Is it wrong to fly seven hours just to get a massage?
Let me just say this. I’ve never been a fan of massages. I can count the number I’ve had on two thumbs, and the number I’ve enjoyed on no thumbs. There’s a not-insignificant part of my odd mind that strongly believes that if I go into a closed-door room, take off my clothes, and pay a stranger to rub warm liquids on my bare-ass body, I’ll for sure end up handcuffed (and not in a good way). The whole proposition feels like an excessive indulgence. Yet after one hour in a room on Paris’s Right Bank, I now think there would be nothing excessive or indulgent in flying there a couple of times a year simply to get a massage from Paldon. She’s that good.
