The human body is not a pretty sight and must be beaten vigorously with oak branches.*

Make no mistake, denizens of the cyber-deep; Claire is a genius. She is prone to moments of unimpeachable inspiration, such as the one when she suggested we pay a visit to the Russian & Turkish Baths in the East Village. Brilliant!

I've been meaning to check it out for a while, so it was fortuitous indeed that the wife reminded me. With Claire making her first foray into public bathing, we had the makings of a "blind leading the blind" adventure. And those are the best kind, you know.

So, off we marched to the Baths. They have a variety of saunas and steam rooms. That's a picture of Claire and I fighting over Iliya, the Latvian towel boy.

Anyway, Russian and Turkish Baths are very different from the hammam. No scrubbing with Brillo (indeed, it's less about washing than it is about sweating), only roasting hot rooms. Filled with chatty people.

It should be noted at this juncture that roasting hot rooms render Claire utterly speechless. So, when chatty people in a state of deshabiller sidle up next to us, she becomes invisible. Or rather, she thinks she's invisible because she's not talking. This means that I must deal with the chatty people. Who are old dudes. In states of deshabiller. This happened in the Swedish sauna, where I discussed whether it was morning (or felt like morning) at 2pm. Later, I was the one to refuse the nice young man who wanted to beat us with oily oak branches for $35, while Claire stood at my elbow. The best encounter by far was in the Russian sauna (which is actually one of very few here in the States), an unbelieveably hot room made of stone.

I find it difficult to converse easily when I am systematically roasting myself in a room made of stone with a mute girl next to me. In spite of this, a man who looked rather like The Dude, wanted to discuss the merits of his singing voice with us (but Claire was invisible, so, you know, just me) . I dumped myriad buckets of cold water on myself, covered my head with a towel, but he was still there. Claire turned to stone. I got woozy, giggled at what I assumed were the correct moments, and found myself staring at a reed-thin Asian man who was performing some impressive stretches. Once I began to feel as though my flesh was actually cooking, I scuttled back outside to the ice-cold pool. Claire, came out later and we adjourned in the Turkish sauna. The Dude followed suit, but found an old Latvian man to be a better conversationalist than I was. So it goes.

We ended the outing on the sundeck, gulping water and listening to a construction worker's radio next door. Next time, I'm going for the leafy beating (or Platza, or "plotz" as Claire calls it). As long as we don't have to chat.

If you like getting all half-dressed and schvitzy with a bunch of strangers, I highly recommend the Baths. It's a good time. Perhaps I'll see you there. I may well be swapping recipes with the man who looks like he's wearing a sweater. Come on over and pour some water over my head.

*With a tip of the cap to Claire, who has passed a version of this wisdom along to me.