and deeper than an ordinary tub. Charlotte noted with pleasure a heated towel rack of the type that was the one redeeming feature of British bathrooms.
She felt right at home. Except for the matter of bath etiquette. Was she supposed to disrobe in front of Hilda? She was about to ask when Hilda led her into an adjoining bathroom and handed her a white terry-cloth robe and what appeared to be a towel, but was actually a turban. Emerging a few minutes later, she took a seat while Hilda drew the bath, using fishtail faucets for the mineral water that bubbled up from a well at the bottom of the tub and ordinary faucets for the tap water that was used to adjust the temperature.
“It smells rusty,” observed Charlotte.
“Ja,” replied Hilda. “The iron in the water. It’s what clogs the pipes.” She spoke with an accent that Charlotte could identify only as eastern European.
“How long does the bath last?” Charlotte asked.
“Fifteen minutes. Then I check you. If you want, you stay in another ten minutes. If the water is too cold, I add more hot. Then I wrap you in warm sheets and you rest—thirty minutes. I turn the lights out. After the rest, you have a massage.” She looked back at Charlotte and smiled. “Okay?”
“Okay.” It sounded wonderful. “Where are you from?” she asked.
“Budapest.” Hilda explained that she was a refugee of the 1956 revolution, one of many to whom Paulina had given jobs. For twenty years, she had worked as a maid at the Chicago salon. But when the spa opened, she had moved east. She came from a long line of bath attendants. In Hungary, she explained, spa jobs were passed along from mother to daughter.
Raising herself onto one knee, she gestured for Charlotte to step into the tub. Above her hemline, Charlotte could see the bulge of flesh that overflowed the thickly rolled top of her cotton lisle stocking.
Charlotte removed her robe and gingerly dipped a foot in the water. Hilda supported her, gripping her tightly by her upper arm.
“Your arms are strong.”
“Ja,” said Hilda. She flexed her biceps like a body builder. “Very strong. In Budapest, the spas are used for physical therapy—cripples, amputees. The attendants have to be strong to lift them in and out of the tub. Is too hot, the water?” She checked the bathometer that bobbed on the water’s surface. It read ninety-four point five. She explained that the temperature of a mineral water bath is lower than that of an ordinary bath because the water feels hotter. “The bubbles are insulation,” she said. “If you want, I can adjust.”
“No, thank you,” said Charlotte, gently lowering herself into the water. She liked her bath water hot. “It’s fine.”
The tub was recessed a foot or more below the level of the floor. Sinking into it, she found herself up to her chin in the warm, effervescent water.
Hilda had disappeared into the bathroom. She returned momentarily with a white plastic pillow, which she placed under Charlotte’s head, and a linen hand towel, which she floated on the water under Charlotte’s nose.
“What’s the towel for?”
“The gas,” replied Hilda. “The carbon dioxide; it can make you woozy.” She revolved her head in a circle, her eyes rolled upward. Then she leaned over to dip her hand in the water. “The temperature, is okay?”
Charlotte nodded.
“Would you like a glass of mineral water? Is good to drink the mineral water in the bath—you don’t get dehydrated.”
Charlotte replied that she would, and Hilda shuffled off to fetch a glass of High Rock water from the fountain in the lobby.
The bath was incredibly soothing. The waters of High Rock spa were unique, she had read. Not only were they among the most highly mineralized in the world, they were also the most effervescent. The waters emerged from the earth supersaturated with carbon dioxide gas. During a bath, the carbon dioxide penetrated the skin, dilating the capillaries and relieving pressure on the
She felt right at home. Except for the matter of bath etiquette. Was she supposed to disrobe in front of Hilda? She was about to ask when Hilda led her into an adjoining bathroom and handed her a white terry-cloth robe and what appeared to be a towel, but was actually a turban. Emerging a few minutes later, she took a seat while Hilda drew the bath, using fishtail faucets for the mineral water that bubbled up from a well at the bottom of the tub and ordinary faucets for the tap water that was used to adjust the temperature.
“It smells rusty,” observed Charlotte.
“Ja,” replied Hilda. “The iron in the water. It’s what clogs the pipes.” She spoke with an accent that Charlotte could identify only as eastern European.
“How long does the bath last?” Charlotte asked.
“Fifteen minutes. Then I check you. If you want, you stay in another ten minutes. If the water is too cold, I add more hot. Then I wrap you in warm sheets and you rest—thirty minutes. I turn the lights out. After the rest, you have a massage.” She looked back at Charlotte and smiled. “Okay?”
“Okay.” It sounded wonderful. “Where are you from?” she asked.
“Budapest.” Hilda explained that she was a refugee of the 1956 revolution, one of many to whom Paulina had given jobs. For twenty years, she had worked as a maid at the Chicago salon. But when the spa opened, she had moved east. She came from a long line of bath attendants. In Hungary, she explained, spa jobs were passed along from mother to daughter.
Raising herself onto one knee, she gestured for Charlotte to step into the tub. Above her hemline, Charlotte could see the bulge of flesh that overflowed the thickly rolled top of her cotton lisle stocking.
Charlotte removed her robe and gingerly dipped a foot in the water. Hilda supported her, gripping her tightly by her upper arm.
“Your arms are strong.”
“Ja,” said Hilda. She flexed her biceps like a body builder. “Very strong. In Budapest, the spas are used for physical therapy—cripples, amputees. The attendants have to be strong to lift them in and out of the tub. Is too hot, the water?” She checked the bathometer that bobbed on the water’s surface. It read ninety-four point five. She explained that the temperature of a mineral water bath is lower than that of an ordinary bath because the water feels hotter. “The bubbles are insulation,” she said. “If you want, I can adjust.”
“No, thank you,” said Charlotte, gently lowering herself into the water. She liked her bath water hot. “It’s fine.”
The tub was recessed a foot or more below the level of the floor. Sinking into it, she found herself up to her chin in the warm, effervescent water.
Hilda had disappeared into the bathroom. She returned momentarily with a white plastic pillow, which she placed under Charlotte’s head, and a linen hand towel, which she floated on the water under Charlotte’s nose.
“What’s the towel for?”
“The gas,” replied Hilda. “The carbon dioxide; it can make you woozy.” She revolved her head in a circle, her eyes rolled upward. Then she leaned over to dip her hand in the water. “The temperature, is okay?”
Charlotte nodded.
“Would you like a glass of mineral water? Is good to drink the mineral water in the bath—you don’t get dehydrated.”
Charlotte replied that she would, and Hilda shuffled off to fetch a glass of High Rock water from the fountain in the lobby.
The bath was incredibly soothing. The waters of High Rock spa were unique, she had read. Not only were they among the most highly mineralized in the world, they were also the most effervescent. The waters emerged from the earth supersaturated with carbon dioxide gas. During a bath, the carbon dioxide penetrated the skin, dilating the capillaries and relieving pressure on the
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