Laying nude on my back atop a warm and wet marble slab, I was staring up at the skylight of the dome I layed in, watching hot steam dance and swirl with the sunlight against a mosaic tile backdrop until eventually escaping through the circular hole at the top. The choreography was brilliant.
My masseur, a man named Giorgi, after applying a thick soapy foam all over my naked body, was rubbing my legs all the way up and all the way down with a sandpaper textured glove, accidentally hitting parts of my body that aren’t my legs on occasion, and all I was thinking was “Don’t get an erection. Don’t get an erection. Don’t get an erection.” I most certainly wouldn’t be ashamed if it happened, however, I think it would be rather poor form to present such a gift as my first experience within Tbilisi’s public baths.
As the legend goes, in the 5th century, King Vakhtang Gorgasali was out with his hunting falcon and it had caught a pheasant, but clumsily dropped it (either this, or the falcon itself fell). Rather than go find the fallen bird himself, the annoyed King yelled to his servants in a very, very demanding tone “find that fallen bird, I command, and bring it to me!” The King, holding back tears of disappointment, and with a slight quiver in his throat, continued: “Your King is now going to take a nap, for I am hungry and oh so very weary from this exhausting hunting expedition. I had grown such high hopes for this pheasant, almost salivating at the very thought of devouring it, with its succulent juices rolling along my wanting tongue. Now, I must have it! You see, I must! You filthy undeserving scoundrels best have a cooked bird in my presence when I wake, or else….” And then he drew his thumb across his neck in a threatening manner; his eyeballs almost bulging out of his head.
Rather frightened, his servants ran, dodging trees, brush and scurrying critters, until eventually finding the fallen dead bird laying in a pool of water and, to their great surprise, the bird was already boiled! “Sweeeeeeeet!”, they said in unison. After giving each other a smile and a high-five, they rushed back to the King and put the cooked bird in front of him, just moments before he awoke.
After eating a rather sulfuric tasting bird, and licking his fingers clean, the King proudly proclaimed “I am pleased! Such a bird you have prepared you fine distinguished gentlemen. Ah ha! Such a bird indeed!” He was so pleased, in fact, that he founded Tbilisi (derived from the word “TBILI”, which means warm), all due to the sulfuric hot springs running under this part of the city. (Note: The actual legend says nothing about naps or eating sulfuric birds. I just pictured him being cranky and in need of a nap.) By the 13th century, there were some 63 bathhouses operating and today, in 2020, there are 14, and today, in the middle of February, I decided to check one out.
I had done some research beforehand and, after reading some reviews online from other Westerners, I was quickly reminded as to how little I actually care for the opinion of Westerners these days: “Very dirty!” (this is not a hotel bathtub), “Smells eggy!” (you expect sulfuric baths to smell of vanilla and freshly roasted coffee beans?), “people are naked in the public baths!!!!” (yes, people bathe naked. This is a shock?) Oh, the particular segment of vapid Western traveller strikes yet again.
Most of these delicate souls end up paying tourist prices, somewhere between $30-$60, in order to rent a private and secluded room and sit in their body shame alone, or with a partner. They’ll likely get a quick massage, and complain of its shortness, and get the hell out in under an hour so as to not incur additional charges. I’d likely do the same if there was a female companion with me, up for some sulfuric fun, alas, I didn’t, so a private room seemed pointless. Plus, I’ve done worse naked things in the company of strangers (I’ve lived an odd life), so to the public baths I went!
I went to the first place I saw, the #5 bathhouse, and took a few steps inside. I paid the $1.70 entrance fee to a woman behind some glass, made my way down some stairs and into the male change room. After passing a small barbershop, I rented a towel, which seemed made from a bedsheet, for $0.70 from a man sitting at a desk which overlooked the room full of lockers and naked men (note: many Western reviewers say to bring your own towel…I have no idea why…The bed sheet works just fine.) An upsell was attempted: a scrub, massage and a tea for $9 which I accepted as I am looking for the full experience. So, in the end, my total was roughly $11 and I could stay as long as I wanted.
I took off my glasses and got completely undressed, all with a particular sense of pride and confidence, and closed my locker to move on but then, in my new state of blindness, couldn’t see where I’m supposed to go next; “where is the door to somewhere else??” I wondered, while scratching my chin. Reaching back into my locker, I put my glasses on and curiously scanned the room, looking past the handful of naked men, with a look that communicated: “I didn’t put my glasses back on to evaluate the state of you all, fella’s”. Thankfully, Giorgi, my assigned masseur, came with a friendly smile and showed me to the baths. I followed him in flip-flops and nakedness.
We made it into a room of showers. Giorgi said to shower, go into the sauna, then come out, shower again, then get a massage. Simple instructions. The room of showers itself was what you’d expect. Although, maybe not, after seeing all these shocked Westerner reviews.
The showers are sourced from one long pipe which enters the room from outside, the pipe then splits into two and spans across the room, each pipe providing for 10 or 12 shower heads (shower head seems wrong…pipe opening, perhaps?) each with a cold and hot water knob which rains down sulfuric water at your desired temperature. Various men of various ages bathed themselves in various positions under the sulfuric spring water. Some just sitting, some cutting their toenails, others deeply cleaning the cracks and crevices of their bodies. I was fiddling with the water knobs trying to find the right temperature. After finding the perfect combination, I did a little bathing, and then hit up the sauna.
It’s been a while since I had been in a sauna. It brought me back to when I was 16 years old and going to the gym. I’d work out, shower naked in front of the world, then head to the sauna to hang out in there with a bunch of older men. I used to give my best friend down below a few little taps, just to wake him up somewhat (but not too much, more like “hey, it’s time to be presentable, friend”) and then enter the sauna with a strut, proud of what my momma gave me. I didn’t do that this time. I’m not 16 anymore and I’m pretty much void of any shame these days. I’m consistently proud when naked.
After sitting in the sauna and dripping sweat with the other men, it was back to the showers which I made refreshing and cold, but I’ll admit, at this point, I was somewhat confused; “Where are the baths? Is it just showers and sauna? Why call it ‘baths’ if you have no baths? This place is weird for not having baths…Surely, there must be baths…” I wondered, while scratching my chin yet again. I squinted my nearly blind eyes a bit to produce some slightly better vision, and peered down the room, angling my head past the row of naked bodies, ensuring to not make eye contact with anyone, less they see some squint eyed face staring them down. It is rather difficult to see through the steam without glasses. “I….I think that’s a bath there?” I turned off the taps and flip-flopped my way to the end of the showers and, sure enough, there was the bath, more like a pool. I climbed my way inside.
There’s not much to do in the pool of sulfuric hot springs but relax, do some leg stretches, scratch a little here and there, put your head back and watch the steam dance or perhaps, instead, watch the scene in front of you; a row of of showers in the middle of the room with the bodies doing their thing, Persian arches with beautiful tiling forming small rooms on the side, inside each room are marble slabs which some men rested on, one arm covering their head and one leg up with a foot resting on the slab. I mostly just watched the steam. It’s a good place to watch steam.
I transitioned a number of times from pool to cold shower to sauna to cold shower to pool to cold shower and so on until Giorgi let me know it’s time for my massage. I followed him to one of the marble slabs and layed on my stomach. This would now mark the third time in my life I have received a massage from another man. The first was completely professional and normal. I knew this one would be as well.
Giorgi rubbed a sandpaper like glove all over my body, removing the dead skin which had built up over the years. It wasn’t particularly pleasant, but wasn’t particularly unpleasant either. It actually felt sort of nice to be pampering myself. While this isn’t a typical “spa day” experience, it is some personal treatment, and back home, it seems, men rarely treat themselves to such experiences. “Why don’t we treat ourselves more?” I wondered.
Giorgi slapped my naked ass and I turned my head to look at him. He directed me to roll over, so onto my back I went, and all along my body he went with his sandpaper glove. His glove unintentionally hit my best friend on occasion, knocking him over to an opposite side; “easy there friend…eaaasssyyyyyyy….”
A bucket of warm water was then dumped all over me, washing away the dead skin, and then Giorgi went with the foam soap and a bit of a massage. Why have I not experienced this foam soap before in my life? It’s beautiful and thick, heavy yet light. I felt like a baby. I wanted to slip around on this warm marble slab going “weeeeeeee!” spinning my naked body around in circles with a big baby smile on my face, giggling the whole time. Instead, I’m told to roll over again.
I go on my back and Giorgi soaps me down my legs; “easssyyyyyyyy”, and starts rubbing up my legs and hitting my friend again; “easssyyyyyyy now”; I meditated to the steam dancing up above; “aw, it looks so beautiful.” Giorgi interrupts my meditation asking “You like?” I look up at him as he’s bent over me, rubbing down my foamy soapy legs, “yes, yes, this is very nice!”
Around this point, my mental movie projector is playing, trying to determine what to do if I actually did get aroused. All I could think of was to look at him, my arms out in a “what can you do” position and say “Sorry about that. It’s not you though, it’s the foam.” I think that would be the best play to make.
After this, I’m asked to sit up, though this time Giorgi has some added caution and attention towards me as I rise. I think, due to all the soapy suds around, people must slip off the marble table on occasion. Naked falling is never good, so I moved a little slowly and got to a seated state safely.
Giorgi held up each arm, rubbing and soaping my arms and underarms, along with my head, until that warm bucket of water hit me again, and then we were done. We shook hands, and then I went to the shower, then sauna, then pool for a few more rotations until, after feeling like I had enough, I made it back to the change room, dried myself off with my bed sheet towel and drank my tea in a naked and rejuvenated state.
Walking to get some food afterwards, outside in a fresh new world, I immediately noticed that I was moving a little slower, my body much warmer, my head held high all in complete satisfaction, even looking at a few women with a calm and friendly smile. “I’m definitely going back there again,” I said under my breath, “every Saturday for sure.” What a totally refreshing experience!
I had an adjaruli khachapuri and a beer and got to thinking of those reviews I saw beforehand. One struck me with a bit of humour. The post surrounded a guy turning down the massage and scrub, simply because he knew it would be a man massaging him. He missed the soapy suds and the soft baby skin that follows, all because he was, apparently, so unsure of himself and his sexuality, perhaps? Did he fear he’d turn homosexual from the mere touch of another man? Or maybe he too was worried about getting aroused during a massage, wondering what he’d do in such a scenario? I’m not entirely sure but it did give me a bit of a chuckle.
Then there’s a friend (American) I know who recently went to the public baths and she was all aghast with the naked women surrounding her, as she sat there, simmering in sulfuric shame, wearing a bikini.
It made me think about how we, as Westerners, seem to feel so much shame with being naked and have such a story in our minds as to what being naked is. Why feel so much shame being in your natural state? Why feel so much shame with who you are? Why feel so much discomfort? Maybe it’s our inundation of advertising, constantly telling us how flawed we are? Or is it a need to constantly impress? Or is it our state of constant judgement with which we possess? I have no idea, but what I do know is your nakedness is you. Be proud of who you are!
I’d encourage any Westerner visiting Tbilisi to first go to a public bath before doing any private baths, ensuring to get a massage and a scrub while you’re at it. Sit alone in your discomfort and shame and, hopefully, you’ll realize how silly it all really is and, hopefully, you’ll get to see that in your naked state, you’re not beautiful nor ugly; you’re simply you and I believe, you should never be ashamed of who you truly are.
