Zorka and the Budapest Spa
The massage tables are, oddly, in full view and are currently occupied by entirely naked, comfortably overweight women. These women are not being pampered....
Zorka and the Budapest Spa
It is a Tuesday afternoon in a thermal spa in the heart of Budapest. A much-deserved massage is waiting for me as a part of my grand hotel's "Three-Day Luxury Retreat" package.
I find myself in the basement of this monumental turn-of-the-century Belle Epoch bathhouse, standing in line with other women of various ages, sizes and shapes. All of us, wrapped in large white bath towels, are waiting our turn. Holding ticket #10, I stand watching, somewhat transfixed. This looks nothing like La Costa... No champagne. No candlelight. No soothing music.
The massage tables are, oddly, in full view and are currently occupied by entirely naked, comfortably overweight women. These women are not being pampered. They are being powdered, prodded and pounded like so much lumpy bread dough. This is, apparently, a no-nonsense Hungarian working-woman's massage, a sort of “we-don't- know-who-you-are-and-we-don't-care” production line experience.
A lot of yelling is going on. The clients are being commanded to “roll over, sit up, raise your knees”. They are yanked and twisted into several embarrassing contortions, right there in front of God and everyone. I notice that no one else seems to mind the absence of decorum . . . or privacy. Or clothing.
With that horrified feeling one gets when death may be imminent... or, possibly, even preferable, I discreetly turn around and quietly try to tiptoe out the same way I came in. “Tízes szám!” Oh God. Number 10 has been called by a muscular Magyar woman whose name tag identifies her as “Zorka”. She looks as if she might wrestle large snakes after hours just for fun. Pointing at me, she shouts what sounds to my untrained ear, like, “Gyere ide! Az asztalon! Ne beszélj!” Which, I believe means something like, “Get your butt over here, lie down, and shut up, you whiny little dumpling.”
Unable to flee, I suddenly find my plumpish, aging body entirely exposed, in a large, tiled, open room full of strangers, not one of whom knows my language or cares to. What do I do? I put on the most stoic expression I can manage and surrender to Zorka. I embrace the unknown with true California style. This is a distinct opportunity sent to me from the cosmos, I tell myself, for my own personal growth. A much-needed lesson in humility and detachment. Wearing nothing but a brave, impassive face, I grit my teeth and climb up on the table.
About ten minutes later, Zorka suggests, “Szállj le az asztalról! Kifelé!” Is she telling me to get down and get out? Sliding off the table, wobbly as a noodle, I grab my towel and any shreds of dignity I have left and stagger back toward the locker room.
As I dress, I laugh and tell myself to lighten up. Hey! Hungarian massages! Not what I had expected and certainly not for the faint of heart, but they’re really not so bad. Not actually. Once I allowed myself to submit, it was truly...ah... invigorating! Who knows, I might just come back again tomorrow.
Yeah ... not really.
I felt highly uncomfortable for you from start to finish! You are braver than most of us! Your storytelling here is stellar, and the description of the scene really...burned it into my mind. 😄
LOL, and ouchie! Such a great story!
Mum told me about a trip to Turkey in which she and some of her friends submitted to a Turkish bath. I gather it was way more *robust* a process than any of them had envisaged... and she told me she arrived home 'pounds lighter, from all those decades of dirt they seemed to have been so keen to scrape off'! 😆