Being brown and in a sauna

Iu00c3u00a2u00c2u0080u00c2u0099d previously relegated the sauna experience to being a white-person thing that coloured people like me couldn't get. Representation pic/Getty Images

When, about a week ago, certain restrictions were lifted, making the recent lockdown slightly less inhibiting, we decided to seize the opportunity and redeem one of our wedding gifts. It was a voucher for a stay at an old village guest house near Sterzing, north from where we live, and towards the Brenner pass that borders Austria.

The hotel was called Stafler, and as we walked into our suite the decor offered the illusion of having travelled back to the 90s. It was an expansive room, and the view from the balcony revealed a snow-covered winter landscape. Having been home-bound since our arrival in South Tyrol in July, we were genuinely excited to indulge in this one-night getaway.

The highlight of our staycation would be the dinner we were entitled to, thanks to Bastian's second cousin and her partner, whose immensely thoughtful gift this was, in the two-starred Michelin restaurant, Einhorn (the German equivalent of the word Unicorn). On paper, the meal, administered by Peter Girtler, was to be seven courses, but with all the surprise elements that had been woven in, it was easily at least ten courses.

While I am still savouring the wealth of details that marked each course, from the exquisite plating to the way my knife and fork sounded against the ceramic cutlery to the tenderness with which the meat had been cooked, the most life-altering moment over the course of the one-night staycation didn't transpire in the restaurant. It was in the spa.

When I'd first visited South Tyrol in 2018, I'd had one experience of what a spa is meant to be. I was at my friend, Sarah's parents' castle. My bestie, Mona, was with me, too, as were Elif and Masa, my co-residents at Eau & Gaz.

After lunch, we slipped into our swimsuits and went to the pool. Sarah fired up the jacuzzi and made arrangements inside the sauna. After having frolicked in the pool, we went into the jacuzzi and then, the sauna.

I remember Elif pouring water over a large bouquet of rosemary and the ensuing, fragrant steam. Mona and I couldn't stand the heat. After about twenty seconds during which time we had both broken into an intense sweat, we announced that we had to leave. We dived into the pool. (She dived, I walked in cautiously).

We relegated the sauna experience to being a white-person thing that coloured people like us couldn't get. Why would anyone volunteer to sweat when those of us who lived in Delhi did all we could not to? I really didn't get it. The interface between intense heat followed by the comforting caress of cold water didn't seem like an inviting proposition. Why would one willingly alter the body's equilibrium, pushing it between extremes?

After our lunch at the guest house's regular restaurant (which was phenomenal and, I suspect, from the same Michelin-star kitchen) we went for a long walk around Mauls, the village we were in. When we returned, we checked in and time-travelled to the 90s. In the spirit of making the most of our stay, we immediately changed into our swimwear, put on the luxurious bathrobes in the room and set off to the spa. The swimming pool area was not too populated, which we appreciated, but there was the persistent din of Muzak - the worst kind, pan flute renditions of Metallica and the Bangles.

But I enjoyed floating to the view of a snow-studded landscape. Meanwhile, my partner enjoyed a quick nap. I woke him up mid-way because my middle-class tendencies were acting up. I wanted to do vasooli. Even if I didn't believe in the therapeutic virtues of the experience, we would go to the sauna because we were entitled to it.

As we stood outside the door I realised that you had to be naked once you entered. Unlike the time I had been to a hot spring in the Parvati valley in India, there was no separate enclosure for women. I had never been naked before among other people. But I didn't want to miss out on an experience because of my internalised sense of shame.

My partner, whose best childhood memories involved vacations with his family on a nude beach in Corsica, was more concerned about where to keep our things than about any of my anxieties. We got out of our swimsuits, wrapped towels over our bodies and entered the sauna. There were two other people, and they were socially distant from us.

I took off my towel and lay on the wooden bench. Around me, people were casually walking naked. It was liberating for my body to not feel watched, judged, or observed. For the time that we were in there, sweating, I got to experience my body as just body, not as something sexualised or deflecting shame. Later I would discover the unspeakable pleasure of rubbing ice over every inch of naked skin, that had been heated by both the dry and humid sauna. But I'll save that story for another day.

Deliberating on the life and times of Everywoman, Rosalyn D'Mello is a reputable art critic and the author of A Handbook For My Lover. She tweets @RosaParx

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