Therme Erding

It was at my first tattoo appointment in Munich. 

Me and my artist Ramona were talking about what I had seen and done in Bavaria since moving to Garmisch-Partenkirchen, a historic city right on the border of Germany and Austria. We were talking normal shit; giving recommendations and making conversation while the needle was striking ink into my skin. 

After a small bit of silence she asks if I had ever considered going to this place called Therme Erding. As she described it, it was the “largest indoor water park and spa in Europe”—and, if I was to live here long-term, it should be something that I go see. 

It was in the middle of winter; drab, cold clouds streaked through the sky and a composition of ice, salt and gravel crunched under my feet with each step, so the thought of spending a little time in a wave pool and boiling in a hot tub was pleasant. More than pleasant, it was deserved.

I had been through a lot in only five months since arriving and the seasonal affective disorder was doing ungodly numbers on my mental health. So, I wrote the name of the spa down in my notes app on my phone and made a mental note. 

Before we began shading in the tattoo—a large, winding black panther crawling up my forearm—I stepped outside while she prepared the next set of needles. 

She stepped outside after finishing her set-up and lit up her hand-rolled American Spirit blue. The smoke drifted lazily up toward the shop’s neon “Wild at Heart” sign piercing through the gloomy December fog. 

“You know, if you are wanting to go to Therme Erding,” she added “don’t forget the place is textile-free.”

“Textile free? What, you mean nude?”

“Ja. We don’t have spas here that allow you to wear clothes, we believe it is more freeing this way. Americans do not have this?”

“Americans can’t see a nipple in a movie without losing their shit. Do you remember Janet Jackson?” She shook her head. ”Anyway, that doesn’t matter. Bottom line, we would never be able to do something like a nude spa. I’ll admit it’s even hard for me to consider something like that.”

“It is normal when everyone else does it as well, you should try it out. I go every few months to decompress, it’s very good for you.” She finished her cigarette and stamped it under her boot. “Just something to think about.”

With that, we went back inside to finish the tattoo. I loved the idea of relaxing in the spa but I was terrified of walking around showing the most intimate parts of me to complete strangers. Women would be there. Old German men with depression-era dicks would be there. 

How could I compete with that? 

On the RB6 train back to Garmisch from Munich, I looked up the spa on my phone. She slow-rolled me— it is not just the largest “textile-free” thermal spa in Germany, but in the entire world. It is massive. Over forty pools and health baths, thirty-five saunas and steam rooms and a massive accompanying hotel that allows visitors to stay for however long they desire. I couldn’t comprehend the sheer scale of what I was looking at. 

The gyms I frequented growing up barely had a single functioning sauna and here were fifty stitched together. 

They aren’t just regular saunas either. Each one boasts a different theme or treatment. There is one with walls completely built of salt stones that was appropriately dubbed: the Salt Stone Room. Another took the style of a Banja sauna—a 100+ capacity Siberian sauna with the walls and benches built completely of Siberian Pine and Russian herbs sit covering the heating element in the center and infusing the area with a light woodsy-musky scent. One was fashioned as a cave with rocky, grey walls and an active “geyser” in the middle. It was like a hot, sweaty, naked wonderland for adults. It was my dream come true. 

I had to see it with my own eyes. It felt too unreal and magical to be real. All I had to do to enjoy it was to get naked? I think I could manage that.

It would sadly be another year before I was able to make it happen but boy did it happen. 

***

A year later

I had been seeing this girl for a couple months now. 

Our PDA stretched over half the country of Germany. In trains, in bars, in the courtyards; it didn’t matter—it was on fire. We frequently would come into the city to explore, find places to drink and toe the line of being forcibly removed due to our hands on each other.

In our illusory reverie through the streets, we would see areas of the Bavarian capital that most would never even think to look for. Much to the detriment of Germans who saw us kissing in the subway cars, we were all over each other and the city. It was electrifying; always new and exciting. Nothing was official or permanent—we were just intent on having fun for a while; markedly ignoring conversations about the future.

My conversation with Ramona a year prior had been all but forgotten. Only the Safari tab on my phone stoically remained, without my knowledge. 

I was scrolling through on the train while we were looking to get piercings— she wanted to get her septum pierced and I wanted a nose ring. Just a little hoop. During this scroll, I inadvertently found the page for the spa and it caught my attention all over again.

Here was another winter that was threatening to shatter me completely, why shouldn’t I finally go and try it out. She was right next to me on the train and I asked her, “So how would you feel about a spa day?”

“Duh” was her only response.

That was enough for me to justify the purchase. I made plans for us to head out in a couple days. I was finally going to see the world’s largest spa with my own eyes. The gym on base had a large sauna and cold plunge which, admittedly, filled the void and had carried me this far. But I wanted more.

---

The morning of our departure a few days later, she had to work the morning shift so we couldn’t leave until around 1p.m. I woke up at 10a.m. to a breakfast of cereal and a shot of German whiskey.

I looked at my reflection in the mirror. Hollow eyes and pale cheeks bore into me.

Nevertheless, for once I’m in good spirits. I’m excited to explore something entirely foreign to me once again. I had grown stagnant in my adventures and personal life. I hadn’t taken a vacation in a couple months; this was the closest thing to it until my Iceland trip I was planning in a couple months. I hadn’t tried something new since blowing out my knee after I accidentally chose the double-black Kandahar route down the Garmisch-Classic. I was in a rut. As selfish as it sounded, nothing excited me anymore. There I was in the most beautiful city on earth, feeling sorry for myself and hiding away behind closed doors. It was time for a change.

She gets off work and, after changing and packing clothes, we head out. We are planning on meeting a friend in the city later and clubbing at the hidden, underground “Zob” located right under the bus station. That is a story just in itself.

We grab our bikes from the communal bike rack and take off, zooming past the guard shack at the front gate of the base. 

It is a partly cloudy day with a high of 35 degrees Fahrenheit, a temperature which feels almost warm compared to the weather of the past few weeks. I feel refreshed as I bike to the Garmisch Bahnhof next to her, riding through the rolling hills and under the watchful gaze of the Wetterstein mountains standing guard to our right. Paper white clouds blur against the sapphire sky and drift aimlessly while the cold, alpine breeze buffets behind us, pushing us faster and faster. 

We get to the station and lock up our bikes before heading into the small vestibule of the Bahnhof. I walk to the massive computer and purchase two one-way (Einzelfahrt) tickets to Munich; she walks to the market in the corner opposite and purchases four Helles beers for the quick journey—two for each of us.

We exit through the sliding doors and stroll down a set of stairs and through a quick tunnel to arrive back up at our departing platform. She would get dizzy if we faced backwards. We crack open the beers and tilt them back, watching and waiting to see who would stop drinking and lower theirs first. She won. We sit listening to music—one AirPod for each of us. Even though things were often imperfect and frustrating, this was a common denominator that united us beyond recognition. Her music taste and mine were one and the same and we could let the songs flow through us as an apparatus for the words we were unable to speak.

Farchant, Olstadt, Tutzing. One by one, small German villages slip into the rearview while we drink and laugh. The rolling green landscape morphs and contorts with each moment, running the gamut from mountains to lakes to industrial city centers. 

After two beers each, we are finally nearing Munich Hauptbahnhof and stand up to begin disembarking. Even though we have finally made it to the city, our journey is only about halfway completed. A bus ride and another train are necessary to reach the area of Therme Erding, so naturally we stop in the small store adjacent to the police headquarters for two more beers and a water, just in case. She is an even bigger smoker than me, so we buy more supplies to hand-roll more cigarettes. Blue OCB wax papers, Gizeh filters and the blue pouch of American Spirit tobacco.  Then, after a smoke, we find our way to the correct platform.

We must head far Northeast of the city, close to the airport. The small, local train makes a stop every two minutes at different suburbs and it seemingly takes hours for us to reach our bus stop. Here, in the middle of nowhere, we stand under a metal sign, upon which in large, black lettering is printed “Bus 527 nach Altenerding, Erding.” 

According to the trip planner, this should be the right area. I’m already a bit tipsy and have to rely on my DB Navigator app completely— if we are in the wrong spot, I have no idea how to get us out. I’ve had too much to drink to be making any real decisions.

Luckily, a few minutes later a mostly empty bus pulls up and we hop on. It’s the off-season so we don’t find any tourists on the bus with us, just a handful of locals ready for a steam bath. On the small display above the driver, I see the stops for Therme Erding are approaching soon. We take our place in the back and await our destination, only five minutes away.

Sitting quietly, she wraps her legs over mine and leans against the window while she begins to roll herself another cigarette. By the time the bus speeds in through the roundabout by the front entrance, she finishes the final tuck and roll, sealing the spliff and wedging the filter firmly in place. 

We thank the driver and step off the bus, finding footing on the concrete curb right outside a parking garage. To the left are large, grey pillars underneath a building that resembles, to me, the Alamo. It is connected to an enormous dome-shaped structure that seems to stretch on for half a mile. New met old; an anachronistic hodgepodge of architecture and design style that felt almost kitschy. I begin to wonder if maybe this place was simply a tourist trap rather than the relaxing haven it was claiming to be. 

Walking toward the big, silver dome, we find the entrance—a massive set of clear, half-moon awnings stitched together with a picture of a naked mermaid embossed on a large marquee, the words “Therme Erding” written across her torso. Strolling under the lady, it feels similar to the lead-up to a ride at Magic Kingdom. We both shared a quiet anticipation and recognition for the experience we were soon to share and the suspense began building intensely. I began to grow a little nervous; what were we going to find within? Would it live up to my expectations or could this be another disappointment in a winter made of them.

Making it inside the double doors, my eyes adjust to the dim, ambient light. We find we are now within a cavernous lobby, complete with a cafe in one corner and a souvenir shop in another. Trees and greenery line the sides of the walls, comfortably enclosing the space and peacefully easing guests into the new atmosphere. Small, warm spotlights stand tilting up toward the greenery, casting hazy, leafy shadows against the ceiling.

Families and individuals are milling around or sitting in wait while even more pile out from the hallway connected to the hotel. A dozen or so desks are lined up in front of one of two passageways— a sign above states to the left is the adventure water park and to the right is Therme Oasis, the actual spa.

We walk up to the counter where a middle-aged German lady sits on a barstool, a magazine to her side that she continually glances toward between customers. However, she is still very polite, friendly and attentive despite the “Bavarian Weekly” distracting her. 

In perfect English, she asks how she may help us. 

Servus. Two day passes for the spa please. 

“Okay, and for how long would you like to remain within the park? Two, four or six hours in duration?

We look at each other; we have more plans for tonight but we also don’t want to cut it short too early. Seeing as it is already 3p.m and we have more to do later, we decide upon two hours, knowing that we would likely be extending if we enjoy but willing to take the risk. I never mind spending extra money on things that directly affect my physical health, it’s the most worthwhile item on which I could spend.

“Very good. Would you like to rent any towels or robes?”

We simply choose two towels. Robes cost too much just for a day. We pay the security deposit and money for our initial two-hour passes.

“Here are your chips,” she says, handing us what looks to be a couple small Fitbits. Simply a small strip of rubber, mesh material with a matte plastic, electronic chip directly in the center. 

“Put these on and make sure not to lose them. They will allow you to access your lockers as well as keep tabs on any additional items purchased once inside the gate. You won’t pay for drinks or time extensions until you return back from the spa. If you choose to extend, the chips will automatically calculate it and allow you to pay for extra time; it is only £2.50 for each half-hour you choose to stay.” 

She then smiled at us and beckoned to the right side of the tunnel which would lead us to the locker room. 

“Enjoy your time here with us. Auf Weidersehen.”

We smiled back at her and took our leave toward the right. The hallway had a low ceiling and eggshell-white plaster, while spotlights dimly illuminated the walls and reflected off the tiles wainscoted above the trim of the floors. Immediately upon walking through the hallway, I encountered something I hadn’t planned on. This wasn’t like America with gendered locker rooms. No, this was for both sexes.

Row after row of brown, lacquered lockers stood in neat configurations, broken by blocks of showers, sinks and mirrors. Naked Germans populated the aisles, towels thrown lazily around their shoulders as they stood and talked jovially with one another. No one seemed to mind that their fellow friend was in their birthday suit. Personally, it was all I could notice. 

Laughter, running water and the overhead radio fought each other for audibility in the large, echoing chamber. Noise seemed to reverberate off the walls and only grow louder. But the sound wasn’t unpleasant. In some uniquely Germanic manner, it was actually an organized and harmonious sound the more I listened and became adjusted to it. The place became inviting the further we walked. The lavender soap lilted gently to my nose.

Finally, we find a row that is more sparsely populated and turn into it, setting our bags on the benches and picking two lockers at random next to each other. Using the Fitbits, we press our wrists near the electronic sensor on the locker. It clicks and a light above glows green, allowing us to open the locker and set our stuff in it before beginning to undress. 

We had seen each other naked before, but in the bright, fluorescent lights surrounded by so much human activity, it became almost awkward again. We turned around and gave a bit of decency in the meantime while we found our towels, and courage. Smartphones were banned in the spa, so we tucked them away in our bags. Sufficiently stripped, we head into the shower room. It is mandatory at Therme Erding to shower before heading into the spa and, strangely, this part actually is divided by sex. She takes a left and I take a right.

After stepping through a wide, trimmed hallway door, I arrive in a blue-tile, meandering room packed with small C-shaped stucco dividers with a shower head directly in the middle of each semi-circle. These half-moons, by design, offer a bit more privacy than nothing at all but walking through the room forced me face-to-face with more dicks than I could count. Walking around, I find an empty C and hang my towel on the small metal hook sitting just inside the lip of the enclosure. 

I turn on the water and a forcible stream splatters down quickly upon me, steam rising to the exhaust vents above. Some spa goers have brought their own soap and shampoo for this part; some use the little dispenser that has been built into the wall. I opt to use the wall soap and get busy scrubbing. A man about my age is in the stall across from me, a white foam covering his entire head as he lathers his hair in Dove 3-in-1. We briefly make eye contact before returning to our business. Was this all a dream? I began to laugh quietly about the absurdity of it all.

In high school I was terrified to be naked, even in the private showers. So much did I hate the idea of being seen by others, during basketball practices before school, I would opt to either not take a shower or just wipe down with a paper towel that I rinsed in the sink. Here, I was cleaning my ass in front of a variety of men. Fat, skinny, ripped and ugly. It didn’t matter, it seemed no one paid attention to me and I didn’t mind them either. While I have grown a lot more comfortable in my body since arriving in Europe and definitely since high school, I still give myself some credit: I’m doing surprisingly well with public nudity so far.

Rinsing off quickly. I follow the winding hallway. It led me to a massive antechamber composed almost entirely of windows. The dim, winter sun was shining directly onto my skin as I took in the view. A few hot tubs are nearby and a golden, radiant sauna lies a bit further. I see naked people inside. Some exit and grab their robes from the hook by the door; some enter and leave their sandals and robe outside. A few within sit on a towel. 

The tubs are completely filled with loud, nude crowds gossiping and echoing in their German accents. The whole thing is a smaller room that serves as a jumping-off point for the rest of the spa. If they consider this just the beginning, the place must be way bigger than I imagined. Near the hot tubs are a couple rinsing showers and a cold-plunge tub which go unused. 

It felt like an ad for body diversity. I saw every possible body type in that small room. Within five minutes, I had been exposed to more nudity than I had ever seen in-person thus far in my life. And yet, it wasn’t weird. I found that I actually enjoyed the freedom of being completely seen and open with so many people. Admittedly, maybe I was a weird one for bringing a date to it. But I always prefer power in numbers. 

After waiting for a while, I see her finally exit the shower area and come walking around the bend. She is covered from chest to thigh with her towel while mine is simply wrapped around my waist. 

We think on it for a second then decide we may as well start where everyone else has and so head for the lone, circular sauna in the back of the room. 

The only way to describe the feeling of us stripping outside of that sauna is the introduction of any episode of Naked and Afraid where they meet each other and have to size up the other’s naked body. That brief moment of being judged as objectively as a bailiff; one’s entirety being witnessed for better or worse.

Finding it better just to skip the awkwardness, she glances me over with a playful and mischievous glint before stepping into the room. I feel as though I’m in the spotlight with all these people watching me and quickly follow after her.

The only empty spot large enough for the two of us together is right in front of the sauna window; my pride is going to be the first thing anyone walking around the corner will see. But, it’s a reality I’ll have to accept if I want to hold admission. Besides, most will probably be looking at her anyway. She is stunning. 

The hot, dry heat quickly sets over me and sweat begins to run down my body.  I was entranced and sat staring dumbly at the heating element around which the half-moon colosseum seating is based. I look over and she has her eyes closed, relishing in the warmth as well. Unlike most of the saunas in TE, this one has no real theme. A bright, orange light shines magnanimously over the simple wood paneling on the walls, aged-spruce benches and metal heating element in the center. What it lacks in originality, it compensates in pure temperature—it is set to a blistering seventy degrees Celsius.  

Soon, the heat becomes too much. We need to keep moving to visit as many of these as possible and I don’t want to run the risk of overheating and tapping out early. Thankfully, the awkwardness between us has worn off and, before exiting, we kiss. A woman in the back clears her throat loudly.

Stepping out, we have two options. We can follow the grand hallway toward the main pool or take a set of stairs down to an unknown location. A sign in German points down but I don’t know what the words mean; I still haven’t learned the language, even after a year-and-a-half of living in the country. 

Neither of us have done enough work sweating yet so we (I) make the decision to push down the stairway to see what we (I) can find down below. 

What we find is an entire wing underground, without windows or natural light. Only a dark corridor with doors on either side and a golden birdbath looking object pushed into a rectangular nook on the far end. It makes the same noise as an ice grinder and is actually a bit of a nuisance. On the left is a corridor that leads to a group of showers, on the right is a wooden door casing and a large, glass panel centered within the frame. An amphitheater of sauna benches reside within, rising like stadium seating and climbing up six rows. I’ve never seen a sauna this large in my life. Best of all, it is sparsely populated; I don’t think anyone knows it’s even there. She goes in while I plan to come back soon—I want to look at the birdbath first. 

Walking through the cold, stone hallway, it felt like I had stepped in the Department of Mysteries from Order of the Phoenix. Nothing was illuminated, the tunnel dark and barren, and each door lining the side of the corridor held electrifying potential. I reach the golden sink and find it is full of snow. Obviously not real snow, but my first impression of an ice grinder machine was actually quite accurate. Crushed ice is bunched into the sink and the pile is so high that much of it falls to the floor below, the melting snow pooling slowly into the drain beneath. A large borehole sits above, feeding new ice directly onto the pile every so often. I take a handful and rub it on my blazing skin to cool down. A sigh of relief escapes through my lips.

I grab another handful and pack it into a snowball before heading back in through the wood-trimmed door; I’m either going to try to throw it at her or put it on the heating element—I haven’t decided yet.

She is lying out in the corner, towel underneath her back as she one arm is draped across her face to block out the dim light from the sauna’s slim strip of windows. It strikes me how beautiful she is. The golden, blonde hair falling delicately upon the timber benches and a fine layer of sweat forming a shiny glaze across her body.

I decide not to throw the snowball and so turn around and place it on the element, drawing an intense hiss as the ice melts upon the hot stove. The room gets even hotter but the few other Germans in the corner seem not to notice. 

I sit down next to her and, without opening her eyes, she reaches her arm out and grabs hold of my leg. I move closer and she puts her head upon the base of my thigh while she continues to breathe in the wet heat. We do nothing but sit like this for what feels like an eternity. 

Close and comfortable, no words needed speaking. Skin pressed upon skin while I listened to the steady rhythm of her breath. All tension evaporated from my body. All the weirdness from the start of the day has become normal. 

She spins around suddenly after a few minutes, “I’m hot.” And with that, she stands up and walks out. Willingly, I get up and follow her. 

I needed to wash off and so headed toward the shower but, on the way, I found that we actually had missed a cold plunge pool right at the base of the stairs. I am a cold plunge diehard and this feels like the perfect opportunity to hit refresh before heading somewhere else.

Looking up, I see several Germans watching me from their chaises on the upstairs deck, but the heat has started to get to me and I need to cool off. I strip off my towel, pendulum in full effect, and jump in. 

Pendulum loses momentum immediately as I kneel down and let the frigid water reach up to my shoulders. The mammalian dive reflex forces quick, static breaths in and out of my lungs and I try to calm my heart rate and breathe deeper. When I finally have it under control, I do the unthinkable and dip my head underwater, sputtering as I come back up again. I’m hit with a rack of chills but, rising from the water, the sensation is like being reborn. I sat for a couple more moments. My body temperature seems to be back to a normal level. My feet and hands feel as though they are being pleasantly drilled with acupuncture needles. 

Unfortunately, shrinkage is a real phenomenon and I am going to have to choose between the lesser of two evils: let her see me like that or an entire crowd of strangers. I’m not a dumb man; I choose the crowd. I’d rather them see me than a girl I’m seeing. 

Turning my back on her, I stand up and face the veranda of spectators and show them my magnificence. It was a real Gladiator moment for me, I hoped I was like Maximus entertaining them. I even considered throwing my hands above my head. With my luck, they probably would have put their thumb down anyway. 

I reach over and pick the towel back up and dry off a bit before placing it once more around my waist while I step out of the pool. The people above watch as though they are at the observation deck for a surgery. Scrutinizing and unaffected, detached but amused. Not much I can do about it; I can’t fight nature. Thumb down indeed. 

I need a change of pace from saunas for a bit and she agrees. We make plans to sit out and relax and so start walking to explore more of the building and find a suitable, private spot for us. Instead, we arrive somewhere else: the lounge pool. 

If I thought I had seen a lot of nudity before, this pool was a scope unthinkable. The massive atrium sits under the cover of a clear, glass dome. The dim, winter sky pouring a muted white light into the pool area. Chairs sit on one of two floors overlooking the water. Palm trees and other shrubbery provide privacy and separation within the large room so it doesn’t feel quite so exposed. Large, egg-shaped wicker “pods” function as the more privacy-oriented escapes dotted around the pool. I count three separate bars in this space, all with thatched roofs and faux moss which give the impression of a Hawaiian shack. 

The walk-in pool boasts a massive space to swim, several alcoves with benches to sit and relax while the water jets at your back and, most importantly, a pool bar with small, tiled stools right nearby. In the distance, the pool continues beyond the glass. Swimmers can push past the partition of translucent, rectangular vinyl strips to reach the outdoor portion of the pool. The sun is quickly setting far beyond on the horizon. In general, it’s such an impressive, arresting sight that we realize we will absolutely be getting in the pool right this instant.

I say only two words, “Pool bar.”

She nods and drops her towel on a metal rung near the steps. I do the same. This time, an entire stadium of Germans are watching us strip. Yet. Somehow, I’m still comfortable with it. I hear the splash as she takes two small steps into the water before diving in; completely submerging herself and swimming underwater for a brief moment before resurfacing a couple feet away. Her hair is shiny and slicked back, breasts barely covered by the protection of the water. Enamored, I quickly follow suit and plunge in.

We reach the bar stools and again the unorthodoxy of the entire spectacle hits me: the bartender is clothed yet here we are ordering mojitos completely naked. How do they vet these bartenders? Does nudity just become normal for them even though they are clothed themselves? Do they feel uncomfortable serving us? How did they even get this job? 

Whatever.

I get two mojitos and pay for it with my Fitbit. The worker is a younger man, dark bushy beard and arching eyebrows with a quiet, calm aura. He seems to show no weirdness or discomfort toward the naked patrons so I follow his lead and push my questions aside.

While drinking the plastic cups of rum and mint, we slowly migrate over to the vinyl strips which guard the outside portion of the pool, maneuvering through them until the cold, intense winter air chafes our skin. The pool is heated, but only so much, so we sink further in until our heads barely poke above the water. To our left, we can see the deserted outdoor portion of the actual water park; cabanas, lounge chairs and pools sit empty while the umbrellas are zipped up for the winter. To the right, past a stout mason wall, green, hilly countryside expands to meet the sky far in the distance. 

The sun is close to setting already and the sky is beginning to turn from a pale, sterile white to a smoldering orange. Groups of people in the pool with us are few and far between and their slow, relaxing conversations are one of the few sounds that greet us. Hot jets of salty water stream down upon us from the silver faucets rising above the pool deck. We find seats in the prefabricated concrete chairs permanently fixed in the water. The bulb of fire in the distance is slowly descending as we lean back. 

After a brief silence, I glance over to find she is facing me, searchingly gazing at my face. I still remember the look to this day. Few eyes have implored upon me with such intensity. Few minds have questioned so intently nor studied so feverishly the map of my face and the door to my soul. It was a complete capitulation; I was defenseless. I was naked. 

I stared into two beautiful, green planets, full of life and lush beauty and growth. They stared back as she moved closer. 

“If I could write the beauty of your eyes and in fresh numbers all your graces, the age to come would say ‘This poet lies; such heavenly touches ne’er touch’d earthy faces.’” 

I could smell the cigarettes and shampoo in her hair despite the affectations of the heat and water. The smell was intoxicating as she approached. I looked down at her full, suffused lips and felt them drawing nearer. Her skin alighted to the presence of mine as though a fire burned through, threatening to consume itself but for the merciful quench of my skin on hers.

I put my drink down on the concrete edge of the pool next to me and then used that hand to grab the back of her head, pulling her closer and intermingling my fingers in her wet, windblown hair. I study her face. The gentle slope of her nose and the roundness of her cheeks. She is ravishing. One more second of hesitation, then we submitted. The taste of the mint still on her lips, the feel of her tongue greeting mine.

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We pause then look over. A middle-aged woman sat alone next to us, smiling expectantly as she waited for a response. All at once, reality hit. We were in maybe the most public setting possible. I look around and notice everyone seems to have cleared a wide margin from us, occasionally throwing a side eye while they mutter under their breath to each other. 

They are talking about us, rightfully so.

“I thought I heard you speaking English earlier, are you from America?” The woman asked again. 

Yes we are, I answered. I tried to make my voice seem as normal and unashamed as possible. I was no longer in the mood, rather more afraid of being kicked out or thrown in prison instead. Or worse, exiled from the country. 

That lady knew what she was doing, looking back on it. But in the moment, it felt like an unwarranted disruption to our extracurricular activities. She was looking out for us and keeping us from reaching a point of no return. She wasn’t wrong. That didn’t make it any easier though. 

She continues trying to pry information out of us for the next couple minutes before being sufficiently satisfied that we no longer will jump each other in public. 

Eventually, I can’t stand it any longer; I understand the moment has gone and we excuse ourselves from the interloper. We stand up from the bench and wade back to the bar for another drink. This time we remain near the bar and decide instead to talk a bit. Four feet on the floor. Civil and proper. 

The mojito did not last very long—we are bored again. Despite somehow already having been at Therme for well over our limit of two hours, we still haven’t seen much of the building. The echoing, tinny speech of dozens of spa-goers reverberates off the walls and pool in a relaxing wave of sound. The sumptuous greenery and soft indirect lights entrance me further into a calm, hypnotic state. We return our drinks to Mr. Beard and head back up the steps, this time exiting to the left where an entire new alley awaits. 

I am not a big Star Wars fan yet I feel as though what I stepped into in the next chapter of Therme Erding must have been inspired by The Phantom Menace. Or maybe vice versa. Perhaps George Lucas visited this room as inspiration. Regardless, even though I wasn’t completely sober, this room made a huge impression on me.

Walking through a bottleneck in the hallway, we pass into a large, blue room. The  ceiling is a waxy, smooth and reflective teal material with a 3D topography. The ceiling, in essence, looked as though it were dark waves in a deep Caribbean ocean and mirrored the activity of the sea critters—us, in this scenario. The walls were white and blue granite with orange torches attached raptly near the doors. It was impossible for me to gauge just how high the ceiling is; the illusion was so perfectly executed.

However, the focal point of this room is not the walls or ceilings but the large structure in the center. A green, eternally twisting bouquet of flowers, intertwined and supporting massive, white flower petals at least seven feet high. From the petals flow a torrent of water, functioning as a fountain and a shower. The entire area feels otherworldly.

I see her take off her towel and stand naked under the flower blossoms and allow the cool, pure water to flow quickly down her body. I don’t bother washing off yet; I just want to watch her for a bit. 

I notice the entire room is dotted with doors, behind each one I reckon is another sauna. I make a mental note to see all of them. 

On the far left at nine o’clock is the one that seems to be the most frequented, I see the door opening and nude, sweaty sardines filtering in and out. I decided to visit that one last. To the left of that one sits another, rather deserted room. I should have taken this as a bad sign but I am too intoxicated to employ any forward thinking; I walk in and immediately burst out laughing.

This small, wooden room is fashioned after a German Backstube. Fake, plastic pretzels sit on fake, plastic charcuterie boards against the blank, white walls. Pizza paddles are strewn about near the heating element and cookie cutter outlines hang from the ceiling. I have become the pastry and this is my oven. It is so simple but I cannot stop laughing at the whole idea.

Unfortunately, it is an infrared sauna; I don’t like infrared saunas. It takes too long to heat up and I don’t feel as though it really allows me to sweat and so, after taking a minute to marvel at the room, I exit. 

She is done with her shower so we try the door at the other end of the room. This time we strike a jackpot: the salt room. With walls constructed entirely of large salt blocks the size of CMUs and bright orange lights filtering behind the salt, there are life sized “trees” standing tall throughout the room as well as pillows, strangely, strewn throughout the benches. It feels as though we stepped into a kiln. Soft piano music is piped in through unseen speakers. It is manageably hot here and we decide to take a corner of the room that isn’t too crowded. So far, this is my favorite ambience. Something about the composition is quite relaxing and I feel a second wind coming. We stay here for a while.  

Time for the next sauna. This time I join her under the fountain as we wash off together. 

On the outside of the door, I see a word that looks like it says Finnish. From my brief experience in European spas, I am aware of the reputation Finnish Saunas have. In short: hot as shit. They have winter eight months a year in Finland so it only makes sense they would want something hot and I don’t blame them. But in that moment though, after the beating my body is taking, I know this is likely to be the final nail in the coffin.

I open the door for her and then we slip in as quickly as possible to avoid losing the heat. I knew immediately my gut was correct, this was going to be torturous. Set at a blistering 80ºC, this is close to water’s boiling point and it packs a wallop immediately upon entering. Without even saying a word, she walks back out without even the slightest consideration of sitting down, leaving me alone with a handful of sweaty monsters. I couldn’t back out now. 

I don’t like calling it quits on heat. I will always let my pride win and I’m willing to pass out before I am the first one to exit. It becomes a competition to me. 

However, after five minutes, air was struggling to reach my lungs. The heat is too much. I look outside to see her sitting on a bench just fanning herself. She had the right idea by leaving. Just when I am about to stand to leave, the unthinkable happens. 

A German man walks in, confident and upright. He has clearly spent some time in the military as his hair is tight and short, his jaw a square. He reminds me of the Drill Sergeant from Stanley Kubrick’s Full Metal Jacket. Obviously, he views himself as an alpha due to the swagger and contempt with which he walks. I don’t like his attitude; I’ve met too many people with his same look and demeanor. I’ll go on record to state: I don’t think he ever saw combat. 

Horrified, I notice he has something in his hand. A couple somethings to be exact. In his right, a homemade snowball from one of the birdbaths. I sigh in exasperation. In his left, a big, white embroidered towel he brought from home. He briefly scans the room and then, feeling satisfied, he places the entire ball on the heater. It sizzles and the room gets ten degrees hotter. 

I have a feeling he isn’t done with his performance and I’m quickly proven correct. He takes the towel hanging from his left hand and begins to swing it around his head as though he were about to throw a shot put. The hot air begins circulating like a vortex, others in the room looking uneasily at him from the side of their eye.

Suddenly, he spins around in a ruggedly graceful pirouette with his towel, whipping the cloth in the direction of the back of the room. Toward me. A hurricane force gust of heat slams into me. My eyes roll back into my head and my body snaps back as if physically shot. The hot air has become absolutely unbearable What is this guy thinking? I don’t need to sweat more. I don’t need more snowballs. I need to exit.

I watch him repeat this process twice more toward the other sides of the room. I don’t know if this is rude behavior or normal, nor do I care. I am not appreciative of the shellacking he is giving me and I stand up. He makes no indication as to moving out of the doorway. I look him in the eye and nod, as I feel it’s the polite thing to do, then try slinking to the right, out of reach of him and his towel windmill. Standing firm, he stares as I walk by as if I’m just a mere, lowly creature.

While he never budges or offers to move aside, he takes a brief pause as I edge by so, at the very least, I won’t be within the path of the hurricane or hit by the massive, hairy arms. As soon as I am out of arm’s length, he begins his towel technique once more. As I push my way out, I hear the familiar snap as more heat is being directed toward some poor sap in the back corner, on the verge of suffering from heat stroke. 

Nearly collapsing and in real danger of overheating, I run to the flower fountain and stand directly under it, face pointed up to allow the stream to hit me with its full power. Holding on to the green stem below, the brumal torrent flows upon me and begins to level out my body temperature. I look back and she is giggling at me—she watched the entire affair unfold through the window and saw discount Dolph Lundgren try to burn me alive while I cowardly skirted out. Ashamedly, I turned my bare asscheeks to her once more. I still hear her laughing. 

I think at this point, I can’t take many more saunas. I have been through a wild, repetitive cycle of heat, cold, heat, cold, mojito, heat, cold. Thankfully, she agrees and it is time to find somewhere to lay out. 

Did we do that? Of course not. We found the pool bar once more. 

Looking at the clock, we are now nearing three and a half hours of spa use, we are going to be paying severely in extension fees. The outside landscape is now completely dark and we cozy up near the palm tree island in the pool, the frequency of loungers around the pool has greatly dwindled. Our friend is coming into town in a little more than an hour and a half. We are likely two hours from the ability to meet her. 

Yet, we don’t move. I just want to look at her. The way the water droplets sit perfectly in form across her shoulders, the pinkness of her cheeks from the alcohol and heat of the day, the strands of wild hair falling upon her face. I know I am a bit drunk, but it feels like more than just the casual encounter I had expected it to be. This wasn’t part of the plan. This felt like something deeper. 

In that quiet, peaceful section, the world was ours. 

But I knew that when I stood up and we swam away, things would return to normal. We would be open-ended again. We would pretend it wasn’t happening to people who asked us. The world would not belong to us any longer. I would watch the curls bounce on the back of her neck as she walked away and I would be powerless to stop it. That was the nature of our relationship. 

So there we sat, curled up on the concrete stoop and submerged in water while we kissed, gently this time. Both my hands were wrapped around her waist while hers around my neck. Inquisitive Germans curiously peering our way, afraid of the kiss escalating further than it should once more. They were in luck this time. Finally, we peeled apart from each other and I dunked my head underwater.

I sank down to the bottom, looking up at the shuffling surface. It seemed never to come into focus. Time seemed impassive; it marched on to an enduring beat. An entire lifetime passed above the water. Whereas, I remained stationary.

Following the Ausfahrt signs, we picked up two towels that were, hopefully, ours and began navigating our way back to the strange shower room from which we entered. Exhausted, hungry, tumescent and unashamed, I now vigorously scrub myself in the shower for all to see. Being naked in the shower was the least of my worries anymore.

I find my way into the locker room and use the wristband to get into my locker. Turning my phone on, I found that I didn’t want to see the contents. I had just been happy. I had been unconcerned with the opinions or notifications of a single, living individual. I was fine if I never reconnected with the world again. I clicked the phone back off. 

I had been wrapped in a cocoon and found myself protected and isolated for the last four hours and I realized in that moment how blissful it had been. I understood the beauty of that spa too. In an age where life is constantly rushing, everyone is always moving and no time is taken on self-care, this mega complex in the middle of nowhere Germany is able to provide a temporary solution. True disconnection.

We hadn’t explored even half of the building and yet still we spent an entire day decompressing. I felt new, as though the process of metamorphosis had been undertaken unknowingly.  

I am eternally grateful for this day. I see it in dreams. To this day, I still wake up suddenly in the dead of night—tears in my eyes. In dreams, I’m transported back there. With her. My mind producing a convincing charade of the moments spent here. With her. 

In dreams, we never fall apart a couple weeks later. In dreams, I don’t lose contact with her for good. 

In dreams, I’m still at Therme Erding with her. Looking into those eyes and feeling like I belonged.