Széchenyi Fürdö: A Hungarian Bath Experience, Part Two

Miss Part 1? Read it here.

We entered in the indoor portion of the baths, separate rooms filled with pools of different, very specific temperatures, and of various shapes…and with people of interesting tastes in bathing suits. I quickly scanned the crowd, searching for a familiar face. Not seeing anyone, we flip-flopped outside and played, “who -can-find-our-friends-first?” (a riveting game, I tell you), and, of course, I lost.

Where’s Waldo?

I shed my flip-flops, stepping gingerly on the wet cement with the only the outsides of my feet, applying the faulty logic that if I walk this way, foot fungus will be averted. I continued my awkward, penguin-like walk until I reached the edge of the water and attempted a graceful, swan-like glide into the water. Ahem, “graceful”.

The water was quite warm, too warm for such a hot day. I watched the sunblock I had carefully applied earlier form unctuous pools on the surface of the water. As I treaded the water, I thought back to fifth grade swimming lessons, where we learned different ways to tread water and little 12 year-old me imagined, in my worst case scenario mindset, how I would use these techniques when I was stranded in the middle of the cold ocean after the ship I was on sank (I swear I’m not dramatic). I tried scissor-kicking, the egg beater, and doggie paddle, before admitting defeat.

The mineral baths…clientele representative of those whom I saw on my visit. (source)

We headed to the much-cooler indoor pools, selecting a mineral filled bath that made my skin tingle. There was no need to tread water here; I happily stood, flat-footed, like a normal member of society. We were clumped in the center of the pool, feeling a bit like the center of attention on the dance floor. Being the center of attention was the absolute last thing I wanted in this situation, so I was relieved when someone quipped: “Anyone up for the sauna?”

Wanting to try it, I fell in rank as we marched over to the steam-filled inferno. And was it ever an inferno. Dark wooden benches lined the sides of the small room, as a smoking, charcoal pit-like oven spewed hot steam. Almost immediately I was hit with what felt like a hot, wet rag. I tried to breathe, but the hot air burned my mouth and lungs, a slow tingle I desperately tried to fight. My skin wasted no time in turning on the faucet, as streams of sweat ran down my body. I had the feeling I was being steamed alive. This was nothing like the relaxing sauna I’d experienced in the U.S.; it was like comparing a mile to a marathon.

Just as I felt I couldn’t take it anymore, one of the girls headed out, and I scurried after. I was instructed to jump into a shockingly cold pool of water and feel my “heart jump” from the sudden change in temperature. Yes, just what I wanted, a self-induced heart attack! Instead, I eased myself into the frigid pool, sinking up to my neck before calling it a day.

I spent the next hour flitting from pool to pool, feeling like Goldilocks as I deemed the pool “too hot” or “too cold,” before settling on a “just right” 34C. As I hung by the edge of the pool, I people watched, observing the Hungarians in their natural element. “You’ve got to go in this sauna,” my friend prodded, “It has menthol in it!” I hesitated, as I was pretty sure I wanted to continue living after today and not be steamed to death, but the menthol did sound intriguing. Besides, my favorite chap stick was the tingly mint kind, and the sauna would surely be the same thing, right? I assured myself with this heuristic and confidently nodded my head.

“Here goes nothing,” I thought as I pulled open the door and was greeted by warm, minty mist. Huh, it wasn’t terrible. It reminded me of standing in a mist of my favorite peppermint tea, albeit surrounded by strange people that I could barely make out through the fog. Apparently my tolerance for saunas is quite low, as I twiddled my thumbs waiting for my friend to be finished. My sinuses were sufficiently cleared, and I felt awkward standing in the middle of a foggy room, so I stepped out and into the vestibule, which held showers to rinse off. I quickly twirled under the showerhead, toweled off, and headed back to the locker room. A private changing room and dry outfit later, I stepped out the door from my Hungarian bath christening.

The lemon-yellow entrance/exit to the baths

“That was fun, ” I thought, not regretting my decision. My skin felt significantly softer and refreshed. I could see myself doing this regularly, minus the first sauna and plus some gym time. As the bright afternoon sun created abstract art on the sidewalk through the trees, I smiled and thought, “This is the life.”

And I’m happy to report, three weeks later, not a spot of foot fungus to be found. Must have been all that precarious walking on the sides of my feet.

Have you ever visited a bath?
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The Belgian Gaufre

 

The sky was grey and threatening, smothering smiles and casting a haze over the landscape. It was our first day in Brussels. I adjusted the straps on my purse, aware of the pressure cutting into my shoulder. “Wanna get a waffle or something?”

We had been walking all through Brussels on an empty stomach, since our arrival hours before. Our hollow stomachs, coupled with the overcast skies, contributed to our listless trudging and general annoyance with the world. Getting waffles seemed like the appropriate thing to do, as we were in desperate need of a pick-me-up.

We located a vendor packed with locals and took our place in line. (At this point I was regretting not taking French in high school, as everyone around us chatted comfortably in French.) I reached the counter and, determined to use what rudimentary French knowledge I had, I stammered, “Un gaufre vanille,” not sure if that was even remotely correct. It seemed to be close enough, as the woman behind the counter demanded two euro in payment. I took the receipt she gave me and headed around the corner to the counter around which the mass of people were huddling, vying to hand their receipts to the workers, like traders on the floor.

I stood in the mass timidly, observing the locals before I embarrassed myself, and when I was ready, I confidently handed the woman my receipt, nodded when she said, “Vanille?” and held out my hands to receive the steaming waffle, fresh from “oven” and wrapped in a sturdy triangle of paper.

 

 

Though I’d been warned it was hot, I took a nibble from the corner anyway. I found it rich, yeasty, and filled with pockets of sweet sugar. I didn’t want it to end.

It was unlike any waffle I’d had before, a far cry from the two Ego waffles I used to pop in the toaster every morning before grade school. The smell was thick and syrupy as it swirled up from the waffle in the crisp air.
And bite after savored bite, it was gone.
Guess I’ll just have to return.