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So, everyone from Hong Kong keeps yapping about going to Futian for a massage. You hear it all the time, right? A must-do, apparently. I was feeling pretty beat up last week, shoulders like rocks, the usual. Figured I’d finally give it a proper go myself, see what all the fuss was about.
Packed a small bag, hopped on the MTR. The usual sardine can experience. Then the border crossing, which is always a bit of a drag, but hey, you gotta do what you gotta do. Landed in Futian, and it’s always that familiar sensory overload after the relative order of Hong Kong. Dirtier, louder, but also, kinda more alive in some ways, if you know what I mean.
Finding a place wasn’t hard. They’re everywhere. Didn’t go for anything fancy. My mate gave me a name of a spot he swears by, said it was no frills, but gets the job done. That’s what I was after. Walked in, and yeah, it smelled like a typical massage joint – that mix of herbal oils and maybe a bit of damp towel. The receptionist barely looked up, just pointed to a price list. Standard stuff: full body, foot massage, oil, no oil. I just mumbled “full body, strong.”
Got led to a small room. Basic. Clean enough, I guess. Then the therapist came in. Didn’t say much, which was fine by me. And then she started. Man, she had some strong hands. Some parts were pure agony, the kind where you’re biting your lip, but you know it’s hitting the spot. My mind started wandering, thinking about deadlines, bills, all that junk that ties you up in knots in the first place. It’s funny, lying there, getting pummeled, you sort of detach a bit.
This whole Futian massage pilgrimage, I get it now. It’s not really about luxury. Back in the day, my parents would drag us over the border for cheap groceries or clothes. Now, their kids are coming over to get their bodies straightened out. I was talking to my colleague, Tom, the other day. He’s got this boss who’s a proper slave driver, emails at 2 AM, the whole nine yards. Tom says he comes to Shenzhen almost every other weekend for a massage. “It’s either this or I snap,” he told me. And I believed him. We’re all wound up so tight in Hong Kong. Rent’s insane, work’s a pressure cooker. So you look for these little escapes, these little maintenance routines.
This place, it wasn’t like those super posh hotel spas where they give you ginger tea in a tiny cup and play whale songs. Nah, this was more like a workshop. You’re the broken machine, they’re the mechanics. They find the creaks and groans, work on them, and send you back out. No fluff, just function. And honestly, that’s what most of us need. I don’t need to be pampered; I need my shoulder to stop screaming at me.
After an hour, she was done. I felt like a wrung-out dishcloth, but in a good way. Looser. My neck could actually turn without that awful crunching sound. Got dressed, went out to pay. Way cheaper than anything you’d find in Central or TST, that’s for sure. No wonder people make the trip.
Headed back towards the border, body feeling a bit tender but definitely better. Mind still buzzing, but the physical relief was there. So yeah, I guess I’m one of them now. Another Hong Konger making the trek to Futian for a tune-up. Will I be back? Yeah, probably. You almost have to, just to keep going.