I lived in Budapest for six months before I chose to participate in one of its most famous tourist attractions: getting in to a series of moderately sized to large tubs with hundreds of scantily-clad strangers. As a long-time lover of jacuzzis and hot tubs, I didn’t mind bathing in a group of unknowns as long as I got to experience the bliss that is fully submerging my body in hot water. Also, I had three friends to accompany me, creating a small comfort zone in a sea of speedo-wearing senior citizens.
My friends and I represent a variety of different body types. One of us lanky—able to fold herself in half to sit on a small ledge, her stomach defying all forms of science I have ever personally known and remaining flat even when completely compressed. Another is constantly adjusting, pulling on thin pieces of nylon and tying and re-tying uncooperative straps. I stay under the water as much as possible, and enjoy the newfound lightness of my limbs, lifting my legs like I was taught to do in the ballet classes I took as a child. I resist the urge to take my fingernails and scratch the dead skin cells off my elbows and neck. I notice after a few minutes that a week-old scab on my right leg is missing, and try not to think about what souvenirs from other bodies that could be microscopically surrounding me. I am thankful that I am not someone whose area of expertise means I know things like how many skin cells you lose in an hour. In this way, I prefer and chose to remain blissfully ignorant.
In other ways, I want to know everything. As I walk slowly and methodically through the neck-high water, my surfaced head in a thin cloud of steam, I attempt to eavesdrop on all of the conversations. Unfortunately, I am monolingual and cannot understand much in such a multicultural environment. Between my three friends and I, we know three languages. I listen to a group of middle aged women speak in English about how much weight they’ve gained this year. Kayla listens to a group of study-abroad students from Italy talk discuss their bar options for the evening. “That has to be something Nordic,” says Lara, who is fluent in German and English, but can’t quite identify the quick chatter of a large group of blonde males. We ask, and after some sign language and stumbling through pronunciation, we find out they are from Sweden.
By the end of the day, I am not longer aware of myself blatantly staring at people. I watch a medium-sized twenty-something take off her towel to reveal a well-fitting blue one-piece bathing suit. Her hair is chopped short and the combination of this facial framing and the suit’s color make her blue eyes stand out, even through the haze. I am about to turn to Bekah to point out how cute this stranger is when she speaks to me instead, “The cool thing about being here is that after a while you begin to realize that bodies are just bodies.” I am more refreshed by this statement than anything the lavender and eucalyptus steam rooms have provided. Every body is different, and that’s how it is supposed to be. A sentiment that I’ve heard before, especially from “positive body image” champs like Lena Dunham, but I still needed reminding of. Because I, like many others, have spent hours of my life actively hating my own body—devoting negative energy towards something that is not only temporary, but a gift that allows me to explore and communicate and love and bless and praise.
We leave the baths with shriveled hands and pruned toes. The evening light and cool air outside makes my skin feel tight and my lungs spacious. And with new skin and new seeing, I am born again.
Caroline (Higgins) Nyczak (’11) lives in Brooklyn, New York, where she spends the vast majority of her time teaching English Language Arts. You may also find her at barre exercise classes or playing (and losing) at bar trivia. She continues to be inspired by the energy and diversity of New York City and the beauty of that certain slant of light.
