![]() Remaining suspended in this position is effortless. Soon I untangle my arms and rest my head on the railing. Even in this odd position, the sensation is pure weightlessness. This time I let my feet float up, toes bobbing at the blue surface. I paddle cautiously to an unoccupied corner and tuck my elbows behind the railing. Rather than fighting the water’s buoyancy, they rest their heads on the railing. ![]() It’s now occupied by a few regulars: an older couple and a younger man whose long swim trunks bloom in the water. This is neither magical nor calming, so I climb out.Īfter a few rounds in the other pools, all of which bear Latin names recalling the public baths in the ancient Roman empire - caldarium, tepidarium, fridigarium - I return to give the salt pool another try. Instead, I find myself gripping the metal railing at the pool’s edge, resisting the saline’s natural buoyancy by forcing my feet to the floor. I’m waiting for the salt to soak into my skin and magically calm me down. Not sure what to do, I crouch near the wall so the water reaches my neck. The chest-deep salt pool is pleasantly warm when I climb in. Even in a suit, it takes a moment to get comfortable. City dwellers used to bathe only in public bathhouses, and in the buff. I hang up my robe and fiddle with my swimsuit next to a vacant salt pool, feeling the self-consciousness that typically accompanies any first visit to a ritual-bath setting. My eyes are fixed on the glowing turquoise pools below. I step gingerly down the stairs in the dark, trying not to trip. It feels like a steamy church, with wooden cathedral ceilings and marble floors lit by votive candles. The dark, cavernous room is silent except for the sound of trickling fountains.
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