Why I Love Fairmont Spas

There's always another spa to discover. I can't wait to be pampered -- I mean, critique the establishment.

Fairmont Hotels Spas are among my very favorite spas in the world. Something about the Willow Stream spas will turn you into a (shh!) spa-junkie. It happened to me, and my standards have inevitably been shifted way high into the stratosphere. And no, I don't get paid to say that.

It's simply the truth. You see, they switched brands from the Solstice (my memory is working today!) about seven years ago and turned all the spa sites into the Willow Stream. Sounds pretty, conjures good images, yadda yadda. But until I experienced one myself, I never would have guessed.

It was a number of years back that my husband and I went on a memorable excursion to the gorgeous Banff, Alberta, region in the heart of the Canadian Rockies. Places that the celebrities are starting to notice (please don't visit, celebrities!) are always bad news for us spa junkies. But good news for the parent company.

Regardless, the Fairmont Banff Springs is so beautiful you could cry. Rugged and remote, Banff is holding on to the vestiges of the unspoiled land it once was. Which is good, meaning there are few touristy shops.

You will never forget a stay at the Banff Springs. Among the spa's highlights is a water therapy modeled on Eastern European traditions. In a spacious pool area (coed, unfortunately), you have a choice of four places to take the plunge. A freezing little waterfall. Yup. I did it. You can, too. Then a still-friggin'-cold-but-not-freezing waterfall. Stay three minutes. Ha. I was happy to last 3 seconds. But then the reward: a hot waterfall! Or warm. Or much more temperate, let's say, than waterfalls Nos.1 and 2.

But the best part is the huge body-temperature real pool, with beautiful mosaic tiles and -- get this -- a skylight through which you can contemplate the Rockies! You're floating in this wonderful water, listening to underwater piped-in music -- talk about trippy -- gazing at mountains. Everything's right with the world.

No Iraq. No Bush. No poverty. For a few seconds, minutes -- the concept of time melts away -- you are allowed to forget it all and drift into a reverie you've earned. I know we did.

And then you start over again -- freezing cold, cold, hot/warm/body temperature! I felt like a little kid at a water park.

This was the most relaxing place ever. Before or after any of their massages or facials (I told you I hate "wraps"), this water journey is therapy for the psyche and the body.

Just make sure your Fairmont HAS the Willow Stream Spa. Not all properties do. If you're going to blow a wad of money, go for the full treatment! You deserve it. I know I did, and I am forever grateful.

Short but Sweet

Sometimes the fewer words we use to make a point the better. When it's not 101 degrees outside, I'll elaborate. Trust me on these:

Fairmont Springs Banff Resort & Spa. Like you've drowned and gone to heaven. In a good, floaty way. Smelling of sage and eucalyptus.

Mii amo (Sedona, AZ) with a spa like in the magazines. Only much, much better. And more beautiful. Red Mountains. Freak snowstorm. Huge snowflakes. Massages primo. Facials more primo. Location, location location. Enchantment Resort for families. Far, far far away from the spa. Smart designer.

Mandarin Oriental, New York City. How they managed to calm the frayed nerves of a stressed journalist is beyond me. But they did it. Deliciously (amazing tea), with views of the city to take your breath away--and if the gazing on the expanse of Manhattan doesn't thrill you, nothing will. Except the insanely gifted massage therapists and facialists. (I hate the word "asthetician" --reminds me of anesthesiologist. Which reminds me of back surgery.)
The bummer of coming to this wonder dome of delight is simple. Eventually you gotta go downstairs and face the nasty crowds again.

Nothing's perfect.

Details when the humidity drops below 80 percent.


Photo of the view from Mandarin Oriental spa, copyright Mandarin Oriental.

What'll It Be? Him or Me?

One reason some women never, never ever go to a spa, think about going to a spa or could imagine themselves going to a spa is because of body-shame. Some of us hate our bodies (or parts of it) so much that the mere concept of being naked under a sheet being stroked by a stranger, is so abhorrent it's almost a sin. Now, look. Isn't it time we all give up the fantasy? You know what I mean. The secret fantasy that we can somehow look like those heads-on-a-stick models if we didn't just don't eat that cookie!


It's time to listen up: Knock it off!

Your body is your body. Neither better nor worse than any other of the female gender. And I can't imagine any guys reading this blog, unless it was by accident on his way to porn, I mean Fantasy Football. Going to a spa is (usually) not like being in your 8th grade gym locker room. Spas are pretty. Spas are soothing. Sometime they have sleepy Indian flute music playing softly in the lobby. They smell good. It's dim. We look good under dim. And the lockers! Spacious (hopefully) and the robe is soft and huge and no one's looking at your ass. And the sinks! With moisturizing lotion, free plastic shavers, sometimes brushes! It's playtime and loads of fun. Whether you show it or not. (Some women are very blase about their spa time. Like no biggie. Me, I'm secretly jumping up and down inside my skin when I go for a treatment. I'm a junkie. A spa junkie. But that's just me. Believe me, I used to have plenty of body image issues. And I'm still not immune, as my sweet hub, Lew, will attest.

But I managed to rein it in and accept my cellulite. It's part of my thigh and I love my thigh. Everybody sing!

But seriously, dear reader: Be proud! Women's shapes vary. So what? I have seen every kind of body imaginable under the sun in the great equalizer known as a ladies' locker room. In one fabulous Canadian spa (I'll remember tomorrow -- I promise!) there were round women, Olive Oyl women, one-breasted women and embarrassed women who felt compelled to change in the bathroom.

None of us need feel ashamed of ourselves. It's been drummed into our psyches since grade school mind you, but we have to be aware that being proud of our bodies, regardless of what they look like will benefit......wait for it.... our DAUGHTERS!!!!!

Do we want our daughters to suffer through all the body-image nonsense we had to live with? Hell no! It's bad enough that today's celebutards collectively weigh 83 lbs. They have substance problems, too. But all of them look like escapees from a very unpleasant place. And it's because they hate their bodies too! Because if they gain an ounce, the tabloids call them "fat."

If they lose weight, they're "anorexic." They can't win, so of course they're all nuts. And, by the way they are anorexic and/or bulimic. It takes a reformed one to know one. Thank you and goodnight.

The point is, and I know there is one, is that women should treat themselves to a massage once in a while, it is one of the best sensual pleasures you can get without going to jail. It's heavenly touch (if you're lucky) for an hour, if you're lucky. No one cares what you look like under the sheet and your lady parts are always discreetly covered up. Good spas spoil you rotten (that's why I keep harping on my favorite 3, uh, oh, shameless plug ahead) like the Fairmont , the Four Seasons,
and the Ritz-Carlton.

For good reason. Any one of those hotels deliver impeccable service. I'm not B.S.ing. I'm not brown-nosing. Plain ol' truthity truth. Why are these places such a fortune to stay at? Because it's worth it. The staffers are always courteous, pleasant (in a non-condescending classist way) and the Ritz folk have one phrase branded into their temples: "It's my pleasure." Actually one time I counted how many times I heard that during a two-day stay at one.

I lost track at 97. And even though you know it's a rote phrase, it still makes you feel....good. And we all deserve that. So, to sum up:


Honor and love and respect your body! It houses your spirit and soul, regardless of what the bathroom scales say. Next time you feel bad about your thighs, take a look at Melanie Griffith's lips. How much do you have to hate yourself to inflict that mask on yourself? Poor thing. Yeah, poor Antonio is more like it.

Anyway, I stray from my point, which is merely:

Don't be afraid to get naked in front of other broads.
We all got the same thing or a version thereof.

We're hairy or waxed or something in-between.

We deserve to be pampered. W are women! Hear us roar!

Next time.

Get Your Hot Rocks Off...Me

What's the big deal about a hot rock massage?

Apparently people flock to this treatment like they've never had a hot pack on a sprained muscle before. Sheesh. I mean, who doesn't love to feel the warmth of a soothing, heated SOFT towel on that lower lumbar region? Speaking as a member of the "I've had two--count 'em--two" back surgeries club, I have discovered that the tenuous placement of hot rocks on my meridians, or chakras or marma points (all nomenclature for assorted techniques) leaves me tense and irritated. Literally. As in red blisters.

Let's back up, so to speak. After hearing raves about this treatment, say, 7 years ago, I bit the bullet and had flat slabs placed on my naked bod. It wasn't bad, because the rocks weren't really hot, merely warm, and the guy (Steve! I remembered a name!) at Equinox in NYC was agile, careful and professional. Meaning he always kept my lady parts covered and discreetly held the sheet up when it was time to flip over.

So that wasn't horrible and it was a soothing experience, I must admit. So I went on my merry way, warmed up (it was in the winter, a good time to have this treatment as opposed to say, August in Tucson) and happy. Until I had to face reality and body block my way through the Upper West Side. Oh you tourists! Here's a tip to NYC visitors: Don't clot the sidewalks in groups, don't stop suddenly (New Yorkers in stride will tackle you by mistake) and never, never never wear white socks and sandals with your lederhosen.

Now then. Any spa treatment in New York City has a terrible downside. Eventually you must leave the warm cocoon of pampering and put your armor back on to face the hordes of drop-jawed Europeans. Or Minnesotans. Or Whateverans. It's a bummer. Another reason to flee life in the big city. For me, anyway.

Hot rocks. Yes, I know, a little sidebar on tourists. This will happen on occasion as my attention span is that of a hummingbird. I will try to focus. For your benefit.

So, after a successful first time with the hot rock treatment (Steve was well-trained by someone in Arizona, I believe, who apparently knew what they were doing) I thought all hot rock massages would be about the same. As Amy Winehouse sings (not about rocks)....("......no, no no!") hot rocks are not created equal. Nor are their handlers.

Without giving away the actual spa in which I experienced the following, let's just say it was in a state that begins with the letter "U," I have been fully weaned off this faddish massage. First off, the "spa" felt more like an old high school gym. No ambiance, no atmosphere (except the smell of sweat) and a space with echoing walls. I checked in at what looked like a hospital desk and proceeded to head to the, again, gym-like locker "area," which was creepy and smelly.

Should have picked up the signals right then and there and gotten my sweet self out. But no, I had to check out the "Signature Hot Rock Treatment"! Boy, was that a mistake. Not only was the treatment room a barren, chilly space with walls so thin you could hear the bad jokes whispered in the hall, it smelled bad to boot. And with Enya playing in the background (I can't stand Enya, sorry. In fact I hate any vocalizing music during a treatment. Too distracting.) my mood was not lifted.

Only later in my spa-going career did I realize that (duh) you can politely ask your therapist to change the music, soften the lights, get you the hell out of a bath or whatever request you may have) so I lay there like a tense lump. And got tenser as the treatment was under way.

Maybe it was a bad day for her, maybe she was new. I didn't care, I just wanted a warm, soothing treatment after a long day of hiking. Ha. Noisily arranging the hot stones, she (who will not be named because I'm nice that way) began chit-chatting. Now, I'm not a chit-chatter in normal day-to-day activities. And certainly not in the mood for small talk when lying butt-naked in front of a stranger.

So perhaps her attempt to connect with me distracted her from her task at hand. Whatever. All I know is, after placing a too-hot flat slab on my lower back and then two more on my shoulders, I yelped. "A little less heat please" was my request. No problem. So I naively thought. The next thing I knew was two huge flat rocks, apparently intended for my neck, were dropped on my head instead. Whoopsie! When the stars cleared and the throbbing on my scalp abated a bit, I came to (no, I never lost consciousness) and was shocked that I was actually hit upside my head.
During a massage. WTF?

Of course she (who will not be named) was thoroughly embarrassed and quickly tried to come to my aid. But she must have skipped her grace-in-motion class because while putting the rocks back in the warming tray, she knocked over the entire thing! I covered my head as they thumped on the tile floor. Not a pretty sound.

Needless to say, after the ice pack was finally removed from my bruised temple, I staggered out of the "spa" vowing never to have another hot rock treatment. And I never have. Come to think of it, it's just another gimmick, another time-waster that takes a therapist away from a soothing treatment.

Hot rocks take time to warm up, the therapist has to gingerly place them here and there and instead of delighting in an uninterrupted flow of gentle (or not-gentle) massage, your actual massage time is probably shaved by a third. Another trend that has out-lived its benefits. So, in my opinion, hot rocks are for the birds. To perch on.

Next time: Gooooooood treatments....