I thought I understood European spas.
You go in. You float around. You come out slightly calmer, a bit pink, and then eat something with olives.
That was before Miquel told me about the one in town. Proper hydrotherapy, Paula. Scandinavian circuit. Ice, heat, more ice, more heat. It’s very good for your aura.
Which is how I found myself one Thursday morning trying not to fall over in the cold plunge pool while an elderly Swedish man sat directly opposite, making unbroken, terrifying eye contact.
Let’s back up.
The spa itself is lovely, in theory. You move between hot rooms and cold chambers following some kind of ancient Nordic ritual designed, I assume, by people who lost a bet. There’s even a whole science behind it—about how alternating between cold and heat can trigger circulation, muscle recovery, and mental wellbeing. If you want to read something disturbingly convincing, this explains it far too well.
Of course, that’s assuming you manage not to slip on the tile while hopping between stations like a hairless frog.
My problem was largely cultural. Northern Europeans treat spas like an endurance sport. I, meanwhile, come from a world where “spa day” means Prosecco, robes, and complaining about husbands. The German couple were already on their sixth round of sauna-cold-dunk rotations when I was still working up the nerve to lower both shoulders into the ice bath.
And then came him.
The Swede.
The Towel Thief.
He appeared somewhere between my third attempt at the infrared cabin and my fully catastrophic encounter with the cryotherapy booth (“just scream into the towel if it gets too cold,” the attendant advised. I did. The towel muffled nothing). At some point, this man — possibly a retired Viking or IKEA regional manager — silently confiscated my only towel. Just picked it up and walked away like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I chased him down. Politely, of course. We are all Europeans here.
“Excuse me… um… that’s my towel.”
He shrugged. “They are all white towels.”
“Yes. But that one was covering my head while I sobbed.”
Another shrug. “Then maybe you need two towels, yes?”
I let him keep it. Honestly, I respected the commitment.
Miquel was waiting for me in the lobby afterwards, glowing and rejuvenated. “You see? You look healthy now.”
“I think I’m in shock.”
He patted my shoulder. “That’s just the circulation. Very Nordic.”
I never did get the towel back.
But I suppose that’s the point of European integration. One day you’re clinging to your personal space, the next you’re naked in an ice barrel next to strangers from Gothenburg.
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