BoomerGirl Diary

Baden-Baden, Germany — It’s tough for many women to go naked at 57. The once perky parts now slope downwards. There are stretch marks and cesarean scars and droopy tummies and thighs that move at their own pace. In U.S. society, while the young and firm can parade in thongs and tops that barely cover their nipples, and Victoria's Secret ads are all over the magazines and TV, there is no place for real bodies to just let down and feel comfortable. Maybe it’s because our society strangely equates naked with sexual, with sex as the playground of the young and fit. Older or chubby or saggy bodies are, well, unseemly. Pass a certain age marker and, unless you’re a media- star, keep it covered.

This summer I was in Germany. One of the long-standing traditions of German culture is to “take the baths.” Many cities have their own "baths" and there are towns everywhere with the prefix “bad,” meaning bath. These are generally natural mineral baths, alleged to have curative powers, or at least health-enhancing properties. It is also tradition to take the baths naked. While some days or times may be set aside for one gender, the majority of the time is for men and women together.

I’ve always enjoyed the "baths" in the U.S., from Colorado’s family spots like Glenwood Springs to the trendy Ten Thousand Waves outside Santa Fe. My favorite is probably Ojo Caliente, near Taos. When we were much, much younger, my husband and I hiked the backwoods of New Mexico to find small steaming mineral soaking pits tucked in among the rocks, where we would strip and dunk, a private slice of heaven. But the last time I did anything naked … and public … was decades ago.

But in Germany I realized that I could be both naked and anonymous, which equated, in a twisted way, to invisible. What would feel totally weird to do with friends seemed less weird with total strangers. In fact, it was their total stranger-ness that made it do-able. And if I was going to do this, then it made sense to head for the city that epitomizes spas and baths: Baden-Baden.

Photo Gallery

The baths of Baden-Baden

Baden-Baden (which essentially means spa-spa or bath-bath) is a ritzy enclave of chi-chi shops, adorable cobblestone pedestrian streets, quaint cafes, upscale casino. Think of the elegant casinos of the Bond movies, people in formal attire, sporting diamonds, playing cards and roulette, not casinos with people in jeans and T-shirts pumping nickels in slot machines. It’s a beautiful town, with a profusion of flowers, ubiquitous window-boxes to splendid gardens and parks. But, most of all, Baden-Baden is known historically for its baths.

While some local hotels have their own baths, the main public baths of Baden-Baden are the Friedrichsbad and Caracalla Spa. The Caracalla, the modern cousin, has multiple pools, saunas, a grotto, spa treatments, a lot of glass and upscale décor. At Caracalla, people wear bathing suits. It is quite lovely, but not the traditional Germanic experience I sought. No, I was heading for the Friedrichsbad, described as Roman-Irish (I could see the Roman but the Irish escaped me). When the Friedrichsbad opened in 1877, it was regarded as the most modern bathing house in Europe (although I doubt they did co-ed naked then.) It was magical, a mandatory stop on the European tour. I found magnificent architecture, arching ceilings, frescoes, pillars… and a prescribed ritual of 16 steps (Not 14, not 17, but 16.) There is one fee for the use of the baths, an additional fee for the “massage.” I wanted the full Monty.

I checked in, paid my fees, and headed up the massive staircase to the locker rooms. Facing my locker, it hit me: I was supposed to leave everything, down to my socks. I’d imagined myself in steam-filled pools, bodies emerging like fuzzy out-of-focus camera shots … but not naked and strolling around, not getting to-and-from the steamy baths. I expected a kind attendant handing out fluffy robes, or at least a big fluffy towel. No luck. Fluffy, I realized, is not German.

“Hello” I called out. An echo bounced back at me from the tile walls.

I started walking, delicately, towards the far end of the room, past rows of lockers, seeking the elusive attendant, the one with the imaginary robes. As I came around a corner, I almost smacked into a man. He was, oh-my-Gawd, naked. “Eeehhh,” I squeaked, my hands instinctively moving to cover more body parts than two hands could manage. Apparently I’d jumped at the same time, so the parts were also moving, and not in conjunction with the hands. The gentleman also startled, then looked a bit baffled. He asked, in a very formal tome. “Is there a problem?” (At least I think that’s what he said. It might have been “Are you a total nutcase?” My spa German could use some work. I’m better with beer and schnitzel.)

Now, I knew the baths would be co-ed. I knew that. That was a part of the cultural experience. But for some illogical reason, I never, ever thought the locker rooms would be co-ed. That factoid escaped me. It makes logical sense. If you’re naked in the baths, why not the dressing rooms? “Because….” I thought. “Because….”

Just at the moment when I was backing up into a cold, steel locker and reconsidering the whole baths thing, I spotted an attendant. She was blonde, tall, dressed … and standing next to what looked like a pile of cloth. They were sheets, thin, almost transparent, but enough to envelope my quivering frame. I did an artful wrap, with a twisty-tie above the breasts. Picture Roman Goddess at Halloween. I asked for directions. She pointed at signs that outlined the steps, #1 to #16. She said something like “Just follow the numbered signs” (or maybe “Don’t you know anything?”)

I followed the signs. Each one spelled out the amount of time you were to spend in that particular space. Every space had a clock. One does not just, willy-nilly, lounge around. One certainly does not play, or even talk loudly. For the Germans, taking the baths is all about ritual. Quiet. Medicinal. Cleansing. Curative.

There was a warm bath (not too hot, not too cold, just right.) Then a warm-air room with chaise lounges. Then a warmer pool. By pool #4 it became clear that since I was the only one with a sheet, I was just calling attention to myself (“Hey, look at the freaked-out American tourist”) which was so not my goal. I dropped it in a corner. And then, remarkably, I became invisible.

Opening a door, I found a row of massage tables. The women masseuses were dressed in circa 1950s nursing outfits, white and prim. “Take a number,” one said, like at the deli. (Or maybe she said, “What are you staring at?”) When one gestured at me, I followed. “A massage,” I thought. “This will feel good.” She motioned to lie face up on a table, then dumped a pail of soapy water over my body. Then she began to scrub me with a brush. Not long, languid massaging strokes, but more how I scrub out the bathtub. Determined and earnest. She flipped me over like a side of pork (OK, I exaggerate. I just felt like a side of pork. She was respectful and efficient.) She dumped more soapy water, started scrubbing my back. Just as I’d adapted to losing my epidermis, was actually getting into the scrub-a-dub-dub-rhythm, she stopped, with a quick smack to the rear. Really: she smacked my tushie. It was neither mean nor affectionate. All business. “Achtung,” she said. (Not really, but she might as well have.)

I had more soaks, hot and warm, with a frigid dip for contrast. Then the finale: a rotunda lined with high beds … whispery quiet … where I lay down as an attendant with strong hands and gentle eyes wrapped me in blankets. I felt my eyes closing, drifting off. I was in a cocoon. There was no tension remaining in my body. My skin felt pink and new. Every muscle was at rest. The air was soft to breathe. I could have stayed there for hours … and would have if my stomach hadn’t started rumbling. Loudly.

Strolling back to the locker room, I felt content. No, more than that, I felt delicious. I realized that somewhere between pool #7 and pool #10 I’d forgotten I was naked. I was just a body among bodies. Big bodies, trim bodies, 30-something to 70-something bodies. Nothing special. No shame, no glory. No big deal.

It was a healthy reminder. We should all get naked with a bunch of strangers sometimes to see who we really are, to curb our self-preoccupation, to get over ourselves. This, of course, is best done in a place where we won’t run into anyone we know or will ever see again for the rest of our lives.