With my departure from Budapest fast approaching, and feeling slightly fragile following the antics of the previous evening, I had only one mission for my final day: visit one of the city’s infamous water spas to ease the pain. On Day 17 I took the plunge and went on an aquatic adventure.
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| Rudas' dark but stunning interiors |
Budapest’s thermal spas are famous across the globe. Not only do people flock from across Europe to relax and unwind in the naturally heated waters, but local doctors even recommend an afternoon at the spas as an official form of treatment. To see what all the fuss was about, I made my way to Rudas Thermal Baths, renowned for its original Turkish décor and beautiful colonnades. Indeed, walking into Rudas’ central bathing hall does take your breath away, not least because of the stale stench of the sulphuric waters.
Rudas on a Friday is Men’s Day, which means a slightly bizarre dress code: no swimwear, just backless loincloths. Although Owen had warned me of this little tradition, the sight of countless naked bottoms was undeniably disconcerting. After a few minutes of sheepishly keeping my eyes on the ground and my back against the wall, I figured “well, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em” and paraded my derriere with pride. I didn’t really have much to worry about though, as most of my fellow bathers were of the larger, older variety; I was an Adonis in comparison (if I may say so myself…)
The baths are made up of a variety of pools – all at different temperatures – three saunas and two steam rooms. I quickly began “testing the waters” and decided that the main pool at 36°C was where I wanted to be, staying there for the best part of an hour. It’s hard to imagine how you can spend so much time just wallowing in the water, but once you get comfortable (with both the temperature and the nudity), it’s easy to sit and relax. I then sampled the steam rooms, though this was a far shorter activity, as breathing was a near impossibility in the hot, muggy chambers. Suffocation isn’t really my thing.
Before leaving the spa, I treated myself to a traditional water massage. The only massage I’d had before was a peaceful, soothing affair which basically put me to sleep. Hungarian massages are a whole different ball game. “Off!” commanded my burly masseur, pointing at my loincloth. I awkwardly obliged and lay face-down on the big stone table. “No! Other way!” EH?! In the name of cultural acceptance and experiLentation, I rolled over. So there I was: naked as the day my mother bore me, about to be manhandled by a muscle-clad Hungarian. And manhandled I was. He set to work pummeling my joints, using copious amounts of soap and water. I did my best to stifle my cries of pain (both physical and emotional), and managed to endure the whole experience. Even when he slapped my buttock to indicate I should roll over. And even when he grabbed my hair and pulled sharply upwards to “relax” my neck. The ordeal ended with a big bucket of water being thrown over my head, leaving me wet and shell-shocked like a broken man. I got up, put my loincloth back on and miraculously felt amazing. There was definitely method in my masseur’s madness…
Fast forward three hours and I was sat on the plane back to London, struggling to believe that I had actually gone through all that. I’d recommend a Hungarian spa visit without a doubt, though the fainthearted should avoid the massage parlour at all costs.
Day Seventeen: Get initiated into Budapest's spa culture. SO Done!
Peace & Love,
Rich xx
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