Treat Yo Self

Nudity is a funny thing. In America, it's very in vogue right now to celebrate our bodies. We make grandiose statements about loving ourselves, or whatever. Yet when it comes to taking a good, hard look, how many do?

Let me give you an example. In some schools, girls are not to wear leggings, because heaven forbid a sweet young thing expose the line of her shapely leg and drive a gentleman to distraction. The underlying premise is that there is something inherently shameful about her body, something taboo.

What about when Grandpa digs out his old speedo to go for a nice stroll at the beach? Who celebrates that?

Caracalla is the building that's cut off on the left. 

I bring this up because yesterday we went to the German city of Baden Baden, about thirty minutes away from Kehl. "Baden" means "bath" in German, and Baden Baden is one of the many cities in the Black Forest known for its mineral baths. So we betook ourselves to Kehl and boarded a trailer of a train to Baden Baden.

Baden Baden has a great many spas that attract Germans and foreigners alike, but it was Caracalla we were bound for. I understand that Caracalla isn't as "authentic" of a spa experience as Friedrichbad, according to my host mother, and according to the Australians we ran into outside the train station in Baden Baden, but the thought of complete mandatory nudity is a bit intimidating, you understand.

Not that we didn't go nude.

No way to take pictures inside, so here's Caracalla from
outside, up, and to the left

The Germans have a magnificent attitude toward nudity: they simply don't give a damn. In Caracalla, the ground floor is a series of mineral baths constructed in some Romanesque bathhouse manner, complete with a marble statue of a full breasted Venus leaning over the pool. Here we shielded ourselves with bathing suits. We explored the indoor pool, which was very warm, and then moved outdoors, which had one very warm pool and one slightly cooler one. It was a mild day but compared to the heat of the mineral water, it was cold.

The pools are equipped with all kinds of jets and and fountains and clever little ramps and platforms for relaxing in. The water had none of the chlorine stench I had come to associate with swimming pools, nor did it give off the briny smell of the sea, which threw me off for a while.

After some stalling, we padded on bare feet back to the locker rooms and removed our suits as though removing armor before entering battle. It was a funny feeling. The way to the saunas was a winding staircase, and that second floor may as
well have been a nudist commune.

I mean it. Everyone was naked. Shamelessly, defiantly unclothed. I thought it would be uncomfortable to be naked in front of strangers but to my surprise, it was odd to be covered. So off came our towels. Soon we were as shameless as they. Perhaps you will think badly of me, but I enjoyed the sensation of being naked in a room of naked strangers. Although if you keep an open mind, you'll see that there's really nothing wrong with that at all. It's the most natural thing in the world.

The first sauna we went into smelled of something woody and musky that I couldn't quite place. It was so hot in there the air burned my nostrils when I inhaled. I laid down my towels, crossed my legs, and meditated. After a while (one shouldn't stay too long), I lifted my eyelids and peered into the darkened room through my lashes. I became aware of a man looking at me, yet there seemed nothing wrong in that. In what must have been another life, I would have been uncomfortable, but right then I was undisturbed. I simply closed my eyes again and forgot about him. After all, it is none of your business what people think of you.

The deluge of cold water that followed was excruciating, then refreshing. Alternating hot and cold temperatures is very good for you, you know. It stimulates the lymph system and really revs up the metabolism.

Then we hung our towels up outside of another room, and entered to a blast of steam. The last room was a kind of dry heat, but this one was so steamy that at times you couldn't see five feet in front of you. There are hoses that you must use to rinse yourself and the ledge off before you sit, presumably for reasons of hygiene. It was hard to breathe in there too, but unlike a hot and humid day, there was no worrying about sweat stains or sweating off your makeup. You are free to let your body sweat as much as it pleases, not that it waits for your permission. It really is a very liberating experience.

Then back to frigid water. My favorite part was the Waldsauna, or the Woodland Sauna, which is a log cabin outside a ways. It was 85 degrees. Celsius.

I still remember how it smelled in there, like oak and sandalwood and musk. My God, if I could bottle it, I would drench everything I own, every part of my body, in the stuff. Maybe I'll burn incense so that I can fall asleep smelling sandalwood, and let scent can perfume my hair.

There was an old lady exiting as we were entering and she smiled conspiratorially at me as she slipped past me. Her hand grazed my side from breast to waist and she didn't apologize. This wasn't a place for apologizing.

I paid thirty-two euros for a twenty-five minute massage (nineteen for the whole three hour session). Why? Read the title.

It was really weird at first, to have some German lady with winged eyeliner on point, massage me naked. As a general rule, though, if nobody makes a fuss, the issue goes away. It really isn't a big deal at all. She didn't care, I didn't care, my parents didn't care. I mean, they weren't there, but I'm sure it wouldn't have bothered them. (And now it's too late for them to care, if they were going to, haha! I love college)

Now that we know how to be naked, we plan to return to Baden Baden when the weather is colder, to try out Friedrichsbad.

Baden Baden, on the stretch of road between Caracalla and Friedrichsbad

Don't Be a Girl if You Can Help It

So shone the lamp
to pierce the midnight-morning
as truth lurked in hallowed alleys
and spirits took wing.

So whistled the wind
amongst the petal'd arches
danced it did, like promise,
like the rats of human persuasion.

So clicked the boot
on frozen pavement.

So glittered the eye,
small and beady and clouded.

So raised the hand,

So flinched the girl.

So.

Do not stand quietly
in darkness kept at bay
by only lamps.

An Espresso Comes With Uninterrupted Wifi in France

I feel like Hemingway, sitting outside a small cafe with an espresso by my wrist. Granted, it is an espresso, and not a gin martini. Ah, but it is only one in the afternoon...

It's a marvel how much attention the French pay to their drinks. They start with their aperitif, to be poured gracefully into long stemmed glasses. I don't know what good, practically speaking, having a drink before a meal does, if it aids in digestion or prepares the palette, or what, but it's an enjoyable thing to do. Therefore, the point of drinking becomes unimportant; only the act itself matters. It serves to accompany pre-meal conversation as the violin does the piano. Pleasure for pleasure's sake, delight in simple joys.

Let us not forget the wine that comes with lunch or dinner. (As far as I know, the French don't make a habit of drinking at breakfast) It is always carefully matched to the entree, the main course, the cheese and dessert. I take my meals with my host mother and another student who rooms with me, and we dine quite simply. I understand, however, that in restaurants, it is a common thing to have a different wine with each course. But then, that is not surprising because it is often like that in the states as well, in upscale places.

Yet it's different here. Each Riesling d'Alsace, every Pinot Noir, is as much a part of the company as the lady with pearls, or her brother the businessman. The swirl of the glasses- raise them delicately to inquiring nostrils- belong, have a place with the things spoken, and even more with things unspoken. That is why there is no rush. They do not, as we often do, eat hastily, for there is nothing so abhorrent here as rushing. How can one appreciate without pause?

After the meal, there is another drink. I don't know the difference between an aperitif and a digestif, except that one is before and the other follows the meal. I don't think they actually have anything to do with digestion.

Alsace is chilly this time of year (actually that's an understatement). It's barely September yet it's already too cold for t shirts and jeans. I mention the weather because I am inappropriately dressed for it. Regrettably, I finished my espresso some time ago, which means my last defense against the wind is gone.

The thing is that the weather here changes the way you or I change socks. At the drop of a hat the sun comes out and you're sweltering, or else it retreats among the clouds and your fingers freeze. I don't mind when it rains, but not while we sit here at the Bistrot et Chocolat.

Coffee is drunk so often that it's a wonder anybody can sleep at night. I've yet to have a bad cup, and I'm not convinced the concept even exists here. But really, one drinks a cup at breakfast, perhaps an espresso after the morning class, perhaps another with lunch, perhaps with the family after dinner. After the digestif, of course.

I must get to my reading now. Au Revoir.

Good Morning

I have decided that it will be impossible for me to write every time I visit a new place, because we do that so often here that I simply cannot keep up. I will write the important ones by and by, when I'm ready to. Apologies.

It's cold again in Strasbourg. After the unseasonable heat that swept through, the stickiness, the air is crisp again. Before yesterday, the city had an air of languidness and slowness, because the students were not home, and because of the heat. Now Strasbourg is filled again with the bustle of school children and their parents and college kids while the skies are gray. Now there is speed, and I mourn the way it was before. But there are many good things that come with briskness, and Summer always comes.

I sat in meditation this morning, with the lights off and the curtains drawn. Still through the curtains I can see the dim white square, glowing, from behind which the city lives. I can see shadowy figures even though my eyes are shut. They change the light, block it out for heartbeats at a time, and then are lost to me.

Madame is waiting with breakfast, so good-bye. I wrote only because it has been a while, and I did not want us to be strangers. Maybe tonight I will tell you about the river, or Lindau, or the Black Forest. But I cannot promise.

Strasbourg When it Rains

I must again interrupt the narrative I set out to complete. This demonstrates a regrettable lack of discipline on my part, because had I not waited a month to get around to recording these things, there would be no conflict, and fewer details lost.

But anyways.

I will take up Salzburg where I left off, and hopefully insightful reflection will compensate for the weakened memory that's left. There's no help for it anyway, because now I must write about Strasbourg, where I am to spend the next four months.

I did not like Strasbourg in the beginning. As the train left Switzerland, I watched the skies warm from gray to something sunny. But as the clouds parted, as Basel blurred into Colmar, Mulhouse, others, I felt myself go cold. (I will go back later and tell you about that trip) I felt myself unwelcome in a strange place.

Let me present you with a comparison. If Munich is the girl who smiles at everyone and wears her emotions emblazoned on her sleeve, then Strasbourg is the one who averts her eyes and walks swiftly past those she doesn't know. That is my impression, anyway.

I was very tired, and I regretted leaving home. Not unexpected, I think. But don't worry, first impressions are rarely dependable; I warmed up to Strasbourg soon enough.

I arrived at the gates of the Syracuse Center breathless, watching my taxi drive off like a child abandoned. Then I entered a room full of strangers, most of whom already knew each other, having traveled here together from the states. It was very stuffy in the room, I remember, and I arrived after they'd already begun. Everything was dreamlike, nothing felt real.

And then it began to rain. Gently at first, and then enthusiastically enough to drive some of us beneath the cover of umbrellas. Not I, as you must know. Bareheaded, I walked along a mass of ponchos and umbrellas and coats. It hadn't rained in San Diego for a long time. The water cleansed the air, purified our breaths, soaked my hair.

I hate to sound like a hippie, but that's when things started looking up. It's not that Strasbourg changed how she was, but that I got myself a new attitude about the whole thing. It really is a lovely city, especially when it rains.

Excuse this post, as I'm sitting in a youth hostel in Lindau, Germany, and I'm very tired. Actually I'm tempted to delete this whole thing now (quit while you're ahead, you know), but I don't think I'll ever be able to make it better. I'm already beginning to forget how I felt then, and being exhausted, my narrative is less burdened by any conscious restraints.