Adventures in Aruba

Sometimes, in this line of work, people get hurt. Bad. It’s all part and parcel of the grueling on-the-ground gonzo reporting we’ve got to do to keep our readers abreast of everything new under the Caribbean sun. Here’s how it went down.

I recently submitted to an 80-minute massage and body scrub at a spa in Aruba. Everything was progressing just as it should: Strange new-agey music playing softly? Check. A slight smell of — what is that, sandalwood incense? Check. A solicitous masseuse with hands capable of melting a knotted back to butter? Check. And then it happened. “Scoot up,” she said innocently, indicating that I was to place myself face down in the head-donut at the top of the table. I gave myself a little push, underestimated the distance between the bottom of my chin and the edge of the hard, wooden massage table, and landed squarely short of my target, hitting my jaw on the table with a tooth-shaking thwack. Unwilling to give up on the story, I said nothing to the masseuse, suffering in silence for the next 40 minutes. Not until the next morning, when I awoke with a blueberry bruise the size of a quarter did I realize what I’d actually suffered.

I believe this is the first massage injury on our staff; that’s how far I’m willing to go.

Adventures in Aruba