Putting on the Ritz (part 2)

Adventures at the Gym

Of course our brief taste of fabulosity wasn’t only about duck-shaped-water spouts, high thread counts and dozens of tiny shampoo bottles crammed into already overly-shoe-stuffed-luggage. No, we also hobnobbed and mingled with the wealthy and powerful of the world, or at least, watched them from afar while snickering behind newspapers.

Perhaps the most fruitful place to observe the movements of the rich in their natural habitat was the gym, which consisted of a weight and cardio room, men’s and women’s spas with steam baths, Jacuzzis and saunas and also a large, heated pool. The whole gym area featured an assortment of white-jacketed flunkies, willing to pander to your every whim, if you were willing to pay twelve euros for a bottle of water.

The gym was quite fancy, with cardio machines featuring TVs in the actual machine, so you could watch (as I did) half an episode of Charmed in French, while puffing away on a stationery bike. The novelty of this was quite fun, and certainly watching Alicia Milano’s “acting” through bad French dubbing distracted me from the pain of my workout.

Intent on maximising every possible moment of Ritz time, I was determined to experience the spa. Feeling a little unsure of how things worked, I cleverly cased the situation in the women’s Jacuzzi and sauna area before diving in. Doing a quick tour on Friday night, I spotted an elegant and relaxed woman lounging in the Jacuzzi. She was naked. Okay, I thought, this is Europe and I have to drop my uptight North American ideas about nudity and go with it…

Returning the next day, I changed into a white robe and strolled over to the spa: Fantastic, no one was around. I turned on the Jacuzzi, and watched until the whole bath was bubbling like a pot of spaghetti. Quick sticks, I dropped my robe and glided effortlessly into the tub, like the graceful Euro-woman I had become.

Only it didn’t happen like that. Because the water was bubbling away so furiously, I didn’t notice the little step into the Jacuzzi. Missing it, I fell into the Jacuzzi, like some sort of naked, prat-falling buffoon. Landing with a splash, I thunked my foot against the step that I had missed in the first place. I looked around frantically. Good, no one had seen me. My entrance might not have been Audrey Hepburn elegant, but, at least I was in. Soaking in the glorious jacuzzing waters at the Ritz. Now all I had to do was let the whirlpool’s healing powers subdue the ache in my foot.

Before I had fully relaxed, however, a mother came in with her two teenaged girls. All three were wearing bathing suits. The woman assessed the situation instantly then shot me a dirty look and in an American accent, told her daughters that they'd go to the sauna. That one look deflated all of my carefully built up confidence. What if I had misinterpreted things, and in fact the Ritz spa etiquette strictly forbade nudity? What if what I was doing wasn’t fabulously European, but in fact intensely creepy in a Michael Jackson sort of way? In a flash I realised that I wasn’t cut out for Ritz nudity.

Luckily, in my carefully planned assault, I had considered the possibility of my own wimping out, and had actually stuffed my bathing suit into the pocket of my robe. All I had to do was grab the suit, wriggle into it under cover of the Jacuzzi bubbles and then continue to enjoy the whirlpool in a non-skeevy fashion.

Except that wriggling into a wet bathing suit while powerful Jacuzzi streams hit your body and tug the suit in a million different directions is not as easy as it would appear. Especially when you’re desperate to keep all of your lady bits concealed under the water in case judgemental Americans return and even more especially when your foot still really really hurts from when you fell into the aforementioned Jacuzzi.

After a few moments of thrashing around like a dolphin struggling against tuna nets, I gave up, climbed out of the tub (using the step this time), pulled on my robe (which was now soaking wet thanks to my splashing around) and retreated to a shower stall, where I pulled on the soaked suit. Shivering and cold, I decided to give up on the Jacuzzi, which hadn’t been kind.

The sauna, harbouring Judge Judy and the two Judge-ettes was out, so, feeling a bit less vulnerable now that I was in my suit, I attempted the steam room. The air was thick with vapour and it was difficult to see, but I did notice a woman lying down to my left, so I grabbed the spot on the right. I sat down, closed my eyes, and tried to relax, breathing in the hot steamy, vaguely eucalyptus-scented air. Nice.

Except. The woman next to me began to move. I opened an eye. Through the steam I could see that 1. she was naked 2. she had curled herself up on her back in the foetal position and 3. She was rubbing herself with some sort of giant loofah. I watched in horrified fascination. She was exfoliating herself vigorously, attacking all of her body parts with a ferocity that I reserve for the mustard stain on a favourite shirt. Every now and then she’d let out a little groan as she reached a particularly tough spot. After a minute, I couldn’t handle anymore. I kept imagining little pieces of her sloughed off skin floating over on the steam filled air and landing on me. I stood up.

It was time to attempt the pool.

Next week: Merry Christmas Everyone!

Also, the final chapter in the 'Andy and Amy take on the Ritz' saga:
Will they pick up insider trading tips over drinks in the Ritz Bar? No!
Will they steal a million dollar sapphire necklace from an unsuspecting countess? No!
Will they continue to bumble along, observing some odd behaviour, worrying about swimmer's ear and eating too much at breakfast? Yes! Yes! and Yes!