Intersection of Travel and Class

The 8 dolla massage I received on arriving in Bali has oppressed me to no end.

It is, initially, quite lovely. The cresting and crash of waves just yards away, the single flower placed directly underneath the face rest, the ocean breeze...

the dry, incessant cough of your middle-aged masseur.

Despite the soporific effects of drink and jet lag, I tumble out of blissful stupor and into the grips of what Eric termed my "White Man's Guilt." Not being white, I think it may be more apt to consider it..."First World Guilt"? And complicated by, I think, the funny feeling that this woman might very well be my mother, that there, but for the grace of God go I--given the relative similarities in phenotype.

I become gregarious in my flurry of self-reproach. So, rather than wafting away on a sea of pleasure, I conversate.

She has two sons, one 17, the other 4. A husband who works hours at odds with hers. I joke about the lack of romantic prospects at this particular beach for me. She commiserates. She tells me that she wishes she had a daughter, because a daughter would understand her. I suppress the comment "don't count on it, lady," being an unfilial offspring myself. I chat for nearly an hour, and then tip so much it's likely vulgar.

It is here that I begin to see why the very wealthy cloister themselves away the way they do. I'm made ashamed by my relative ease, my ability to travel, my disposable income, the bottle of antidepressants in my bag. I can see why silence is a necessary trait of those who serve in the hospitality professions. I think we don't want to be reminded of our sameness; there, but for the grace of God...

I exit the room dimmed and diminished. Maybe humbled.

And even this, this remorseful navel-gazing, it's a luxury, isn't it?

Eric makes a perfectly valid argument about the benefits local folks gain from my tourist dollars, particularly when I patronize non-corporate businesses, how my masseur likely doesn't receive much business at this particularly locale, since it caters to gay men.

And to reach it's logical conclusion, it's ultimately more self-serving of me to not continue to get $8 massages simply because of the twinges of my conscience, but the next day, and the days that follow, when she comes and shakes my legs as I bask in the sun, asking me if I want another massage, I'll defer her, saying, brightly, "maybe later."

And then adorn that first layer of guilt with a fondant of worry that I've made her think that she's not a good masseur.

Neuroticism is definitely an affliction of the privileged, ain't it?