by Rick Steves
The German Spa
When I’m traveling, there are delightful road bumps in my intense research schedule where I put away the notes and simply enjoy the moment. The classic Friedrichsbad spa in Baden-Baden is one of those fine little breaks.
Ever since the Roman Emperor Caracalla soaked in the mineral waters of Baden-Baden, that German spa town has welcomed those in need of a good soak. And it’s always naked. In the 19th century, this was Germany’s ultimate spa resort, and even today the name Baden-Baden is synonymous with relaxation in a land where the government still pays its overworked citizens to take a little spa time.
I happened to be here when one of our tour groups was in town. I told the guide (who was a German) that I was excited for this great opportunity for her group to enjoy the spa. She disagreed, saying, “No one’s going. They can’t handle the nudity. That’s how it is with American visitors.”
They didn’t know what they were missing. Wearing only the locker key strapped around my wrist, I began the ritual. I weighed myself: 92 kilos. The attendant led me under the industrial-strength shower, a torrential kickoff pounding my head and shoulders…obliterating the rest of the world. She then gave me slippers and a towel, ushering me into a dry heat room with fine wooden reclining chairs—their slats too hot without the towel. Staring up at exotic tiles of herons and palms, I cooked. After more hot rooms punctuated with showers came the massage.
Like someone really drunk going for one more glass, I climbed gingerly onto the marble slab and lay belly-up. The masseur held up two Brillo-pad mitts and he asked, “Hard or soft?” In the spirit of wild abandon, I said, “Hard,” not certain what that would mean to my skin. I got the coarse Brillo-pad scrub-down.
I was so soaped up, he had to hold my arms like a fisherman holds a salmon so I wouldn’t slip away. With the tenderness of someone gutting a big fish, he scrubbed, chopped, bent, and generally tenderized me. In spite of the rough treatment, it was extremely relaxing.
Finished with a Teutonic spank on the butt, I was sent off into the pools. Nude, without my glasses, and not speaking the language, I was gawky. On a sliding scale between Mr. Magoo and Woody Allen, I was everywhere. Steam rooms, cold plunges…it all led to the mixed section.
This is where the Americans get really uptight. The parallel spa facilities intersect, as both men and women share the finest three pools. Here, all are welcome to glide under exquisite domes in perfect silence like aristocratic swans. Germans are nonchalant, tuned into their bodies and focused on solitary relaxation. Tourists are tentative, trying to be cool…but more aware of their nudity.
The climax is the cold plunge. I’m not good with cold water—yet I absolutely love this. You must not wimp out on the cold plunge.
Then an attendant escorted me into the “quiet room” and asked if I’d like to be awoken at any time. I told her at closing time. She wrapped me in hot sheets and a brown blanket. No, I wasn’t wrapped…I was swaddled. Warm, flat on my back, among twenty hospital-type beds—only one other bed was occupied…he seemed dead. I stared up at the ceiling, and some time later was jolted awake by my own snore.
Leaving, I weighed myself again: 91 kilos. I had shed 2.2 pounds of sweat. It would have been more if tension had mass. Stepping into the cool evening air, I was thankful my hotel was a level two-block stroll away. Like Gumby, flush and without momentum, I fell slow-motion onto my down comforter, my head buried in a big, welcoming pillow. Wonderfully naked under my clothes, I could only think, “Ahhhh. Baden-Baden.”
Whether in a German spa, a Finnish sauna, a Croatian beach, or a Turkish hammam (I can’t come up with a British example), a fun part of travel can be getting naked with strangers. Of course, when producing public television, we can’t easily show spas, saunas, or beaches in Europe, where nudity is the norm. Even in an age where you can easily see anything, anytime on the Internet, television “standards and practices” are rigid about showing nudity or sex, or even using forbidden sexual words—and penalties for violators are severe. Any station airing anything potentially offensive (between all the ads for erectile dysfunction medications) on the public airwaves can be made to pay dearly if some of its viewers complain.
Because of strict FCC regulations on nudity, we even have to be careful of which art we film for my television show. Since I feature art that includes naked bodies, my shows are flagged by the network and, in some conservative markets, programmers play it safe by airing my shows after 10 p.m., when things are less restrictive. A few years back, programmers actually got a list of how many seconds of marble penis and canvas breast were showing in each episode. They couldn’t inflict a Titian painting or a Bernini statue on their viewership in those more conservative communities without taking heat.
As public broadcasting stations lack the resources to survive a major fine, they are particularly careful in this regard. Many of us who produce broadcast material on a shoestring (like me, and public broadcasting in general) have to ponder: Should we put a digital fig leaf on David’s full-frontal nudity? Bleep Bocaccio’s bawdy language? Can I film The Three Graces only from the waist up? Will Raphael’s randy cupids be labeled “child pornography” and Bernini’s Rape of Persephone as “S&M”? For now, my partners in public television and I will proceed gingerly—not sure if we can show Venus’s breasts. Can we risk the possibility of a $275,000 fine…and is that per nipple?
You may not want to bring the more casual European approach to sex and the human body back home with you. And I’m not saying we should all run around naked. But I suspect that children raised in America, where sex is often considered “dirty,” are more likely to have an uncomfortable relationship with sex and their bodies than Europeans do. (I sense that there is more violence associated with sex here than there; in fact, Americans report at least double the incidence of rape as citizens of most European countries.) And I have a hunch that the French, who have as many words for a kiss as Eskimos have for snow, enjoy making love more than we Americans do. I like a continent where sexual misconduct won’t doom a politician with anyone other than his family and friends, and where the human body is considered a divine work of art worth admiring openly.
How Europeans View Us
We’ve covered a lot of ground about how America perceives Europe. Now let’s flip things around, to see how Europe perceives America.
Americans—mindful of the now-dated “Ugly American” stereotype—tend to be conscientious ambassadors of their country when traveling to Europe. And many are fearful that they might receive a negative welcome—especially in France, which has a reputation for being “anti-American.” Through my tour business, I take a thousand Americans to France annually. Each year, I survey them in an email, asking, “How were you respected by the local people?” Even in times when the media was telling us how “anti-American” the world was, nobody complained. The French have always given American individuals a warm welcome, even if they don’t care for our foreign policy. In Europe, the mark of a friend is not someone who constantly fawns over your obvious strengths, but someone who tells you when you are off-base and disappointing them.
When European countries refuse to support US foreign policy, many Americans say, “Don’t they remember how we saved them from the Nazis?” The answer is yes, absolutely they do. I was recently filming in France’s Burgundy, at a charming little mom-and-pop château. When I’m filming, get out of my way—the sun’s going down, and we’ve got work to do. But the aristocratic couple whose family had called that castle home for centuries insisted, “We must stop and have a ceremony because we have an American film crew here working in our castle.” They cracked open a fine bottle of wine and brought out—with great ceremony, as if it were a precious relic—the beautiful 48-star American flag they had hoisted over their château on that great day in 1944 when they were freed by the American troops. They implored us, “Please go home and tell your friends that we will never forget what America did for us with its heroics, its economic and military migh
t, and its commitment to liberty.” In addition to being grateful to the US for helping to free them from Hitler, Europeans also appreciate our defeat of the Soviet Union with a bold and determined battle of economic attrition during the Cold War.
Europeans are forever thankful for America’s role in freeing them from Nazi tyranny.
I have European friends six or eight years older than me, born in the late 1940s, named Frankie and Johnny because their parents were so inspired by the greatness of the Americans they met who came to liberate them from the Nazis.
Europeans are inclined to like Americans. But if there is a negative aspect to their image of us, it’s that we are loud, wasteful, ethnocentric, too informal (which can seem disrespectful), and a bit naive. Think about the rationale behind seemingly strange European ways. For instance, many Italian hoteliers turn off the heat in spring and don’t turn on the air-conditioning until summer. The point is to conserve energy, and it’s mandated by the Italian government. You could complain about being cold or hot…or bring a sweater in winter, and in summer, be prepared to sweat a little like everyone else. While Europeans look bemusedly at some of our Yankee excesses—and worriedly at others—they nearly always afford us individual travelers all the warmth we deserve.
We’ve taken a wide-ranging and (I hope) thought-provoking tour through the Old World. You probably found some of these ideas appealing, and others appalling. Again I’ll state the obvious: Europe doesn’t have all the answers. But I wonder if Europe is “out-innovating” us when it comes to finding clever new solutions. When I encourage Americans to take a look at a European approach to a problem that is befuddling us, some critics accuse me of “America-bashing”—“If you love Europe so much, why don’t you just move there?” Short answer: I love America more. And because I care about our society, I challenge us to do better. In times good or bad, we should be open to considering all the solutions we can.
Seeing European Passions Nurtures a Broader Perspective
Part of the fun of travel is learning to respect and celebrate how different people have different passions for different things. A traveler learns that the love of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness comes in different colors and knows no borders. And as this photo essay shows, if there’s one thing we can learn from Europe, perhaps it’s new ways to enjoy life to its fullest.
Like community events in my hometown are uplifting, little festivals contribute to the fabric of every community. In Verona, Italy, teenage cooks teach the little ones how to make ravioli in hopes of keeping that element of Italian culture vibrant. In spite of its modernity, Europe values its traditions. Festivals seem designed to hand these traditions from one generation to the next.
In Beaune, France, the local Chamber of Commerce invests in an exhibit to help people appreciate the wine. Clearly, having a good nose in France is a life skill worth cultivating.
In America, we have freezers in our garages so we can buy in bulk to save money and avoid needless trips to the supermarket. In contrast, Europeans have small refrigerators. It’s not necessarily because they don’t have room or money for a big refrigerator. They’d actually rather go to the market in the morning. The market visit is a chance to be out, get the freshest food, connect with people, and stay in touch. While the popularity of supermarkets is growing, Europeans who value the traditional fabric of their societies still willingly pay a little more for their bread for the privilege of knowing the person who baked it.
In Italy, they love their expensive red wine—but they also love their simple, fill-’er-up-at-the-gas-station wine. Italians get their table wine cheap at filling stations like this.
On the streets of Helsinki, seeing masses of people marching, I thought I might be in store for a big demonstration. Then I realized it was an annual festival where all the choirs gather on the steps of the cathedral. They sang a few hymns together, then they broke into small groups and invaded every pub in town. It’s the “take choral music to the pubs” festival.
French farmers fatten their geese to enlarge their livers, considered a delicacy. They force-feed the geese four times a day. Then, when their livers grow from a quarter-pound to two pounds, they slaughter them and eat the fattened liver, or foie gras. The English travel in droves to France’s Dordogne region to enjoy this gourmet treat. Animal-rights activists worldwide object to the treatment of the geese, and for a time, foie gras was actually illegal for restaurants to serve in Illinois. But French farmers don’t understand all the fuss. They tell me the tradition started when their ancestors caught geese who had fattened up their own livers to make the migratory trip to Egypt. They found them very tasty and decided to raise them, help them fatten those livers, and spare them that long flight. They claim that geese are designed to grow fat livers, and they pride themselves in creating fine living conditions—as the quality of the foie gras depends on the quality of life the geese lead, right up until the day they are slaughtered.
The biggest single room in America is filled with airplanes. The biggest one in Europe (in Holland) is filled with flowers.
The English have an impressive ability to lie on beaches—like this one, in Blackpool—and pretend it’s sunny.
This woman just hiked all the way from Paris to the northwest corner of Spain, Santiago de Compostela. For a thousand years, pilgrims have made this trek for reasons I don’t understand. I’ll never forget seeing the jubilation on the faces as triumphant trekkers of all ages and languages—walking sticks frayed, pant-legs fringed, faces sunburned—paused to savor the sweet moment when they finally reached their goal. I’m not sure why this moved me so. Perhaps it’s the timeless power of individual faith. Maybe it’s heritage and tradition. Or it might be the notion that people would abandon everything and move mountains for treasured feelings and beliefs that never even occurred to me.
Regardless of your journey, you can put a little pilgrim in your travels and find your own personal jubilation.
Chapter 4
Resurrection in El Salvador
Travel Makes You Wiser, but Less Happy
Under a Corrugated Tin Roof with Beatriz
Globalization: The -Ism of Our Time
The City Built Upon a Garbage Dump
In 1492, Columbus Sailed the Ocean Blue…
El Salvador’s Civil War and Bonsai Democracy
Romero, Martyrdom, and Resurrection
Lie Flat and Strum Your Guitar
Epilogue: Back to the Barrio
My four trips to Central America—each organized and led by Augsburg College’s Center for Global Education—have done much to shape my politics. It’s fascinating how your impressions of a place—and the place itself—can evolve over many years of visits. My first trip, in 1988, took place during El Salvador’s Civil War. By my second visit, in 1991, the leftist people’s revolution had been put down and US- and corporate-friendly forces were in control. The third trip, in 2005—the primary focus of this chapter—was built around the events memorializing the 25th anniversary of the assassination of Archbishop Oscar Romero. And by my fourth trip, in late 2010, the revolutionaries were in power, but seemed only to be proving that power corrupts—and the people were still grappling with some of the same vexing problems. (Journals from my trips are online at ricksteves.com/politicalact.) There’s something about visiting Central America that stirs a certain traveling soul. As some expats say about El Salvador, “It’s like a low-grade herpes virus. It just gets in you, and you can’t get rid of it.”
For each of these trips, I had a week or two available for a vacation. I could have enjoyed lying on a beach somewhere, but I chose to spend the time in El Salvador. Checking in on a people who lost a revolution, taking the pulse of corporate-led globalization in a poor country, collecting my impressions, and sharing them now is precisely what I consider to be travel as a political act.
I realize it’s odd, as a relative novice to Latin American travel, for me to have such strong opinions—or any opinion—on these topics
. Far from being an expert, I’m a classic case of someone knowing “just enough to be dangerous.” It’s clear: My passion is rooted in the opportunities I’ve had to talk with and learn from smart, impoverished people living in what I grew up considering “banana republics.” Frankly, spending time with the poor in Central America radicalizes people from the rich world. I hope the following impressions and observations not only share some of what I learned, but illustrate why choosing a place like Managua over a place like Mazatlán the next time you head south of the border can create a more fulfilling travel experience.
Where and how you choose to travel determines how much you’ll learn. Organizations offering “educational tours” turn the world into a fascinating classroom.
Travel Makes You Wiser, but Less Happy
Back before my first trip to Central America in 1988, I specifically forbade my heart to get caught up in economic justice issues south of our border. I knew there were leftists fighting American-funded groups and it was a tragic mess, but that was it. There was too much pulling at me, and the competing sides, excuses, and complaints were all too complex and contradictory. I just didn’t have the energy to sort it out, and I didn’t need it in my life. Then I traveled there and learned what Thomas Jefferson meant when he wrote that travel “makes men wiser, but less happy.”
