I spent yesterday afternoon at the 10th street Shvitz sweating out the remains of an improptu dinner and drinks (heavy on the drinks) night with our friend Amber and her newly-arrived-from-LA-rock-star boyfriend Rick.
What my memory can salvage of Saturday night involved some nostalgic slam dancing in our living room, a broken wine glass and some gridiron-worthy flying tackles to illustrate...
...what? I'm not sure exactly.
Whatever the case may be Sunday found me primed and ready for a few hours at the Shvitz.
What is the Shvitz you ask? Well slip me a tylenol and stop talking so loud and I'll tell you. The Shvitz (or Bania, or 10th street Bathhouse, or 'The Russian Turkish Baths" is an ancient east village institution dedicated to heat, sweat and low-rent spa amenities. Towels, sandals, robes and shorts are provided on your way in (women bring a bikini top or bathing suit).
Each room at the Shvitz is hotter than the next - with the exception of the cold pool which, as cold-pools go is very cold indeed and guaranteed to make your nether regions (if you are male) ask themselves if they should put up with this abuse or head north for the rest of the winter.
The rooms themselves break down along the following lines:
- Steam room: Houston in July
- Sauna: Albuquerque in August
- Dry Steam Room: The Sahara after a light rain.
- The "Russian" room: The very center of hell itself.
While all this may sound unpleasant it actually isn't. Men and women mill around like the lunatics from "Midnight Express" - many mumbling to themselves or groaning with steam pleasure or, conversely, carrying on loud political arguments in that inimitable Bronx/Brooklyn accent that makes everyone sound like the expert they want to be.
Added to this chorus are the Orthodox Jews who still speak in Yiddish and, at times, end up 'Davening' together (sort of like a mumbly Yiddish prayer - at least to my ears and forgive my ignorance if something else is going on) in the Russian room. Mingled with all this is the constant sound of running water as it flows into buckets (to be poured on the head before you spontaneously burst into flames) and the echoing quality of the rooms themselves - stone walled and reminiscent of The Carceri. Visually the experience is like being plopped into a Chiaroscuro painting by Caravaggio - mysterious and shadowy...
Oh yeah - and hot!
Real masochists might want to opt for a Platza - which involves an enormous russian dude whomping the crap out of you with a bundle of oak leaves in the hottest room available. I tried it once and nearly passed out - so be warned. If you want one look for a guy wearing an elf-like hat...
You can always take a break from the heat by going upstairs and having a fresh juice, shot of vodka or borscht. Yesterday I opted for a 'liver cleanser' juice and some rye bread with smoked salmon. Perfect!
The 10th street Shvitz used to have a pretty seedy reputation. When I first started going in the mid 90's it was very hard to get a 'legit' massage and, more often than not, you would find yourself being offered a "special" (Pronounced "spee-ye-shul") by one of the enormous russian women who worked as masseuses. But ever since the place was busted by the vice squad they've cleaned up their act and you can get as good (and as cheap) a massage as those uptown toffee-noses who go to places like Bliss and drop 200 bucks. At the Shvitz it's $60.00 for an hour and they have everything from shiatsu to bone-crushing russian massages that will make your spine pop and leave you unable to feel your legs for a few hours.
And, in the end, it was mission successful! So successful that I was actually capable of happily focusing on the new shoes that Patricia bought on her Sunday shopping spree.
From belligerent troll-with-a-hangover to doting boyfriend in merely three hours! Not bad. Well done Shvitz!
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