Massage Me in Mexico

by Debra Mae White-Stephens on July 19, 2010

“Pack up and plan to pamper yourself on the beach in Mexico,” my husband called out. This is exactly what I had on my mind as he and I head for the Mexican Rivera.

“No more Texas tar balls,” I replied. As the United States Gulf coast is marred with the remnants of the oil spill, Mexico’s beaches are pure, pristine and promise an enchanting escape from my woes.

While my husband plays the PGA Golf Course, I indulge in a state of the art spa nearby. Playa Del Carmen is lined with such luxury abodes. Upon arrival, the mere act of slipping into the soft, pearl colored robe and slippers brings a sigh of relief – melts stress like a Popsicle in the heat of the summer sun.

My utmost desire is to experience a surf side massage. This ritual commences with a strong, yet gentle woman named Gloria leading me by the hand toward the shore. With each step, my heart begins beating slower to match the rhythm of the waves rolling in.

As fate would have it, this early in the day, I have my choice of cabañas. I nod toward one situated off to the side with an unobstructed view of unmatched serenity. Pure white sand shimmers in the sun against the back drop of crystal clear water the color of calm. Just what the doctor ordered.

The cabaña renders privacy through lightly draped coverings and a smooth table invites my weary limbs. Fresh flowers are placed nearby and the sweet fragrance of the petals mingles with the salt in the air. “This surely is the scent of heaven,” I think to myself.

“I will give you a moment,” my gentle guide, Gloria advises. “Si, un momentito,” I respond, meaning just a little moment. For I do not need to linger long anticipating the ache in my muscles receiving the firm relief offered by her touch.

She begins by holding my head in the palm of her hands and says a silent prayer for my well being. Then slowly my spine starts to tingle. Her fingers deftly find every place of discomfort in my body – from the base of my neck to the tips of my toes. With each long, languid stroke, I exhale another worry. One by one my burdens evaporate in the warm breeze, leaving me open to soak up the sweet peace of this little slice of paradise.

Drinking the pleasure to my senses, I surrender to the surrounding sea, allowing my mind to drift away in the alluring air. In the end, I feel I have experienced a spiritual bathing. I look up and exclaim, “su tiene los manos de los Angeles.” I hope nothing has been lost in the translation. I mean for Gloria to know she has the hands of an angel … simply glorious.

Debra Mae White-Stephens
View all posts by Debra Mae White-Stephens

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