Swedish Spa

they do it right, folks

When I was gifted a Gothenburg spa visit back in 2022 (the massage portion of which I described, briefly, in what remains by far my most popular post to date¹), I was mesmerized. It was far more elaborate than the Ontario spas I’d visited on special occasions in the past; it wasn’t ‘just’ a sauna, a steam-room, and pools of varying sizes and temperatures—it was a small palace of enchanting rooms, pools, fountains, devices, stations, and alcoves, only about half of which I knew what to do with.

There were dimly lit wooden platforms covered in soft, clean cushions; there were marble tables that treated you to a slate of pre-set water massages; there were rooms with enormous chairs that rocked you like a baby while playing soothing sounds; there were corridors of stone with flaming torches on the wall and alcoves with mini-waterfalls; there were small rooms where you pressed buttons and strange lights appeared in magical formations while water of differing pressures and temperatures was released from obscure places. There were wooden buckets placed by marble seats with embedded copper taps and stone cups of rubbing salts; there were open flames; there was a room that imitated various styles of Gothenburg rain.

It was all like some kind of relaxation theme park, I thought, or like an art museum designed to free you from your thoughts instead of provoking new ones. The general aesthetic was royal-family-hangout in Game of Thrones², with a delicate sprinkling of space-age technology. I loved it. It was everything I’d always wanted a spa to be. And I thought it was just this particular fancy place. Then, last week, I visited my second Swedish spa.

This one was at the other end of the country, in a small northern city (population approx. 12,000) about halfway between the Gulf of Bothnia and the mountains bordering Sweden and Norway. It was, like my Gothenburg treat three years ago, a hotel spa, but in a hotel that, while nice, was—perhaps necessarily, given its remote location—less fancy.

But the spa was designed on what seemed to be the exact same principles. It went far beyond pools (of which there were nine, some outside) and saunas (three, all outfitted like treehouses, complete with wooden pulleys hanging from the ceiling which released more water onto the heater-stones at a little tug), to rooms upon rooms of strange and delightful sensory experiences. It took me all afternoon to try everything. I didn’t want to miss out on a single ride.

I sat on a wooden stool and used little cloths to rub salt into my back in a room dedicated to the purpose; I pressed a button in a little room covered in vines and pretended I was in a jungle storm while warm water streamed from the ceiling and lights flashed from somewhere; I pulled a thick rope and had a bathtub’s worth of water fall on my head; I got a beer from the in-spa bar and drank it in a dim bubbly pool³; I gazed at a mountain river through floor-to-ceiling windows as some cozy contraption murmured nature sounds into my ears; I soaked in an outdoor hot tub as light cool rain came down; I went directly from the (roasting hot) river-facing sauna to a room where I was doused in ice; I put on silly little glasses and had, the sign assured me, my mitochondria regenerated via lying in a bed of red lights for fifteen minutes.

Maybe this is giving them too much credit, but what I really appreciate about the Swedish approach to these things⁴ is attention to imaginative potential. There is no literal purpose in a spa for long entrance corridors decked out with torches and elaborate brick archways, or with stones and vines and special hidden lighting, yet both Swedish spas I’ve visited had them, and they were perhaps my favourite parts of the whole experience.

Because what I want in a spa, and what makes them worth saving my pennies to visit, is as much about the mind as the body. I don’t mean this in any sense that involves the word “holistic.” I mean that as adults we are barred from Narnia; properly venturing into the imaginative realm often takes focused effort and stretches of time of uncertain length spent alone, staring at water or trees or nothing, with glazed eyes and an exceptional ability to ignore the incessant societal pressure to be “productive”⁵. So I, as someone who has always loved (and to varying degrees attempted to live within) the imaginative realm, find myself perhaps excessively grateful for these dribbles of socially-sanctioned spaces that actively encourage the imagination of adults—not for any didactic or political purpose, and not fed to us pre-made and commercially processed and blasted from a screen so that we can exert a minimum of imaginative effort. Just there, as an environment of ingredients for our imaginations to feed on, if we so choose. Just saying, quietly, kindly: go ahead, pretend you’re a mythical warrior or a planetary explorer or a forest creature from the dawn of time. Here, for once, you’re allowed.

1. Presumably because it is tagged (accurately) ‘nudity’. Le sigh.

2. You know, minus the murder, incest, misogyny, total war, torture chambers, etc.

3. ‘Is there a specific area I should stay in while I drink this?’ I asked the bartender when he handed me my glass, assuming the answer would be yes. ‘Oh no, you can take it anywhere,’ he replied. ‘Just, you know, be careful.’ My god…..the bliss at being treated like a competent adult!!! Coming from litigation-happy/fearful North America, this aspect of European life is a profound gift.

4. “these things” meaning spas, with my analysis based on a sample size of two.

5. Which word revolts you more, dear reader, ‘productivity’ or ‘content’? I can’t decide.