain I felt earlier completely worth it. I felt like a new woman.

We spent another hour or so hitting the hot tubs, (avoiding the ice baths) socializing with other naked people, and exploring the spa’s dry and steam saunas (both of which I found to be way too hot to tolerate) before we grabbed our towels and hit the locker room.

Overall, I view my visit to Naturaspa (AKA: The Naked Spa) as a truly cultural experience and a unique way to relax and bond with my friend Holly. Aside from a pretty gnarly yeast infection (oils are always a risky business), I regret nothing.

Finally, from this experience I learned that when buying a daily deal spa day pass for a friend or family member, you should make sure you Google it first. Your best friend, Mom or grandma might not be into getting naked with a bunch of strangers.

The last 9 months that I worked for Starbucks, I spent my weekends at the store. My Saturday and Sunday morning shifts would start in the early morning, usually sometime between 4:30 and 6:30 in the morning.

Since I started working for Brave Dog full-time, I’ve got my weekends back. I have time to myself, to break free from the grind of the work week and put my feet up.

I get to have a social life on Friday nights, stay up late, sleep in and go out for brunch with my boyfriend. The last few weekends, I’ve used this time to write, work out, get a massage and spend a whole day with friends. I’m hoping to use this time get back into hiking. (I miss it!)

I’ll never take this gift of personal time for granted again as long as I live.

Enjoying some coffee and mimosas with Phil earlier
today at Home Restaurant in Los Feliz

There’s nothing like good old fashioned scripted television to break up all that reality TV.

I’ve always been a sucker for a well told tale about the living’s relationship with all things that go bump in the night and FX’s “American Horror Story” is no exception.

The horror/drama series grabbed hold of my attention from it’s very first scene:
It’s the late 70s and two twin brothers, baseball bats in hand, push through the large front gates of a foreboding Victorian home. A little girl in a pretty yellow party dress warns “you’re going to die in there.” The boys insult her, push past her and enter the house with the intention of vandalizing it.

I just had to know what happened next.

“American Horror Story” has an elaborate plot, some very compelling characters and seem to take notes (and the soundtracks) from some of the greatest psychological thrillers in American cinema: “Rosemary’s Baby” and “The Shining” to name a couple.

I also can’t help that I’m captivated by the very beautiful, yet also extremely creepy house that the show is centered around.

A few weeks ago, my sister Courtney informed me that not only was this house located near me in Los Angeles, but it is also for sale. Some searches on the internet confirmed that this was true–and that I could also arrange to have a real-estate agent take us on a tour of the property. (Side note: My research also uncovered the very exciting fact that the “Buffy The Vampire Slayer” episode “Fear Itself” was shot in the house.)

I left messages with the appropriate contacts, but did not hear back from anyone. I have to wonder: maybe they’re receiving a lot of calls just based on popularity from the show? Or perhaps the house has already sold?

Despite the fact that we weren’t going to be able to go into the house, Phil, my friend Chris Pudlo and I decided that we wanted to drive by and check it out anyway.

According to the ever-reliable Wikipedia, the house was designed and built in the early 1900s by Alfred Rosenheim, the president of the Los Angeles chapter of the American Institute of Architects, the Tudor or Collegiate Gothic-style single family home was previously used as a convent.

1120 Westchester Place is a historical Hollywood mansion located in Hancock Park. While the home was still quite beautiful, I was surprised that it did not look exactly like how it did on the show.

It was much longer in length than it’s portrayed on TV, there’s a greenhouse attached on the left hand side (when you’re looking up at it from the street) and the yard just wasn’t as well groomed as I had imagined. (outdated shrubbery, weedy grass and a sparse pine tree with some awkwardly droopy branches.) It’s interesting how the creative angling of the camera and just a pinch of Hollywood magic can make a place seem completely different on screen.

With my friend Chris

See what I mean about that yard?

Standing near the driveway

I’m still clutching onto the hope that maybe someone over there will return my calls and agree to take us inside.

I’ve often wondered about this one particular building near our apartment on Hollywood Boulevard.
The business’ exterior is covered in wood paneling and has large, rusty garage door. In a font similar to the type used in the original Levi Strauss logo, the words “The Yellow Aster Mercantile Co.” are painted over the exterior. An image of a large yellow flower stands out in the background.

The Yellow Aster Mercantile Co., 5066 Hollywood Blvd.

I drive by almost everyday and I’ve never seen the place open. Based on the paint job, I speculated that perhaps it was a hip boutique or furniture store that closed down long ago and the property just never sold.

The other day while I was behind the wheel, I made a conscious mental note to do a Google search once I got home and figure out, once and for all, the history of the Yellow Aster Mercantile Co.

It turns out that it’s an antique store and it’s been there since the 1960s. It has select hours, open just an hour or two per day, or you must make a special appointment to go inside.

Because it’s open in the early evening, I decided to check it out on my way home from work yesterday.

It was not at all what I expected. The place specializes in selling artifacts from the old west and turn of the century. It actually has the feel of an old fashioned merchant because it looks like a worn, dusty barn on the inside. There’s not much of a sense of order, with rusty tools and old glass bottles covering every horizontal surface in the place.

I was most intrigued by the boxes and barrels that were filled with old postcards, letters and family photos. Some of these pictures were so tattered and yellowed with time that it was hard to make out the faces on the surface.

Whether they were candid polaroids or carefully staged family portraits, each of these images were probably treasured by someone else at some time. And they were priced at $1 a piece. At first I felt awkward handling them, like I was infringing on someone else’s privacy.

A few of these images, though, made me feel something. Some made me smile because even though the stranger in the photograph existed in a moment during another time, I felt that I could relate to their human experience. It inspired me and made me feel alive.

I also felt that I could preserve some of these pictures by placing them in one of my collages. Or I could decode the mysteries of these people lives, if not in real life, through the work of fiction. I could use these images to flesh out characters in a story.

I bought all of the following photos (and a few old touristy photographs) for $5. Then I walked out of the Yellow Aster Mercantile Co. feeling very inspired. I’m excited to see what comes of these.

And the back side: