Conrad :(

Who loves a good massage more than I do?

No one does.

The best ever came from Bruce… Bruce worked at the Four Seasons Wailea on Maui and brought people bliss and serenity every day he worked.

It wouldn’t occur to me to request a male therapist, but Bruce was the greatest.  He looked like Mr. Clean from the commercials.  He had quite a talent with his hands and with hot stones and melting cocoa butter.  

The first time with Bruce was the best time with Bruce… because that was the time he put the little soft hot stones between my toes… soooo happy!

Subsequent times were great too, but he tended to focus more on the therapy of what needed fixing, not so much just feeling cozy.

I’m a cozy girl.  I really wanted the toe treatment again, but it was not to be.

Bruce ended up retiring to somewhere like Arizona.  I guess he had to retire to somewhere where the stones were hot and cocoa butter would melt.  

Sadness.

 

Then there was Suzanne… Suzanne was from some foreign country and she was awfully wonderful too.  She worked at the Four Seasons Lanai at Manele Bay.  

I figured, after Bruce, no one would fill the void.

But Suzanne changed all that and gave me renewed hope.

She had a few beautiful tricks of her own… the most memorable to me was when she had me sit up and she put two little rows of hot stones under the fitted sheet, so when I lay down, there was a glow of warmth on either side of my spine… delicious!  She also remembered to put the little hot stones in between my toes, and they (and I) will never forget how splendid it felt! 

I was looking forward to having another of Suzanne’s massages on my most recent trip to Lanai.

I called the spa and inquired as to if she was still with them.

“Oh, I’m sorry… Suzanne moved to Texas…”

Texas?!  What the #%*?*??

“Did you want to request anyone else?  Male or female?”

I just told them to book me with whoever was the best.

Who they booked me with was Conrad.

 

I was seated in the waiting area with a few others.

Promptly at 5:00pm, a door opened and a couple therapists trickled out to collect their clients.

But where was Conrad?

Like Ping the little yellow duck on the Yangtze River, Conrad straggled behind, clearly marching to the beat of a different drummer.

He might have to work with the females, but he wasn’t going to come down the chute at the same time!

He greeted me and we fell in line behind the four pairs of clients and therapists in front of us.

All the other therapists were chatting good-naturedly with their clients.

Conrad followed suit with a smile and a “How’s your afternoon going?”

Out into the hall we all went… and then a quick right back through another door and another corridor.

It all seemed so un-glamorous and un-luxurious being filed in like eggs on a conveyor belt.

 

Conrad showed me where to put my things and then excused himself to let me prepare.

After I was situated, there came a light knock on the door and I cleared him for reentry.

Before he started the massage, he said, “Now, if the stones are too hot, just let me know… ‘course if they’re too hot for you, they’re probably too hot for my hands too…”

Question:  Who is this massage about, Conrad?  Me?  Or you?

The client is always in charge.  It’s all about the client.

I don’t care to hear about Conrad’s hands.

Where is Bruce? Where is Suzanne?  And WHY am I here with Conrad?

 

With the first stone, I was alerted to the fact that Conrad likes his stones HOT.

I let him know they were a little too warm for me and he remedied this situation a few times by dunking them in ice water (I think this is what he was doing… it sounded like what he was doing). 

When the stones reconnected with the skin on my back, they were cooler.  Unfortunately, his hands felt cooler and wetter too.

I want very warm stones and very warm hands and oil to accompany them.

Am I asking too much?  I don’t think so.

After he did this a few times, he seemed to lose interest in the cooling of the stones.

I decided to just bear the heat, as I preferred them being a little too hot to being a little too cold and wet.

 

What else about Conrad?

His nails needed clipping.

One of the cardinal rules of massage therapy is to keep your nails clipped down so there’s hardly any white showing at the tip… NOTHING should extend beyond the tip of your finger.  If I can feel you have nails, they’re too long.  Period.

 

Then, at one point, I could feel he had some sort of rough skin on his palm… a callous… a scab, perhaps… whatever it was, it was rough and it was touching my warm, soft, bare skin.

 

Another rule fallen by the wayside:  Not once did he check in with me about the pressure, nor did he say prior to starting, “If at any time I go too deep or hit a sensitive spot, just let me know.”

 

He did not ask if the temperature in the room was comfortable to me, if I was too hot or too cold.

 

He did not ask if the music was to my liking or if the volume was acceptable. 

P.S. – I hated the music… sounded kinda New-Agey-meets-tortured-souls-communing-by-a-towering-bonfire… there should always be a choice.

In addition, at one point, there were people talking in the next treatment room for about five minutes… I couldn’t hear what they were saying, it sounded like Charlie Brown’s teacher, but it was most UN-relaxing.  I have never been in a spa and had to listen to the other humans… that’s why you’re going there… to get AWAY from the other humans.

 

I might come across as sounding awfully demanding here, but when someone is getting a massage from me, all of these issues are addressed.

In summation, if you’re coming to Hawaii and staying on Lanai, skip the hot stones with Conrad.

Go get yourself a couple of chocolate martinis at the Lodge… they’re much better at warming you up and adjusting your attitude… at a fraction of the price.

 

 

 

D!

Upon arrival to Lanai, we were the first to shoot off the airplane and straight to the Four Seasons desk.

One substantial local gentleman manned the desk and the accompanying transportation engineer (shuttle driver) flanked the side of the desk.

 

The driver was hungry for luggage to comandeer and he reached eagerly for the handle of my sporty (and very eye-catching) orange Samsonite wheely-bag.

In one swift, deft motion, he affixed to it a tag with my name and “The Lodge at Koele” on it.

He pointed to the shuttle bus waiting outside the window and told us we could wait here or on the bus.

Having no interest in dallying with the others, we proceeded out to our trusty steed.

A scruffy-looking fellow wearing a tee shirt which proclaimed “WEATHERBUG” in large text was the first to join us, followed by a chatty family of three… Papa Bear, Mama Bear and little Junior, complete with a youthful baseball cap to top his closely-shorn head.

All of these folks had oodles of luggage, which the eager transportation engineer had stowed in the compartment to the rear of the seating area.

As he climbed aboard, he glanced quickly at Tim and myself and stated, “…and that’s all you had…” in a heavily accented voice.

Still trying to decipher his hasty address, we nodded and said, “Yes.”

Then I said to Tim, “Does he have my orange bag back there?”

Tim said, “I’m sure he does…”

I nodded, “Yes, you’re right… we were the first ones at the desk and he grabbed the bag directly from me and slapped that tag on it… of course, he has it…”

 

On the ride to the hotel, the driver prattled on and on and on about Lanai and had any of us been there before and when was that and the population is only 3000 so when you do something wrong, everybody hears about it.  He was friendly, if hyperactively so.  For such a small island with little going on, he seemed exceptionally high-strung and amped-up.

Turned out the three bears were returning after a 10-year absence to show little Junior the lay of the land… he was but a twinkle in Papa Bear’s eye during their last visit and apparently his time to see Lanai had come.

Weatherbug was just on-island for the day and was scheduled on the last flight out at 6p.  The driver warned him of the hours of the rental car place so he could avoid being stranded unintentionally.

 

We arrived at the Lodge and descended the bus steps, only to be halted by the driver.

“Wait, wait! You need your leis!” 

Well, he was right about that.

Where were our leis?
The driver had called them from the rental car place and said he would be there in five minutes.

I suppose they didn’t take him seriously.

Perhaps he was notorious for telling tall tales.

Perhaps he was not.

(After all, from what I understand, if you do something wrong on that island, the word really gets around.)

Momentarily, someone appeared and draped the fresh flower leis on us with a smile.

We proceeded toward the mouth of the Lodge.

Where were our warm moist towels with which to freshen ourselves after our arduous journey?

Customarily, those are to come close on the heels of the leis.

We felt rather like unexpected company that had injected ourselves without warning.

Hmm.

 

Fiona greeted us warmly, handed us each a glass of fresh pineapple cider and promptly seated us for the check-in process.

Martin, the assistant director of rooms who prefers to keep a very low profile, came quietly forward with our towels.

Why does this man always pose as an underling instead of assuming his lofty post with pride?

How about, “Ms. McDonald, Mr. Loyd, so good to see you again… if I can be of any assistance while you’re here, please don’t hesitate to let me know…”

 

Fiona rejoined us and completed our check-in process.

Our room was not yet ready and she told us she would ring my cell phone when it was cleared for occupation.

We headed out onto the front verandah to check our other bags until we received the call.

Fiona intercepted us and said she had just gotten final approval to send us to our room.

We told her we had another bag, an orange one, we hadn’t seen since the airport.

She called out to the driver, who was still nearby.

He looked momentarily confused and then said that the bag was already in the room.

We recounted our tale from the airport and said we weren’t sure the bag had come with us or not.

Sure enough, we reached an empty room… there was no bag in sight.

 

Fiona said they would locate the bag and call us directly to let us know it had been found.

After she left us, we inspected the room, and it was, indeed, to our liking.

Ten minutes passed, then fifteen…

How long do you wait?

Surely she had called the driver and the desk at the airport and one of them had said, “Yes, I have it right here… a BRIGHT orange suitcase… can’t miss it!”

We were hungry for lunch and tired of waiting for a call.

Timmer called the front desk and Martin answered.

Apparently, he was unaware of the situation, and so Timmer had to recount it in its’ entirety.

Little Martin, again, said he would find the bag and keep us in the loop.

We tried to call the Clubhouse… best salad EVER… “The Experience Salad”… I could tell you what’s in it, but why don’t we just let it be a surprise… just order it, that’s all you need to know!

Turns out the Clubhouse is closed when the golf course is… which is on Monday and Tuesday… it was Tuesday.

Grrrr!

Another disappointment.

We were directed over to The Terrace.  One side of the restaurant was filling quickly; the other side was empty.

I asked the hostess if we could sit on the empty side.

She feigned a command of the English language and said something about a large party which was expected and that the noise they generated might bother us.

So we got stuck in the cattle car instead.

Should I just label each new disappointment with a big ol’ “D”?

Yes, why don’t I?

D!

 

Nothing on the menu appealed to me.  To help soften the blow, I ordered a Lava Flow.  That was good, anyway.

Timmer ordered a beer.

Finally, I decided on a small Caesar salad and onion soup.  I reflected on the onion soup we had ordered through room service on a prior stay, and it was divine.

Timmer ordered a pastrami sandwich.

After a lengthy wait, the food arrived.  My salad was small and the lettuce was yellow.  

D!

The onion soup was just kinda glucktious.  

D!

I think maybe I enjoyed it more the first time because it was night, it was cold outside and it was a cozy thing to eat from room service.

Timmer said his sandwich was all dried out and tasted like last week’s meat.

D!

A horrible privileged family sat next to us.  They seemed like the loud abrasive party that the hostess had warned us about.  Only she had seated them next to us, instead of buffering us from them as she had promised.

First, the mother came and sat at one end of the table.

The waitress asked where the husband and kids were.  She answered that they were finishing up a game of pool and they would be along shortly.

As she placed an order for the whole family for lunch, she alerted the waitress to the fact that one of the offspring had a peanut allergy.

Why was it when I was a child, it didn’t seem like anyone had nut allergies and now all of a sudden, every other kid has them?  Even on the Young and the Restless, little Summer Newman has one… hell, a whole storyline revolved around the child and her nut allergy!

Anyway, the mother sat there with a contented little smile on her face while texting on her Sidekick.

The waitress brought out the glasses of iced tea and milk and they sat there and warmed while the woman waited for her brood.

She sat there by herself for roughly 20 minutes before the rest of her entourage appeared.

Finally, the husband lumbered in, followed by a lumpy younger woman (who we suspect was a nanny) and two small offspring (probably around 6 and 9 years of age).

The children whined and squirmed in their seats, making it easy for us to accept the check when it arrived at our table.

 

We were stunned to see that our extraordinarily mediocre meal carried the lofty price tag of $83.

This did include two beers and a Lava Flow, mind you… but STILL!

We paid what it cost and went back to the room to change and head out to the pool area.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Call of the Day...

First call today… around 745am:

One of the concierges calls and reminds me that she booked a party of 3 and a party of 2 to go on a Zip Express this morning at 10am.

Turns out that there's a problem and the party of 2 wants to cancel.

The airlines lost their luggage and they need to go to town to buy new clothes.

I remind the concierge of our 48-hour cancellation policy and she tells me that she has already told them that we are pretty strict about it.

Then the man gets on the phone.

He greets me and starts his sad tale.

I tell him that I am not a supervisor, I have no authority, I just take reservations.

He asks me to just take a minute and listen to what he has to say.

"Danny" then proceeds to launch into the whole explanation.

"I've got a 16-year-old daughter here, it's her first trip to Hawaii and she's in tears because she's been wearing the same clothes for 3 days.  I just want to take her to town to buy some clothes."

"Please, just find it in your heart…" he pleads in his Southern drawl, adding, "I don't know if you're a mother, a sister… whatever… just put yourself in my place and think about it…"

Then he comes at me with, "I'm sure you've run across this type of situation before…"

"Actually, no…" I said honestly, "I've never had anyone want to cancel because their bags weren't delivered… people have said they were sick before… and we do excuse them if they provide a doctor's note…"

What I wanted to say was, "Yes, well, that's why I NEVER check bags on airlines…"

What I wanted to say was, "Well, I think a trip out on the ziplines will do far more (as far as clearing up your daughter's tears) than a trip to Wal-Mart will…"

What I wanted to say was, "I didn't get to go on MY first trip to Hawaii until I was 29 years old.  Not only that… there are starving people living in squalid conditions around the world that will NEVER see Hawaii and will NEVER leave the square mile in which they were born… and you want me to feel bad for YOU?"

If he was planning on going shopping today, why did he ever book the tour? 

Or, if he IS so fickle… why not go shopping AFTER the tour?

Give me a break, Dude!

My heart does not bleed for you and your spoiled, teary-eyed 16-year-old who is staying at a luxury resort and has had to wash her underwear in the sink and now can't go shopping for new clothes… in one of the most pathetic places in the world for shopping, anyway…

Did I leave anything out?

Holiday Gala

Timmer and I were really looking forward to the "Holiday Gala" for my
workplace.
The Ranch always has the party in January.
Two years ago, after I had just met him, we attended our first Ranch
Christmas party together.
Last year, we missed it because we were just returning from our
honeymoon.
This year, it was set for Friday, January 16 at 630p.
Perfect.
We had nothing else scheduled.
The party was to be held at "The Bluff," a scenic spot overlooking
the Pacific.
A white tent was promised as were great prizes and great food from
"Mark's Place."
We had never heard of "Mark's Place."
Cindy assured me that it was FABulous food, catered by some great
restaurant in Puhi. Yes... Puhi... an unlikely source, but Cindo
doesn't make this stuff up. She said they had catered weddings for a
few friends of hers and they usually had different stations for
different types of food.
The prizes were rumored to be incredible as well... although, I
pointed out to Tim that I rarely win prizes at parties.
Then came the forecast.
Two days prior to the big event came the cloud of gloom.
The meteorologists were forecasting that a powerful storm was headed
our way... high winds, reaching near 60 to 70 miles per hour were to
arrive just in time for the party.
I received two calls from my peeps at the Ranch, alerting me to the
fact that, because of the high winds expected, the party would simply
be postponed until next Friday.
That would be fine, except for the fact that next Friday, I am flying
to the Mainland to visit Dad.
My flight leaves at 930p.
I will need to be at the airport at 830p.
I will need to leave the North Shore at 730p.
The party starts at 630p.
No matter how you slice it... it comes up as: Polly and Timmer don't
get to go to the party.
We were both SUPER disappointed.
We had both been really looking forward to it.
Timmer wouldn't get to meet Cindy, whom he had heard SO much about...
as her last day at work is at the end of the month.
No prizes, no white tent, no seeing the significant others of my
workmates.
Wednesday night, I dreamt that the Holiday Gala was being held at the
Kilauea Theater.
I sat in a bus parked outside, as opposed to inside the theater,
where there were just too many people swirling around to have an
enjoyable time.
A battered wife sat in the seat in front of me. I don't recall ever
seeing her at work, but she seemed nice enough.
I heard that the food had arrived and I went inside the theater to
investigate.
They had delivered doughnuts from the Foodland.
Doughnuts... so much for "Mark's Place."
And the prizes? They had prepared a Christmas stocking for each
employee with money sticking out the top.
I woke up on Thursday and told Timmer all about it.
Yesterday was Friday the 16th.
Timmer insisted on driving me to work and keeping my car for reasons
of his own.
When I returned home at the end of the workday, he told me that I was
not to open any cabinets or the refrigerator because I would spoil
the surprise.
Finally, around 620p or so, he insisted that I go in the bedroom and
wait 10 minutes, until he came to get me.
After what seemed like twenty minutes, actually... he came and
retrieved me.
I emerged to find a beautifully set table with champagne and an
invitation to "The First Annual 'Just for Polly' Holiday Gala."
Also included was a menu of the evening's comestibles.
At the back corner of the table, by the window, was a plate with two
doughnuts and hung nearby was my Christmas stocking with folded bills
of money emerging from the top. Dreams really can come true!
"See! Just like in your dream!" he said, beaming ear-to-ear.
Then he brought me a stack of small, partially-divided pieces of
paper. Both sides had matching numbers and the half of each pair
that I was given also had words such as "Hug Me" and "Back off Bitch"
on them. These were for the prize drawings, he advised. He urged me
to look at my numbers as he was going to read out the number of the
first winner.
Imagine my surprise when I actually won something in the first go-round!
Out he came from the kitchen with the first doorprize of the
evening... a beautiful bouquet of flowers for our table.
He sat down and made a champagne toast to our gala and to me.
The champagne and the food were delicious.
We had a wonderful vegetable salad, followed by fresh organic sugar-
snaps, browned red potatoes and tenderloin medallions.
We ate the divine meal and then finished up the festivities with the
rest of the prize numbers being drawn.
Tiki was sure that the only reason the paper tickets were there was
to make his night that much more exciting.
I've never won so many prizes in my life!
Imagine the odds of that... at my very own gala!
The wind and rain raged on outside and we celebrated in style, all
cozy and dry.
The icing on the cake were the facts that, not only did Tiki get to
attend... but also... we didn't have to drive home!
Plus the fact that you couldn't beat the great company!
The best prize of all, of course, was having such a creative and
amusing husband to think the whole thing up.
It's nice when things work out like that!
Cheers!