Like a compass that points directly towards ecstasy rather than north, the promise of a back massage has an odd way of directing travel plans. You might go with the intention of seeing cathedrals or enjoying a local beverage, but for some reason you wind up flat on a table in a dark room, wondering why your shoulders have been trying out for a part as granite.
It begins rather innocently. A lengthy journey, a dubious hotel cushion, and a bag that appears to have put on weight since arrival. Before you know it, your back feels like a poorly …









