The German spa experience is quite different from its American counterpart. Across the pond, it’s about taking the waters, relaxing, and invigorating all of one's senses (to wit, many German spas actually have concert halls where one can enjoy the sound of music in the quest to lower one's blood pressure. Quite civilized, that). Pampering and prissy treatments are verboten..
Still, it hardly sounds daunting, until you enter a place I shall call the Naked Spa of Bad Fussing (aka Thermae 1). I am traveling with a quintet of women, including a statuesque guide of German and French Guianan descent. This is fortunate, because all eyes tend to stray directly to her.
We enter a facility that seems somewhat antiseptic, like a sanitarium of yore…not to imply that I intimately know what a sanitarium of yore looks like. (This reminds me of a recent conversation with someone who had taken a tour of an insane asylum back when political correctness had not invaded our language. Said “tourist” mentioned her guide was a schizophrenic. To which I replied, “At least you got both sides of the story.”)
Apologies for the digression. I know you are probably sitting at the edge of your seat waiting for the Naked Spa story to unfold. And naked truth be told, we were sitting at the edges of our seats naked in the honey-baked sauna. But I get ahead of myself.
The first clue that something might be amiss is in the changing area. While our little group changes into our bloomers (swimsuits required for the pool area), we notice men...and children...walking right on by.
Still, we are clueless little weenies. We head to a water aerobics sessions, where we happily flail (clothed) to a fusion of bad 1980s Euro-disco (I know, that's redundant) and alpine yodeling. Next, our intrepid quintet makes its way to the sauna garden. There, Isabelle knocks up the Sauna Meister. Apparently, Sauna Meister is a full-time job in Germany ("...and what do you want to be when you grow up, little Helmut?"). The Sauna Meister gives us the skinny on the day's Naked Spa activities.
Our sticky situation rears its head as we enters the Honegspeeleng (the honey sauna). This is the point at which we fully realize we not only have to lose our outerwear, but our towel wraps as well. What's a weenie to do? Well, frankly, there's no choice. With the sauna room packed cheek to cheek, it is quite apparent that we will poke out like sore thumbs if we remain clad.
Thus we join a co-ed group of 40 naked people, with nary a washboard ab in sight. Within minutes, the Sauna Meister cometh. For those trying to picture the scene (and please leave me out of it if you are), the Sauna Meister is not naked. No, it is a fully-clothed Sauna Meister who comes bearing pots of honey. He passes them out and everyone proceeds to slather him/herself and his/her neighbor. Isabelle cautions us against rubbing honey on die scheide.
After the honey sauna, lo and beehold, we are detoxified. The next step is cooling off with a naked foot bath. I have the pleasure of taking mine next to an incessant hummer (to clarify for readers of the Urban Dictionary, please note that said man is merely singing without words). The rest of the day is spent sans swimsuit, the buns of our group of weenies fully exposed.
Now, lest this scare you off a spa trip to Germany, be advised that all spas are not naked.. In fact, at the next place we visit, the Wellness-Hotel Sonnegut in Bad Birnbach, swimsuits are de rigueur. And interestingly enough, the bodies in those swimsuits are much more fit than the naked bodies at Thermae 1 (not that I was looking, mind you). Go figure.
Still, it hardly sounds daunting, until you enter a place I shall call the Naked Spa of Bad Fussing (aka Thermae 1). I am traveling with a quintet of women, including a statuesque guide of German and French Guianan descent. This is fortunate, because all eyes tend to stray directly to her.
We enter a facility that seems somewhat antiseptic, like a sanitarium of yore…not to imply that I intimately know what a sanitarium of yore looks like. (This reminds me of a recent conversation with someone who had taken a tour of an insane asylum back when political correctness had not invaded our language. Said “tourist” mentioned her guide was a schizophrenic. To which I replied, “At least you got both sides of the story.”)
Apologies for the digression. I know you are probably sitting at the edge of your seat waiting for the Naked Spa story to unfold. And naked truth be told, we were sitting at the edges of our seats naked in the honey-baked sauna. But I get ahead of myself.
The first clue that something might be amiss is in the changing area. While our little group changes into our bloomers (swimsuits required for the pool area), we notice men...and children...walking right on by.
Still, we are clueless little weenies. We head to a water aerobics sessions, where we happily flail (clothed) to a fusion of bad 1980s Euro-disco (I know, that's redundant) and alpine yodeling. Next, our intrepid quintet makes its way to the sauna garden. There, Isabelle knocks up the Sauna Meister. Apparently, Sauna Meister is a full-time job in Germany ("...and what do you want to be when you grow up, little Helmut?"). The Sauna Meister gives us the skinny on the day's Naked Spa activities.
Our sticky situation rears its head as we enters the Honegspeeleng (the honey sauna). This is the point at which we fully realize we not only have to lose our outerwear, but our towel wraps as well. What's a weenie to do? Well, frankly, there's no choice. With the sauna room packed cheek to cheek, it is quite apparent that we will poke out like sore thumbs if we remain clad.
Thus we join a co-ed group of 40 naked people, with nary a washboard ab in sight. Within minutes, the Sauna Meister cometh. For those trying to picture the scene (and please leave me out of it if you are), the Sauna Meister is not naked. No, it is a fully-clothed Sauna Meister who comes bearing pots of honey. He passes them out and everyone proceeds to slather him/herself and his/her neighbor. Isabelle cautions us against rubbing honey on die scheide.
After the honey sauna, lo and beehold, we are detoxified. The next step is cooling off with a naked foot bath. I have the pleasure of taking mine next to an incessant hummer (to clarify for readers of the Urban Dictionary, please note that said man is merely singing without words). The rest of the day is spent sans swimsuit, the buns of our group of weenies fully exposed.
Now, lest this scare you off a spa trip to Germany, be advised that all spas are not naked.. In fact, at the next place we visit, the Wellness-Hotel Sonnegut in Bad Birnbach, swimsuits are de rigueur. And interestingly enough, the bodies in those swimsuits are much more fit than the naked bodies at Thermae 1 (not that I was looking, mind you). Go figure.
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