Mother Teresa at the spa

Last month I had my first taste of spa culture. We were on a week’s vacation in Cape Cod in the midst of a brutal heat wave that was more than a match for the ocean breeze. I thought I could recover from the stupor induced by record-breaking heat and humidity (I started to write humility, which turns out to be apt) if only I could find a nice swimming pool and splash around in it for a time. The closest pool was at a nearby resort spa, but I had to buy a spa service in order to use it. And so I browsed through a long menu of possibilities: “healing seaweed body wrap,” “citrus body polish,” “cranberry crush,” and other edible-sounding treatments, finally settling on the cheapest item, a “coastal manicure.”

When I arrived I was escorted to a posh locker room where I was vested in an enormous terry-cloth robe and flip-flops, handed a glass of cold cucumber water, and treated to a tour of sauna, steam room, and dimly lit relaxation chamber. I wondered if the staff could tell I was not to the manner born.

The pool was heavenly—a giant swimmable Jacuzzi punctuated here and there with powerful massaging jets. Along the perimeter there were terry cloth–draped lounge chairs. Umbrellas and hydrangea-covered trellises provided shade. A bronze fountain spilled into a Zen-like koi pond which a bright yellow American goldfinch visited now and then. Five or six women sipped cucumber water, nibbled on lettuce leaves, read paperback novels, chatted with friends, or waited to be called for a private cabana massage.