Girl About the World

Entrance to King Spa & Sauna (©King Spa & Sauna)

I can’t say I’ve ever felt like a pottery project becoming permanent before — until now, that is. I’m sitting in King Spa & Sauna’s Fire Sudatorium, legs crossed, head down, and it’s hot. Not August-afternoon hot or even Bikram yoga hot, but “oh my goodness, I’m like a piece of clay sitting in a kiln and baking” hot. Some people who frequent the spa make it 25 minutes in this 170-degree pressure cooker, but as the beads of sweat running down my body start to mirror the beginning of a rainstorm with their quickening pace, I relent. Five minutes. Not bad, I decide.

I’m here at the self-proclaimed nation’s largest Asian sauna, curious to see the Korean slant on R&R. After a shower and a soak in variously heated whirlpools (they range from 65 to 115 degrees), I emerge in the pink uniform provided to me and head for the saunas. (A word to the modest: The shower/baths experience is required and strictly sans clothing.)

There’s no set order for visiting the nine sauna rooms, so I start with the first one I see: Bulgama. It’s designed with amethyst crystals and a special stone called elvan that when heated up promises to purify the blood, eliminate extra body fat, and produce healthier hair. That all sounds like something I could use. The heat (120 to 155 degrees) seems threatening at first, but I soon feel relaxed. Next, I meticulously make my way through the rest of the rooms, each one offering something a bit different — like the Yellow-Soil Crystal Room, made with pure yellow soil, which can only be achieved by baking the soil for 100 hours at 1832 degrees; the golden Pyramid Room, which offers improved mental power and concentration; and the Base Rock Bath Room (built for $1 million, says the attendant), which relies on the Siraka stone, imported from Japan, to heal a host of ailments.

Fire Sudatorium (©King Spa & Sauna)

After my scalding-hot venture into the Fire Sudatorium, the world’s largest heated sauna, I bolt for the 35-degree Ice Room and find it feels downright heavenly (I tried to replicate the effect after spending time in a few of the other hot rooms, but found it only really worked after the hottest of them all).

The next morning I woke up and immediately felt great — the soreness that usually pervades my muscles from thrice-weekly weightlifting sessions was gone, and my skin looked dewy and felt soft. Was my blood circulation improved, my metabolism quickened, and my immune system strengthened, as the signs promised? There’s no telling. But for $17, I got to (tentatively) shed my inhibitions in a clothing-restricted locker room, hang out among 350-million-year-old rocks, and survive being roasted in a kiln-like contraption.

That’s good enough for me.

Check It Out:
King Spa & Sauna
2154 Royal Lane
Dallas, TX  75229
(214) 420-9070
www.kingspa.com

About a year ago, I was sitting in an airport in Europe, watching everyone board the plane but me. It had been a long, emotionally draining trip, and I’d never looked forward to getting back on familiar ground quite as much as I did that time. For reasons that were never explained to me, I didn’t get on that flight, despite being a ticketed passenger who checked in on time. They never asked for volunteers to give up a seat in exchange for a voucher, but they did flat-out lie to my face several times.

In fact, they wouldn’t even tell me I wasn’t getting on the plane and forbade me to ask questions. When the waiting area cleared out and they still hadn’t come over to talk to me as promised, I approached the counter. “May I please have an update on my situation?” I asked as calmly as I could. The response: “This plane is full, and you’re not getting on it.”

A tear escaped from the corner of my eye, and then another. There was only one direct flight a day, and it would soon disappear into the skies without me. Three women I hadn’t seen waiting approached me. “Here’s a tissue,” one said.

“I’m not usually like this,” I hiccuped. “I’m very tired, and they’ve been so rude.”

“I can’t believe they spoke to you that way,” another said. “If I were you, I wouldn’t be so calm or polite at all.”

I found out they’d been hoping to make it on the flight as well, but were flying standby. The four of us were booked for a plane to Miami, and then one to Dallas. All in all, it doubled my travel time, taking me to a full day and then some in transit for what should have been a (relatively) short hop across the pond. For my troubles, I was given a voucher (required by law for involuntarily bumping someone) and a promise that I’d have the row to myself on the way to Miami.

As I boarded, a flight attendant stopped me to warn me that, despite the promise made just 20 minutes earlier, I would have a seatmate. When I got to my seat, I saw that it was one of the sweet ladies who had taken the time to console me. (I was slightly amused by the fact that her ticket was issued before mine, meaning they knew all along that there was already someone in that row — but having it to myself was never an issue for me, nor something I asked for, so the empty promise seemed all the stranger.)

A few hours in, I was relieved to be on the way home, roundabout as it may have been, but still feeling sorry for myself. My seatmate’s friend dropped by to say hello and asked if I’d heard her amazing story yet. I hadn’t. The friend left, and with a teaser like that, I had to ask her about it.

The three had been in Israel as part of a spiritual trek. Soon to head to the airport, the woman was in the bathroom getting ready. She’d been in there for some time, so the friends got concerned and knocked. No response.

They broke through the door and found her lying on the floor, bleeding profusely. She’d collapsed and hit her head and was unresponsive. As she talked, I saw the stitching on her face and started to piece the details together.

The friends tried to perform CPR, but there was so much blood gushing out of her mouth that they couldn’t do it. She was fading. They checked her pulse: nothing. She went limp in their arms.

“I died,” she said.

Overcome with emotion, the friends began to pray. After a few moments, they felt her heart begin to beat again. Their prayers had been answered.

I listened intently, shocked as each detail emerged. All this time, I had been focused on my problem — and missing a flight, no matter how bad the circumstances, doesn’t compare with dying and coming back to life.

After we got off the plane, I never saw the woman and her friends again, not even in the small waiting area for the Miami flight we were scheduled on. As quickly as they had appeared, they disappeared. But I haven’t forgotten their kindness or their incredible story — and now, as I prepare to use that voucher I received to fly to San Juan and take a cruise to six Caribbean islands, I am more grateful than ever that I have the opportunity to travel. And, more simply, that I have the opportunity to be angry and frustrated, amazed and incredulous, selfish and giving — that is, to live.