An Island of Spas
Piestany, a town of 31,000, has instant allure. The biggest attraction is Spa Island, a wooded warren of thermal baths and other spa facilities. The island is bordered by the Vah River and a narrow canal and offers views of the Carpathian Mountains, which run through most of Slovakia. The Thermia is one of six hotels scattered across the narrow strip of forested land. Locals meander through the pine and evergreen trees regularly; in clement weather, concerts are staged in an outdoor amphitheater. The town center, connected to the island by a narrow footbridge, is a pleasant mix of cafes, art galleries and stately low-rise buildings.
At the Art Jazz Gallery, a popular meeting spot for locals, I ran into Craig Brickman, a Californian who has lived here for four years. "People get dressed up in their best clothes on Sunday just to take a stroll around," he said. "You can't get more Old World than that."
At the Irma spa, adjoining the Thermia Palace Hotel in Piestany, Slovakia, visitors can relax in the thermal pool, which is adorned with stained-glass windows and other ornate fixtures.
(Photo Slovenske Liecebne Kupele; Illustration By Steve Mccracke)
|
|
The Thermia carried on that spirit. Soon after the clerk handed over my heavy gold room key, I was summoned for a brief physical examination -- a requirement for all spa patrons -- by Rudolf Blahunka, the hotel's resident physician. After attempting a consultation in English, he was relieved that I could manage in German and Russian, which he spoke fluently. He paused over my lingering head cold and noted my medium-high blood pressure and the tension in my neck and back muscles.
"Alles ist okay," he finally pronounced, and prescribed a round of treatments for the next couple of days. The regimens, he explained, are drawn from the spa's menu of 57 different procedures, ranging from ultrasounds to injections of "medical carbon dioxide."
The mud wrap, my first therapy, is one of the spa's signature "cures," designed to reduce swelling around the joints and eventually strengthen the body's immune process. Afterward, I showered in thermal water and was covered again in cotton sheets to allow the heat from the mud to penetrate into my muscles. As I lay there, the aches began to fade from my back and neck.
The next day I pushed on, with stints in the mud pool and the mirror bath. The first was a massive swimming pool grandly decorated with stained-glass windows and towering pillars. The pool was filled with thermal water that was about 100 degrees and the bottom was a bed of mineral-rich mud. In keeping with the spa's custom of segregating the sexes, five other men and I sat silently on a ledge along the inside of the pool, before moving next door to the mirror bath (so dubbed because you can see your reflection in the water), a pool filled with sulfuric thermal mineral water also about 100 degrees.
After a shower came another massage. As Dodo, the masseur, moved from my feet and along my legs and back, he explained in German that in contrast to most other massages designed to soothe muscles, this approach focused on stimulating the circulation around the joints. Since ligaments and cartilage are parts I don't twist much, the procedure was slightly painful at first, but I appreciated the chance to stretch little-used parts.
The following morning, after a bout in the thermal whirlpool (which, the attendant explained, was designed to let sulfur deposits soak into the skin and eventually to connective tissues) and another massage, I had a turn in the salt cave, constructed of salt imported from the Red Sea and other locales. The floor is composed of beach pebbles, and the ceiling is a cluster of artificial stalactites made of salt. For 45 minutes, five other guests and I sat in wooden beach chairs, breathing in the salty air. Afterward we bathed in a mirror pool filled with thermal water. Three-quarters of an hour in this faux seaside retreat, an attendant told us, offered the respiratory benefits of three days at the real thing. For me, the effect seemed minimal.
No matter. My room was a comfortable resting place. Although compact and furnished with only a twin bed, it came with cable television, a private bath and other amenities. Between treatments, I sallied around the spa park, sipped tea in the Ferdinand Salon, dallied in the drawing room or repaired to the elegantly appointed restaurant. The menu featured basic Slovak dishes -- choc, a potato and pasta dish; roast pork; a beef platter with sides of mixed vegetables and potatoes. The food was good quality and the presentation elegant, but the taste -- perhaps in keeping with the spa's health-conscious regime? -- was rarely exceptional.
More appealing than the cuisine was the nightly table conversation, which ranged wide -- from the latest offerings at the renowned Bratislava Opera, to the benefits of Slovakia's entry into the EU, to the writers Milan Kundera and Franz Kafka, natives of the neighboring Czech Republic. But usually the talk was about the spa treatments. Most reviews were glowing. Jan, a retiree from Slovakia, said his twice yearly stays keep him feeling youthful at 75. Anne, who with her husband Tom were the only other American guests, were daunted by the posh decor.
