Taking the baths in Tbilisi

As I might have mentioned in a previous posting, Tbilisi sits atop a hot sulfur spring.  In fact, the name “Tbilisi” is literally translated as “warm place.”  As legend has it, in the 5^th century King Vakhtang I was hunting in a forest with his trained falcon.  The falcon caught a pheasant but the weight of the bird dragged both the hunter and the hunted into a hot spring where both birds died.  King Vakhtang was so impressed with the discovery that he decided to build a city on this location.

Fast forward to yesterday.  There are still numerous hot spring baths in the center of town.  They’re quite popular and some are pretty opulent.  I’ve been curious as to what they were like so yesterday I took the plunge (pun intended and, hopefully, appreciated).  It was a good day for it as well – about 40F, snow flurrying around, and the wind going off in more directions than Don King’s hair in an electrical storm. 

You walk into what appears to be a hotel lobby:  reception desk, a waiting room with a TV blaring (all TVs produced or imported into Georgia have only two volume settings:  off and ear-splitting), and a small bar.  There’s a bill of fare posted behind the reception desk – in Georgian, of course, which makes me wonder if Americans don’t frequent the baths (my guess) or if there’s intent to discourage Americans from frequenting the baths.  Either way, between a mixture of English, Georgian, German, and pantomime, I rapidly deduce the cost to be 30 Lari (about $18) for your basic bath. 

A small sidebar here – besides English, I speak passable French and pretty good German (that is, of course, my opinion.  My wife would tell you I speak passable English, embarrassing German, and French that would make a Parisian stick hot candles in his ears rather than hear me butcher his language any further.)  My point, however, is this:  as Tbilisi becomes more westernized, the number of polyglot business owners has increased dramatically.  It makes for a comedy sketch, therefore, when I walk into a store asking, in very rapid order and without waiting for an answer between questions, my standard opening litany:  “Gamorjaba (hello in Georgian)!  Does anyone speak English?  Sprechen-sie Deutsch?  Parlez-vous Francais?”  Nevertheless, I eventually get more point across, usually in a combination of Georgian, English, and the ever popular pantomime.

So back to the baths.  As I’m being escorted to the bath area, the lady behind the counter asks me if I want a “scrub massage,” to which I say sure, why not?  Then she asks if I want towels.  Well, duh, I think; it’s a bath, of course I want a towel.  Then, I’m offered tea which I also accept.  All of these, of course, are extras, driving the cost of my bath to an eventual 40 Lari ($24). 

Another sidebar – sorry, but I’ve had two Diet Cokes this morning and I’m a bit caffeinated.  This business method of adding “extras” to a basic menu is standard in Georgia.  If you go to a restaurant, for example, you’re asked if you want bread while you peruse the menu.  That’s extra.  Do you want ketchup or some other condiment?  Extra.  Would you like rice with that order of curry?  Extra.  How about some nuts with your beer while you wait?  That’s extra, too.  It’s never a large addition to the bill – all those items I’ve just named might run a total of 2-3 Lari, about $2 extra at most – but it’s the standard way of doing business here.

OK, so I’ve decided I want the royal package – an hour’s bath, a “scrub massage,” whatever the hell that is, and towels.  I’m led to a small room with a chair, couch, coffee table, and a black and white TV showing a soccer game with the volume set to the “off” option.  On one wall are mounted coat hooks over a small shelf.  Next to the hooks and shelf is a door.  The lady motions that I’m to get undressed here and go through the door to the baths where I’m supposed to take a shower.  As they say in the furniture business, sofa so good. 

I undress and enter the room and am quickly taken back to 11^th grade English class where we read Dante’s Inferno.  In the room is a square marble tub, 6’ x 6’ x 4’ deep.  There’s a marble slab affixed to one wall, and a single CVC pipe from the ceiling running a stream of unbelievably hot water.  There are no valves to change the temperature or pressure of the water.  Presuming that to be the shower, I jump in and out of the scalding water until I’m wet.  The room smells like rotten eggs (the sulfur, obviously) and there’s a misty fog of steam throughout the entire room.  I ease myself into the tub.  There are no jets like a Jacuzzi, just a single pipe that pours water continuously into the tub, the overflow running into a series of drains across the tiled floor.  The steam rises to a domed ceiling and out vents at the very top of the dome so there’s a constant layer of steam across the baths visible from the street. 

The water is hot.  Not Jacuzzi hot, but HOT.  It’s the hottest water I’ve ever been in (well, there was that one time when I came home late and a bit under the influence, but that’s a different type of hot water…), and I have to ease myself into it by degrees.  Finally, I’m sitting on the shelf built into the tub, soaking in the sulfurous waters.  You quickly stop noticing the rotten egg smell, and just sit back and let the warmth soak into you.  It’s quiet in the baths and the water has a bit of a feel to it sort of like mineral oil.  It’s not a thick texture, but it’s heavier, it seems, than normal water.  For 45 minutes, I sit in the tub, sipping hot tea, letting my mind wander and feeling more and more relaxed. 

The door opens and a very large man enters wearing a bath robe.  This guy must be close to a Shatner and a half.  I probably need to explain that.  In Iraq, a “Shatner” became a unit of measurement for weight.  A Shatner is about 300 pounds and is named, naturally, after the actor William Shatner of Star Trek and Boston Legal fame.  We developed the unit of measurement after seeing Shatner on a talk show.  He was, to say the least, a large man.  You could sell advertising space on him, and he was using the Equator as his belt.

So the robed man goes a good 350 pounds, 90% of it gut.  He’s carrying a bucket which he sets down and hangs up his robe.  Wearing nothing but boxer shorts and shower shoes, and holding his bucket, he motions me to the marble slab.  As I walk, reluctantly, to the slab, the man dips the bucket into the tub and pours water onto the slab.  I lie down on the slab face down.  Mr. Shatner then puts on a glove with a coarse loofa imbedded in it and proceeds to scrub me from head to toe.  It’s not a massage, and it’s not rough or unpleasant.  When he’s done with one side, he slaps me on the hip, grunts something in Georgian, and steps back.  I take that as my cue to roll over.  He scrubs my front and motions me to sit up.  As I’m sitting there, Mr. Shatner scrubs my head. 

For the second round, I’m motioned to lie back down on my stomach.  A large mesh bag is placed on my back and Shatner pulls on another glove, this one consisting of what must be 40-grit sandpaper in the palm.  The routine is repeated, except this time with soap and the sandpaper glove.  It is, essentially, a dermal abrasion as my first layer of skin is removed.  Finally, Shatner sits me up, finishes scrubbing me and pours two buckets of water over my head.  He motions me back to the tub, bows, and leaves.  I’m bright red from head to toe.  My skin (or what’s left of it) is undecided if it should tingle or burn.  I hop back into the tub, the water even hotter this time as there’s no layer of skin to protect my internal organs from being braised in the tub.  After about 10 minutes comes a knock on the door.  My bath time is done. 

You don’t get dressed right away after a bath like this.  Instead, you put on a towel which really isn’t a towel after all but a bed sheet torn in half.  You’re expected to wrap it around you like a toga and sit in the outer room until your body temperature returns to normal.  I imagine this lesson was learned the hard way after watching several clients collapse with heart attacks after transitioning from the heat of the baths to the winter temperatures outside.  Thus, the TV – it gives you something to do while you wait.  After another ten minutes or so, I dry off with the bed sheet (now there’s a challenge – bed sheets don’t absorb water like a towel as much as they move it from one part of your body to another.  Essentially, you’re air drying while standing like a Roman statue), get dressed and leave the baths.

I feel wonderful – I’m energized and relaxed at the same time.  I have the same feeling I do when I get out of a sauna – drained almost, but vigorous.  And thirsty.  I stop at a local market and buy two bottles of water, chugging them one after the other while walking to the bus stop.  On the bus, I’m so relaxed I almost fall asleep and come close to missing my stop. 

It’s a terrific experience and one I’m looking forward to repeating since it appears winter has decided to stay a while longer this year.  It’s definitely not a summer experience, but for a relaxing way to spend a winter’s day, you can’t beat it. 

Thanks for reading.