A TALE OF A JJIMJILBANG

There’s something delicious, hedonistic even, about a trip to a day spa.  If I close my eyes, I envision lying on a cushioned table, snuggled in one of those fluffy, heated blankets, straight from the warmer, while an anonymous someone applies fruit or herb scented concoctions to my face and body after a 60 to 90 minute massage.   I’ve been to a few, but not many, as they usually don’t come cheap.

When one of my daughters announced we were going to spend a few hours at a spa in Los Angeles recently, the appropriate pleasure area of my brain lit up.  She saw my eyes roll back and quickly added a disclaimer:  it was a place she had never been to before, but thought it might be fun to check out together.  And, by the way, it was a Korean spa.  

 The lighted things in my brain paused, realigning their expectations.  Stereotypes and preconceived notions swirled as a weird mosaic began to take shape.  I envisioned a spa-version of a Chinese laundry with sweaty Asian men dressed in white tee shirts, aprons and head wrappings punishing me with their hands, beating my back like a drum while judging my wrinkles.  Female attendants tsk-tsked as they smeared octopus ink, shark fin serum and oils made from slaughtered endangered species on my skin, reserving the magical potions for their well-heeled, regular customers.  After all, what could I expect from a place that is open 24 hours a day and only charges a fifteen dollar entry fee?

I smiled bravely and entered the double doors of the Wi spa, somewhat apprehensive about the exact translation of the word “jjimjilbang”.  At the front desk, we were given waterproof wristwatch-like devices that secured our lockers with a wave of our hands.  The receptionist explained that the lower floor was for women only, the middle floor for men only and the upper floor was co-ed.  She indicated that we were welcome to don an outfit of their well-worn signature tee shirts and shorts if we were uncomfortable with nudity.   

Wait….what?  My anxiety meter rose.  Who said anything about being nude?  I brought my bathing suit for the hot and cold Jacuzzis, so surely that would be allowed.  We changed into the logo-splashed uniform and walked straight into a room full of naked Korean women.  A large sign indicated that no clothing of any kind was allowed in the Jacuzzis, and instructed us to visit the washing stations before entering the water.  Oh, those must be the showers, I thought.  Why don’t they just call them that?

Well, because they aren’t.  Rows of women squatted on little molded plastic seats that looked like step stools to me, but tilted so you could see THAT in front of large lighted mirrors, wash basins and handheld shower heads.  They cleaned every inch of themselves as if they were preparing to be inspected afterward.  I told my daughter I would wait for her on the benches against the wall and sat behind a post so I’d have something to look at other than, uh, naked people.  There was no escape.  My eyes searched for something neutral to stare at, only to land on an open passageway that revealed a room full of tables that held more naked women whose body parts jiggled as they were massaged by female attendants dressed in bras and panties.  Said daughter knew I was hiding and suggested we check out the co-ed floor.

A little voice in my head warned, “If the women’s floor freaked you out, just wait.”  As it turned out, the co-ed floor was my favorite.  The stairwell opened up into a large gym-like area ringed by several saunas.  The first was small, and the floor was covered with large nuggets of salt.  We followed the example of the others already inside and lay down in the salt.  I was tempted to move my arms and legs to make the equivalent of a snow angel, but restrained my Caucasian self.  The temperature was 124 degrees.  After a prudent length of time, we decided to try the ice room, where the 41 degree air was a welcome relief.  The jade sauna was next, with mats on the floor of an enclosure where the walls and ceiling were constructed of various rocks and geodes which I supposed were types of jade.  Its temperature rivaled the salt sauna.  They clay sauna was closed for maintenance, but what we could see indicated it was made of little clay balls to lie on instead of salt.

 

The most intense sauna was the forest room where the temperature was over 200 degrees.  There were no places to sit, as our butts would have protested vigorously.  We stood on our towels for protection and fled back to the ice room after about 5 minutes.  

Mats and foam block headrests lay in rows on the floor, inviting us to relax after the saunas sucked away energy, toxins and bad karma.  Thank goodness everyone on this floor was clothed.  My daughter took a brief nap on one of the mats.  I rested beside her for a few minutes before fleeing to the familiarity of the computer terminals to check my email, in English.

So, would I go back to the “jjimjilbang” Korean Day Spa?  Definitely.  It was super-clean, and I loved both the alternating temperature saunas as well as the opportunity to relax.  Just close the door to that room with all the naked people. 

        

   

   

Going Back to Cali ...

In 1981, I ended a four-year stint in California and moved back to the East Coast.  The Golden State was a remarkably diverse area as long as you had a car to get to the scattered pockets of beauty.  As a young mom of three, I was mostly home-bound except when I escaped to play racquetball at a nearby club or visit the neighborhood park with the kids.  We did make occasional treks to the beach and traveled to several national forests for inexpensive camping trips.  Mostly, they were years spent setting up the collapsible swimming pool in the yard and ferrying the herd to preschool and kindergarten. My one celebrity sighting in four years was "Wrath of Khan" and "Fantasy Island" star, Ricardo Montalban.  So weak.

A couple of weeks ago I redeemed some air miles to purchase a ticket to Los Angeles to help my daughter move into a house not far from where her husband had secured a job.  Moving from Boston to L.A. with two dogs and a 15-month-old is not for the faint of heart.  I arrived the day before the movers pulled up with a few pieces of furniture and a lot of boxes.  When you move that far, it's often cheaper to buy furniture than bring it on the truck.  Most of the first week was spent keeping the little one out of the way and enjoying her calling "Nannniieeee" over and over.  While her parents shopped for inexpensive furniture, I toted my granddaughter in a back carrier and entertained her with repeated rides up and down the store's escalator.  "Up-whee" and "down-whee" she cried, delighted with the new activity.  Rooms began to take shape slowly as we tossed ideas back and forth on how to make improvements without sinking money into a rental property.

By the end of the first week, we were ready to take a break from unpacking and do a bit of exploring.  The pooches hopped into the car with us and we headed to dog-friendly Huntington Beach.  After we lucked out and found a parking space that required a short term loan, I was stunned to see the number of dogs racing around on the beach, bounding into the surf, chasing toys and balls.  Yes, there were some "Marley moments", but for the most part, owners were conscientious about cleaning up after their pets.  We set up a beach tent-shelter because the toddler has decided that she doesn't care for sand.  After a few forays to stick her toes into the water, she settled happily onto the shelter floor, consuming bottles of cold milk interspersed with bing cherries and cheese puffs. 

Our next outing was a death march-hike on the Temescal  Ridge near Santa Monica.  I had foolishly pooh-poohed anything shorter, feeling that it wasn't worth a traffic-choked drive that would be longer than the hike.  My daughter wisely packed the baby's lunch just on the chance we would take longer than we planned. Little people with limited language skills don't understand things like "we'll have lunch soon".  After depositing seven dollars to secure a parking space, the hike began pleasantly among the trees that shaded the canyon's entrance.  It wasn't long before I was sweating profusely, praying that each corner of the winding trail would lead to the downward portion of the looped path.  And I wasn't even the one carrying the 40+ pound baby backpack.  Soon I began stopping every fifty feet to catch my breath on the nearly shadeless, rock-strewn trail.  I was reaching the point where I thought I'd have to be air-lifted out of there.  The only thing holding me back was California's dismal fiscal situation.  I'd surely get a bill for about ten grand for their efforts.  The panoramic vistas of the multimillion dollar estates built into the hillside that fell away to the ocean were gorgeous, and occasional puffs of air sliced through the wilting heat.  The baby rode along comfortably on her daddy's back with her bottle of cold milk, shielded with sunblock and a large floppy hat.    I was at the breaking point of the thousand foot ascent when we asked a young couple how much further the blasted waterfall was...and when the trail would begin its promised descent.  "Just ahead," they replied.  We eventually reached the waterfall, reduced to periodic droplets by the drought and began the downward side, pausing every thirty feet to parcel out handfuls of lunch to the baby.  She timed things perfectly, waiting until we released her onto a shaded grassy area at the end to crouch and release her lunch into her diaper.  Smart baby. 

Much has changed over the decades as California now seems overcrowded by those seeking its moderate weather and natural beauty.  But one thing has remained the same.  The only celebrity I saw was "Saved by the Bell" and "Extra" star, Mario Lopez.  Still weak.