Ancient baths in Seville sounded like a lush treat for an evening. We booked for an hour in the baths and a massage and threw in an order for wine and chocolates.
The plush bathhouse was down a narrow alleyway near the Cathedral. We were tagged at reception and handed blue covers to put over our shoes while we waited with others in a lounge area. Always needing a job, I played host and dished out small plastic cups of herbal tea.
The communal pools consisted of a jacuzzi, a set of three contrast pools from freezing to hot, and our favourite, a salt water flotation pool. It was all old brick, marble tiles and lamps with whiffs of incense and haunting Arabic music in the background. I’m pretty sure everyone’s damp white robes got mixed up in the moves between pools. Staff rang chimes and whispered “finito” to anyone whose time was up.
Our attendant took us and a tray of wine glasses and chocolates to a rooftop pool for some private time enjoying the view. The couple before us gave us death stares at having to leave this little slice of heaven. It was almost too perfect and we couldn’t help but act like we were in a scene from ‘The Bachelor’. Unfortunately, a moment of smartassing sent one of us slipping under the water, plastic wine glass in hand.
We were called for our massages, handed small bags and sent to a curtained corner of the dimly lit room. Several massages were underway beyond the curtains. I knew I’d have to lose my boardies and tshirt for the massage but I didn’t expect the tiny paper g-string in the bag. Another bag was passed in containing what I thought was a hat or, awkwardly, a jock strap, but turned out to be a paper bra. Let’s just say our stifled snorts and giggles didn’t win us any friends in the rest of the massage room. Sophisticated, not.