Kathryn and i have been friends since we met in ninth grade. Back then, she had a crush on Chris Ellis, played third-team field hockey, and listened to Rick Springfield. After college, we became roommates, sharing late-night chats and boyfriend advice and complaints about our mothers—but never clothes. (She’s a steady size 2.) And when she got married, I was a bridesmaid. A week before her thirty-ninth birthday, I decided to invite her on a girls’ getaway to check out the new Linden Spa at The Inn at Perry Cabin. A luxurious overnight with an old friend seemed like a present sent straight from heaven.
Just so happens, the inn offers a Best Friends Reunion package that includes a two-night stay, a body dessert spa treatment, an in-room spa kit, a private yoga class, and three meals. “The idea is to give girls an experience like they used
to have together when they were teen-agers,” says spa director Jenny Farrand. “We give gift baskets full of products so they can hole up in their room and give each other manicures and facials. It’s a beautiful setting where they can catch up and be pampered as well.”
And what a fabulous setting it is. The 6,000-square-foot spa, named for the row of Linden trees that line the inn’s entrance, is decorated in the same nautical hues (cream, blue, brown) as the guest rooms. The spa opened in July, and by October, Travel + Leisure voted it one of the “10 to Watch” in its World’s Best Spas 2007 list. This is an ideal venue for a girls’ retreat, with more than thirty treatments, gym (personal training is available), outdoor pool, and poolside bar.
From the Gstaad Place spa to Mustique’s Cotton House spa, I’m no stranger to professional pampering. And as Kath and I sip cucumber water in the Linden’s relaxation room, where guests unwind before and after treatments, I get the (calming) feeling that I’m in sophisticated hands. While she slips off for the Soothing Massage, I recline in a cushioned rattan chaise and fight to keep my observant eye sharp before it becomes downright lazy and is lulled shut by the scent of the essential oils and the tinkle-tinkle of the meditation music. The room, decorated with botanical prints on the blond oak walls, faces a bricked terrace that’s hemmed by gardens. The garden, I decide, is the ideal place for the chatty woman seated in front of me, who, in a loud whisper, is bombarding her slumped, robed husband with a verbal catalogue of household chores. There should be a hefty fine for those who bring so much as a thought into a place called the relaxation room, much less a to-do list.
Just as I’m about to retreat to the quiet of the terrace, Marilyn, the massage therapist, summons me for my hot stone massage. I’ve never had this treatment before, but I have seen magazine ads showing a tanned beauty with a trail of black pebbles descending down her slender back. But that’s hardly the scene atop this table. I’m pasty, freckly, and a good fifteen pounds over my fighting weight—and these river stones are extremely hot. Just as I’m about to whimper about the temperature, within seconds they magically cool to an agreeable warmth. Those who prefer really hot showers will love this treatment. And I do. By the time Marilyn makes it to my left calf, I’m out. As I awaken, my mind zeroes in on my feet, where small gray stones have been placed between each splayed little piggy. Sort of a Wilma Flintstone-style pedicure treatment. After Marilyn disassembles my rock feet, I lift my well-oiled torso off the table, disturbing a mini quarry of small stones (eighteen in total), which have been tucked into strategic spots (behind my knees, under my neck, the palm of my hands) while I was asleep.
I climb back into my robe and float down the hall to the relaxation room, where Kath is waiting for me. Not wanting to disturb the silence, we flash big Cheshire cat grins at each other and our eyes shine with an identical look that shouts, “Now, this is what I’m talkin’ about!”
While Kathryn heads into St. Michaels for a bit of shopping, I stick around for a few more treatments, including the fifty-minute Head of Roses massage, where the face, neck, décolleté, and scalp are rubbed with rose oil. The only time I’ve ever purposely poured oil into my hair was back in sixth grade, when I combed a bottle of syrupy Pompeian olive oil into my locks after reading about its hydrating benefits in one of my mother’s women’s magazines. For the next three days, I looked like Fonzie. But this oil is light and fragrant and feels like hundreds of small fingertips rolling through my hair—and it washes out effortlessly.
My last treatment is the Five Flowers Solace, an exfoliating treatment of white clay infused with blue cornflower, rose petal, jasmine, rose hip, and chamomile, followed by a massage.
Back in the room, curled up on the couch is my robed, freshly showered friend, sipping a glass of Chardonnay and reading the newspaper. “There are presents everywhere,” she bubbles, as if Christmas has come early. And sure enough, there’s a pedicure gift basket and tray of chick flicks, popcorn, and a bottle of wine—all standard offerings with the package. After fighting about who gets the emery board, we meet the inn’s general manager, John Volponi, for fireside drinks at the in-house Purser’s Pub and dinner at Sherwood’s Landing, where we gobble down Chef Mark Salter’s jumbo-lump crab cakes and beef tenderloin. Alas, Notting Hill awaits, so we hustle back to the room where we change into our PJs, turn on the tube, and laugh until we fall asleep. All that was missing was a few crank calls to old boyfriends and a tub of ice cream.
The next morning, I have the world’s smoothest skin and an ache in my heart knowing that the hour of departure is growing near. After a breakfast of eggs Benedict and sausage, Kathryn and I say our goodbyes, forlorn to leave behind the pampering that has been as plentiful as oxygen since our arrival. Before I head to my car, I make a quick trip back to the spa to buy a large tube of the Jurlique rose hand cream used during the Head of Roses treatment. At $52 for a large tube, it’s by far the most expensive (and best smelling) hand cream I’ve ever bought. I drive down the inn’s brick lane without blemish, knot, or buyer’s remorse. It’s good to be a girl.
Linden Spa at The Inn at Perry Cabin
308 Watkins Ln., St. Michaels, Md.
800-454-4088, http://www.perrycabin.com
Rates: Best Friends Reunion package, $1,145-$1,805
