Ever since the Roman emperor Caracalla bathed in the mineral waters here, Baden-Baden has welcomed those in need of a good soak. My first time was with some German friends β a classy, good-looking young couple. We were swept into the changing area with no explanation. Traditional, stately, indoors, these baths are extremely relaxing Wearing only the locker key strapped around my wrist, I start by weighing myself β pounds. The attendant leads me under the industrial-strength shower.
This torrential kickoff pounds my head and shoulders and obliterates the rest of the world. He gives me plastic slippers and a towel, ushering me into a dry-heat room with fine wooden lounges β the slats too hot to sit on without the towel. Staring up at exotic tiles of herons and palms, I cook. Like someone really drunk going for one more glass, I climb gingerly onto the marble slab and lay belly-up.
I get the coarse, Brillo-pad scrub-down. Tenderized like a slab of meat, I feel entirely relaxed. Nude, without my glasses, and not speaking the language, I bumble like Mr. Magoo in flip-flops through a series of steam rooms and cold plunges.
The steamy labyrinth leads to the mixed section. This is where the Americans get uptight. The parallel spa facilities intersect, bringing men and women together to share the finest three pools in Friedrichsbad. Here, all are welcome to drift under the exquisite domes in perfect silence, like aristocratic swans.
A woman glides in front of me, on her back. Like a serene flotilla, her peaceful face and buoyant breasts glide by, creating barely a ripple. On my right, an Aryan Adonis, staring at the ethereal dome, drapes himself over the lip of the pool. Germans are nonchalant, tuned in to their bodies and focused on solitary relaxation. Tourists are tentative, trying to be cool Just vivid life in full flower.
