The Four Seasons Hotel is so swank that its spa and fitness center boast patrons in designer spandex and Juicy Couture jogging suits. Luckily, when I visited, I was provided a plush terrycloth robe that dispelled any worries of fashion inadequacy.
I had signed up for a half-hour Swedish massage—at $75, it was the cheapest thing on the menu—but I wasn’t denied any of the luxury. Fresh-squeezed juice—a choice of orange or grapefruit. Use of the steam room and sauna—though not the fitness center. A sizable locker.
My massage therapist, Emily, kneaded out kinks in my shoulders, back, upper chest, and feet. When I mentioned that the arch in my left foot was tight, her fingers drove out the crick. Hot towels were placed on my back and feet. Classical music soothed in the background.
I was crushed when Emily chirped “thank you” and flipped on the lights—next time, I’ll pay the extra $35 for a full hour. Payment, too, was a bit jarring: I was presented with the bill while still in the massage room.
In the locker room, I lingered under the blast of the shower. I couldn’t find a comb, despite the hair dryers, lotions, and other amenities. A follow-up call revealed that combs are provided, so maybe I didn’t look hard enough—I was too pleased with my knot-free body to care about the tangles in my hair.
