I’m in a European hotel during half-term. Naturally, something is off. I’m blindfolded and there’s a disconcerting scent of strawberry. Now, my Spanish is muy bad but my ability to tell a masseuse that I’m uncomfortable is worse. Well, I say “masseuse”; after 60 minutes in her company, I’m unconvinced that she is anything other than a woman who happened to be in the room when I walked in. 
 
An hour ago she told me that she liked my nail polish and asked me to lie down on a table that was too short. (At about 177cm, I’m surely far from the tallest person who she has ever massaged.) The process began with my feet hanging off the end of her cradle, immediately creating an unpleasant ache in my lower back. “Perhaps this is how it’s done here,” I thought. “Might this simply be her way?” She had asked me to take all of my clothes off while she opened various cupboards and ran a tap that she didn’t use. But who was I to question her technique?

“Acuéstese por favor!” When I laid my nude body face down on the tiny bed, she let out a large yawn. Various small towels were placed all over me, furthering my theory that I was, in fact, a giant. A normal-sized person – someone whose feet would not hang over the end of that bed – would only need to have one towel draped over them. Was she using flannels to mess with me?

She banged the cupboards once more before letting out a big “Ah, ha!” and tying what I assumed was some sort of scarf over my eyes, lifting my head up with it as though she was polishing a bowling ball. The next thing I knew, she had whipped one of the towels off my back to squeeze goo on it from a bottle. It was cold and I flinched but the air smelled of strawberries. Not a completely awful diversion from the usual lemongrass but an unusual, childlike scent for a massage parlour. The lady proceeded to rub it into my skin as you would with garlic herb butter on a chicken that you hated, while I tried to breathe, relax and pray that the strawberry gel wasn’t lube. An array of abnormal prodding and tugging and folding followed. There was plenty of sighing (hers) and wincing (mine). At one point, she moved my legs into positions that only a lover or a gynaecologist would dare. 
 
I’ve been on that table now for what feels like three (or even seven) hours and I find myself wondering what would take longer to learn: basic Spanish or basic massage? Is the real masseuse unconscious in a nearby cupboard? Would her relatives blame me for not sensing that something is up? Is this definitely not lube? 
 
As we near the final third of the session, she flips me onto my back and, for reasons that we’ll never know, continues to try to massage it. She then heads to the cupboard once more and, soon enough, a new goo is administered all over my face. Butter? It smells like butter. Is butter good for faces? I’ve lost all perspective. 

By the time the blindfold slides off and the nightmare is almost over, I am so desperate to leave that I do what any respectable tourist would: I blurt out a muchos gracias and give her a generous tip. I hobble back to my room, my lower back throbbing, hoping that my sticky face doesn’t attract a swarm of wasps. I make a mental note not to be stung again: never pick a hotel because of its kids’ club and proximity to the airport. 

Emily Bryce-Perkins is a London-based writer. In the UK capital and in need of a few suggestions? Be sure to consult Monocle’s City Guide. For more opinion, analysis and insight, subscribe today.

North Korea’s propaganda machine has been operating at full pelt (writes Jack Simpson). Clad in a leather jacket and hat, Kim Jong-un recently opened a new neighbourhood in Pyongyang built for the families of soldiers killed fighting alongside Russians in Ukraine. Named Saeppyol Street, the project consists of 50 apartment blocks that will house some 2,500 families. “He [Kim] energetically guided the whole course of its construction,” according to the state-run Korean Central News Agency. “Every element shows the warm sincerity of our party.” Though the sincerity of the Workers’ Party of Korea might have been warm, grieving families were photographed in their new homes still wearing thick coats, while Kim seems to have failed to take off his jacket or chapeau while inside.

The country is evidently glorifying its troops to avoid the heat of public discontent. According to South Korean and Ukrainian sources, of the 14,000 North Korean soldiers sent to fight in Ukraine, more than 6,000 have been killed. The Saeppyol Street project follows the announcement of a memorial (which broke ground last October) and a promise from Kim that the brotherhood between North Korea and Russia would continue to “advance non-stop”. Pyongyang watchers suspect that the timing of this latest inauguration is intended to generate support for further deployments. 
 
Further reading? Last year, Kim Jong-un and his daughter opened a holiday resort.

Judging by the success of The Ned, Nomad, The Line and Freehand, Andrew Zobler has clearly mastered the art of transforming hotels into community anchors (writes Joseph Koh). The founder and CEO of New York-based Sydell Group has found a way to weave the worlds of art, design and food into compelling destinations for travellers and locals alike. Known for his attention to detail, from crafting rooms with residential qualities to creating buzzy playlists, Zobler has been the driving force behind a number of neighbourhood revivals, notably in the area north of New York’s Madison Square Park.