Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
When it comes to great art, I don't like i g leafs. But I proposed, just
for fun, that we put a peelable i g leaf on the cover so readers could choose
whether they wanted their book with or without nudity. My publisher said that
would be too expensive. I of ered to pay half the cost (10 cents a book times
10,000). He went for it, and I had the fun experience of writing “for i g leafs”
on a $500 check. Perhaps that needless expense just bolstered my wish that
Americans were more European in their comfort level with nakedness.
h e last time I was at a spa in Germany's Black Forest, in one two-
hour stretch, I saw more penises than I'd seen in the previous two years.
All extremely relaxed...and, I must say, I was struck by the variety. Getting
Americans comfortable in the spas with naked Europeans has long been a
The German Spa
When I'm traveling, there are delight-
ful road bumps in my intense research
schedule where I put away the notes
and simply enjoy the moment. The
classic Friedrichsbad spa in Baden-
Baden is one of those fi ne little breaks.
Ever since the Roman Emperor
Caracalla soaked in the mineral waters
of Baden-Baden, that German spa
town has welcomed those in need of
a good soak. And it's always naked. In
the 19th century, this was Germany's
ultimate spa resort, and even today
the name Baden-Baden is synonymous
with relaxation in a land where the
government still pays its overworked
citizens to take a little spa time.
I happened to be here when one
of our tour groups was in town. I told
the guide (who was a German) that I
was excited for this great opportunity
for her group to enjoy the spa. She
disagreed, saying, “No one's going.
They can't handle the nudity. That's
how it is with American visitors.”
They didn't know what they were
missing. Wearing only the locker key
strapped around my wrist, I began the
ritual. I weighed myself: 92 kilos. The
attendant led me under the industrial-
strength shower, a torrential kickof
pounding my head and shoulders...
obliterating the rest of the world. She
then gave me slippers and a towel,
ushering me into a dry heat room
with fi ne wooden reclining chairs—
their slats too hot without the towel.
Staring up at exotic tiles of herons
and palms, I cooked. After more hot
rooms punctuated with showers came
the massage.
Like someone really drunk going
for one more glass, I climbed gingerly
onto the marble slab and lay belly-up.
The masseur held up two Brillo-pad
mitts and asked, “Hard or soft?” In the
spirit of wild abandon, I said, “Hard,”
not certain what that would mean to
my skin. I got the coarse Brillo-pad
scrub-down.
I was so soaped up, he had to
hold my arms like a fi sherman holds a
salmon so I wouldn't slip away. With
the tenderness of someone gutting
a big fi sh, he scrubbed, chopped,
bent, and generally tenderized me. In
