Iona or “Once when I felt stupid while naked”

Think Napa Valley. Think wine. Think food. You should also think “spa.” Nothing refreshes the body after a strenuous day wine tasting and eating like a massage, mud bath, aroma therapy, or some other rejuvenating technique from the non-traditional healing arts. Between you and me, I just like it ‘cuz it feels good. It’s really nice that there are a lot of places in the Valley that one can get a massage with little notice. This story has to deal with one such visit.
But first, the stage must be set. One should not forget that the Napa Valley, with all its “landed gentry” feel and wine country lifestyle, is definitely located within Northern California. You’ve heard of Northern California? You know, where Berkeley is located. We won’t be getting in to politics here, but it is important for one to understand two things: a) my previous perception of someone working as a massage therapist is that they were probably not leaning really far to the right and b) I’m a talker during a massage and the last thing I want to be thought of while lying there in my birthday suit is that I’m uncool.
Anyway, one day I “assumed the position” on my stomach in a massage. The therapist came in and introduced herself as “Iona.” This didn’t phase me at all. If one gets enough massages, he runs in to many Crystals, Sunshines, Harmonies, Starrs, etc. Just par for the course here in Northern California where the name you were born with is actually just a suggestion on what you should use for the rest of your life.
“Nice to meet you, blah, blah, blah…” I drifted off into a peaceful state, but before long, my mind wandered back in to reality and I started wondering to myself, “hmmm… Iona. I wonder where that comes from.” Asking her the origin of her name would reveal me both as enlightened and cool. I expected some story – just a little flakey – about how it was Celtic for “Wise Searcher” or Wapoo for “Evening Dew.” You get the idea.
Iona, without skipping a beat, explained. “Well, I’m from the Midwest. And when I was born, my father didn’t know what to name me. He looked outside and there sat an old, rusted out International Harvester tractor. But most of the letters had rusted away. What was left was IONA.”