Takin’ a bath in Hot Springs, Arkansas

I’ve spent the last two days in a quaint historic town that gets its name from the 47 hotter-than-bath-water springs. This place was the place to visit when doctors prescribed hydrotherapy and everyone traveled by train. Densely covered Hot Springs Mountain (more like a hill) is a backdrop to the magnolia-lined Bath House Row. Along this road is a series of bath houses which have long since past their prime (all but one are closed). The most ornate, the Fordyce, was turned into the visitors center for this, the smalled National Park. A tour of the Fordyce (sounds like four-dice) gives visitors a peak into a luxury spa nearly 100 years ago. Some of the signs compared this bath house to the great Roman and European baths. (After seeing Roman ruins, if I had to chose one in my DeLorean, I’d go Roman.) The marvels of the machine age are certainly worth note. The shower contraptions, sprayers, and machines all had that hand-built but machine-like quality. The chrome knobs, levers, spray nozzles, thermometers, and intricate piping reminded me of a time gone, a time that’s been replaced by our digital blackbox miniaturization. It’s probably a good thing our fascination with electricity and its healing powers have waned. Although no one was electrocuted by the electrically infused bath, it couldn’t have been healthy. Plus the healing powers of mercury have been replaced with lights flashing “Danger Zone”. All-in-all I can see why history has swallowed most of this routine.

However, after seeing all this and having covered 800 miles the previous two days, I wanted to see what the fuss was about. I signed up for “The Works” which included a hot springs fed bath, a hot towel cool down, and a short massage. After talking with the hostess who sat behind the oldest computer I’ve seen in use in a long time (complete with black and green screen) and in front of what looked like a bank of small PO boxes, I walked into the men’s half of the bath house to meet Gyula who showed me to my private tub which was long enough for my whole legs and most of my body to soak in the hot water. Normally the soak lasts 15 minutes, but since the place was nearly empty, I was left for 25. Standing up, I realized why hot tubs and alcohol don’t mix (I was totally sober and thus didn’t faint, but was close). The soak was followed by a relaxing hot towel treatment where hot towels are placed along your back and neck and you’re covered by a sheet. The coup de grace was the ice cold forehead towel. This relaxing repose was followed by a slightly cool shower that had one head on top and an array of brass pipes with pin holes drilled which created a nearly 360 degree rinse. The control for the shower was the best part. Two pipes, a hot and cold came down from the top of the partition and met in a large “regulator” about half the size of a loaf of bread. Above the knob that controlled the mix was a giant radial thermometer which had a small part labeled “Safe” in green and a very large region, from about 110 to 212 labeled “Danger Zone”. I had to smile and I wished I had had my camera, and although the little one’s waterproof, taking it into a working bath house seemed like a bad idea. The whole process finished with a massage from a man named Beufort who I thought was blind given that his eyes were closed the whole time and definitely used his hands to “see” as he walked around (he walked right into the curtain). When he mentioned the place were he bought his most recent car, I began to worry about driving in this area.