Over the past 18 months I've traveled over 150,000 miles. I have visited Singapore, Malaysia (Borneo and mainland), Thailand (3 times), Cambodia, Vietnam, Italy, Hawaii, and Wisconsin (ok, that last one doesn't count). In all of these travels, the one place that stands out head above the rest is Koh Samui, Thailand. This small island in the Gulf of Thailand manages to balance just the right amount of development with a unique personal touch and laid back atmosphere.

Koh Samui, in other words, maintains a sense of place, while nearly all other destinations through which I've traveled seem to get carried away in trying to perfect a tourist formula. They strive to create a series of 20-story hotels, gated resorts, set tours, and breakfast buffets rather than a place where people can relax and enjoy the experience. If I wanted tall hotels, brand-named shops and Italian restaurants, I think I might just stay at home. But home does not have what Koh Samui has ... beaches and character.

Landing at the thatch-roofed airport was like a homecoming. It was a place of comfort, smiles and, above all, quietness.

After Vietnam we were ready to relax and soak up some sun, sand good food and Thai Massage. Since western countries have a reputation for being overly-indulgent, I figured we should at least oblige this stereotype and enjoy a long session of pampering at a local health spa. What better way to wind-down from 5 weeks of travel than sitting in a steam bath, enjoying a soothing body massage and ending with a full hour of foot pampering.

What the hell did I get then?

I've never experienced such pain and discomfort in my entire life! It was pure hell. It took every bit of self-restraint I could muster to keep from running out of the spa. I feared for my life ... this guy was trying to kill me by massaging me to death.

If you remember from the last time Susanne and I got massages together, there were a few "signs" that should have turned us away. This time, there were very few. Everyone walking around the spa seemed so relaxed and at peace with themselves. There was calming music playing in the background and the spa was decorated in very delicate Thai-style furniture and fixtures. This place looked like the brochure. Susanne even read some sign in the lobby that said something to the degree of "this is not a brothel." Good sign. Not a good idea to keep taking your girlfriend to brothels. Call it a sixth-sense, but I think I'm right on that one.

Here are the two warning signs:

1. Colonoscopy was on the top of the "menu" of services.
2. A man was going to massage me.

I've never been much of a homophobic person. In fact, some of my best friends are gay (this is the "not that there's anything wrong with it" part of the story). I've just never been massaged by a man before and I was a little uncomfortable with the whole idea. But he was the one that pointed to himself, "I massage him, she massages her." The translation was probably more like, "I'm going to kick your skinny little ass back to the stone ages and leave you in so much pain that you'll never step foot in another massage parlor for the rest of your life."

It was my first time with a man and it hurt!

We opted for a package (there's that word again) that would last a few hours. It included steam bath, sauna, shower, massage and foot session. I think it was 1,500 Baht (US $34) per person ... Susanne treated. We changed into sarongs and were lead to the steam bath. If you've never been in a steam bath before I should tell you that there's not an actual bath in the room, but you do end up soaking wet as if you fell into an actual bathtub. Within 3 seconds of sitting in the steam bath I was dripping. I'm not sure if it was sweat or just the steam condensing on my skin. Whatever it was, my sarong was now soaking wet (this is at the 5 second mark) and I was struggling to breath. One look at Susanne and I thought she had been hit by Anthrax. We coughed, choked, sweated and tried to maintain our composure.

I think I read something once that said steam baths were supposed to be good for something. I don't know what it is, but "good for humans" is not on that list.

Our courage gave out after around 5 minutes. We weren't sure if they would ever come back for us if we didn't make a break for it anyway. Susanne reached for the doorknob and immediately retracted when she touched it. We should have known it would be hot. After all, Satan was wandering around in the room with us. For him it was just like home, for us, it was pure hell ... which I guess would make it Satan's house, huh? Undaunted, Susanne made another attempt only to find that "the steam" combined with "the steam" had made the knob slippery ... impossible to open.

I saw the flash of a CNN headline: "Couple dies in tragic steam room accident. World suspects Taliban Faction."

Eventually, someone must have seen us struggling to get the door open, or maybe it was my dead-awaking shrieking and pounding on the door that alerted them. They finally let us out.

"You wan' to try sauna?"
"Um ... do we have to?"
"Sauna this way."
"Can't I just go home. I'll pay you to let me go. Seriously ..."
"Right this way sir."
"Please, for the love of God, get me out of here ..."

So, we tried the sauna to see if it was any better. It wasn't.

We left Bangkok to get away from the stagnant heat that hovers over the city. This sauna was the greatest re-creation I've ever seen of Bangkok. I kept expecting to hear "you wan' Tuk-Tuk?" The heat was so intense that the protective coat of lacquer started to melt and my hands started to stick to the bench. I turned to Susanne:

"It's like a sauna in here."

Again, the medicinal and healing qualities of placing your body in this situation escape me at the time.

The escape sequence for the sauna was much like the steam bath. Burn hands, pound on door, get let out. If I had looked hard enough, there was probably a button someplace to dispensed doggy treats. As this was clearly a sick and twisted science experience to test human reactions to extreme conditions.

We asked if we could shower. Then we begged them to let us shower. The shower resembled a vertical coffin with the addition a shower head. It had hot water ... wasn't necessary. Despite its small size, I was more than willing to hold-up in this tiny 3x3 box for the rest of our spa package. But maybe, just maybe a soothing massage would erase the scar of the sauna/steam bath experience.

No such luck on switching to the tiny little Thai lady for my massage. The man grabbed me as I crept out of the shower and pulled me into one of the small massage rooms. This was the time I was expecting to be in the same room with Susanne. Sure, at the brothel we get a joint room, but this place decides that we need separate rooms. The room had a leather (pleather) massage table in the middle, nothing else. The room was, how should I say this, like a coffin with the addition of a massage table. [note: death references]

The masseur points the table, "You. Up there!"

I jump up on the table and lay down as instructed. I have only my soaking-wet sarong to cover my goods and nothing under me except the silky-smooth fake leather. I'm hot, still sweating, slightly wet from my shower, lying on a plastic bed. I'm thinking to myself at this point, when does the "spa thing" happen? Before long, the masseur comes in and cracks open the barrel of oil he's about to dump all over me for the next hour. He dumps so much oil on me that I'm afraid a spark will set me off in a blaze. I scan the room for loose wires and shudder whenever he walks by the light switch. When the actual massage starts, I start to understand his motives. He wants to prove to me exactly how masculine a male masseur is. He doesn't want me to doubt for a single second his status as a man. This is no lady-boy.

I can hear Susanne get situated in the room next to me. From the sounds of it, she's in an equally uncomfortable situation. I hear only, "should I have something ... you know ... on top of me?" I feel bad for her, but my thoughts are returned to the vice that has now clamped on my calves. Just earlier in the day we had watched an Animal Planet show about a fox that got his head stuck in a fence and could get out. After they released it they found that it had tried to chew its own tongue off in an attempt to escape. It doesn't seem that smart of a thing to do, but it got me thinking. If I had by leg stuck in a bear trap, I would probably try to chew it off too. At the same time I was trying to think of ways that I could numb out my legs so I wouldn't feel the bear trap that was now moving up and down my legs.

A good masseuse will tell you the purpose of a massage is to push the toxins out of the muscles and help you relax. Most of that is just new age bullshit, but it sounded so appealing at the time when my masseur was trying to push all the bad toxins into my bone marrow. He pinched, squeezed, oiled, pulverized, pulled, crunched, oiled, twisted and pounded my body for an entire hour. The forcefulness was well beyond anything I have ever experienced in my entire life. He was a masseur that decided to go postal on the next westerner that came in through the door. But instead of a semi-automatic weapon he would use Kung Fu to beat them into submission. That westerner just happened to by my skinny little body.

What made matters worse is that he kept pouring on the oil like it had a "born on" date that would cause it to expire if he didn't use it all immediately. Oil ... more oil ... followed by some oil ... then some oil on top of that. It was so thick that it started running off the tips of my fingers. Drip, drip drip. I could hear it hit the floor and I could certainly feel it starting to accumulate on the plastic massage table -- which had now become a slip-and-slide (tm). When he told me to turn over onto my stomach, I welcomed the break in the torture.

This respite was short lived, as he continued to destroy my body with every ounce of force he could muster. It even got to the point where he crawled onto the table so he could use his entire body as leverage. I held on for my dear life as every time he pushed, pulled or gouged my body, I would slip around the table ... just inches away from a fatal crash to the floor. I had a death-grip on the edges of the table keeping me from flying away. Another headline: "Mysterious Body Found Covered in Oil, Tanker Suspected of Sinking."

When the massage was over I should have ran, but I could barely walk. My legs hurt, my arms hurt, my hand hurt. Plus, I was covered in oil and could barely make the 10 meter walk to the shower-coffin. Once in the shower I started to remember my 8th grade science lessons about mixing water and oil. In short, it doesn't work. I was now grateful for the small size of the shower, as it allowed me to hold on for dear life while trying to shower off the oil. How I wished for one of those fancy dish detergents at this point, the ones that make grease disappear. I'd be more than willing to become a spokesperson, anything to get this mess off my body. Shampoo, body soap, foam bath, scrubbing ... still oil. I did the best I could before having to go to the next stage of the package.

I wanted to cry when he started on my feet. I already had a few pulled muscles from the body massage. Now, it was clear that he wanted to make sure I was crippled for life. Next to me I could see Susanne enjoying her nice little Thai lady, gently massaging up and down her legs. She was in bliss, while I writhed in pain. I wasn't sure if I should hit the masseur or Susanne. I pulled back when he put on too much pressure, but it made him even more dedicated to apply as much force as possible. He would grit his teeth as he plunged his knuckles into every sensory point in my feet. I could see Susanne dozing off at times. How I hated her. How could she be enjoying this when I'm in so much agony!

In the end, Susanne turns to me, in her drunken haze of ecstasy, "should we leave a tip?"

Bitch.