On a gloomy stretch of Pico Boulevard here – – somewhere you wouldn’t happen to be unless you were looking for Roscoe’s Chicken ‘N’ Waffles — is a Los Angeles landmark. One that has only recently opened its doors to women.
City Spa is one of only a handful of Old World saunas left in America. A tradition brought over by European immigrants, “the shvitz” was, and still is, a place to shmooze, male bond and sweat out the toxins. Only now can women see what we’ve been missing.
After almost 50 years in business, City Spa began admitting women on Monday and Wednesday nights. Last month, they opened up Saturday night to women as well, and I’ve come to see what this “shvitzing” is all about.
You know you’re breaking new ground when the woman’s bathroom still has a urinal.
I stuff my belongings into a huge wooden locker and slip into my “toga” — a green, sheet-like thing that’s a few inches too long for me. With my spa-issue blue plastic sandals, I look like I’ve defected from a low-budget Greek chorus. As unflattering as this ensemble is, I’m already dreading its removal, which will leave me wearing only my bathing suit, an ill-fitting and overly cheerful two-piece I bought for $9.
Shuffling to the sauna, I think, this isn’t an Elizabeth Arden spa. No red doors to beauty. There are, however, special rooms for working out, chatting, game playing and even a sleep room filled with cozy-looking cots. Rich wooden furniture is everywhere.
I peek inside the television room and notice that there are cigarette butts in the ashtrays. This could be my kind of spa.
The sauna area is cavernous and dotted with columns and palm trees. There’s a jacuzzi, a eucalyptus steam room, a pool and the famous Russian rock room, where the temperature can allegedly rise to 200 degrees — though I’m told that on coed nights it’s turned down about 20 degrees to accommodate women.
Generally, dozens of conversations can be heard, in just as many languages. Mixed in with folks from Russia, Iran, Israel and other places around the world are regulars such as Jesse Jackson, John Travolta and the Jewish Defense League’s Irv Rubin.
Tonight, though, it’s just me, a Russian woman complaining it’s not hot enough (apparently she’s just come from hell), a young man and his son, and a few others.
I disrobe for my first “treatment,” which involves being beaten with a large eucalyptus plant from head to toe to melt the muscles. This is the spa’s most popular treatment and believe me, it’s old school. Then again, so are acupuncture and Jackie Mason, and those seem to work.
The coed thing isn’t weird for long. No one really seems to care, and the heat and thwacking of the branch are turning my mind to mush.
An avuncular man named Jim gives me a salt scrub, rubbing a rosemary-scented mixture into my skin until it’s soft and pink. I basically look like a large hunk of Spam wearing a flowered suit, but I feel amazing. When I get up to go for my massage, I realize I have only felt this way once before, and that involved the medically contraindicated mixture of wine and musele relaxers.
Sure, I do yoga. I light aromatherapy candles. I take hot baths. But it takes a lot to undo the ball of stress that likes to make itself comfortable in my stomach every morning.
On the massage table, Vladymir is working me over and I’m so relaxed, I actually feel like chatting. Why do I always say the stupidest things when trying to communicate with non-native English speakers?
“I like to exercise. It’s refreshing!” I hear myself say like an idiot. I shut up and concentrate on relaxing.
After the rub, I sit in the spa’s restaurant, munching an apple and talking to one of the owners, Kambiz Besharat. I ask why he’s allowed women into this traditionally male atmosphere.
“You can’t ignore women. Some of the old guys don’t like it, but we had to change,” he says.
The spa is building a large female following and I can see why. It’s nice to relax in a place that doesn’t emphasize beauty and isn’t crawling with teenage models.
My noodly legs walk me back to my car. I fight off the tension attempting to weasel its way back into my neck muscles, but it’s no use. I’m in L.A. I light up a toxin stick and begin the gradual process of replenishing my body of chemicals and stress.
I guess I’ll have to go back. Only next time, I think I’ll bring some girlfriends, because it’s the company, I think, that makes a sauna a shvitz.
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The Archive of the Jewish Telegraphic Agency includes articles published from 1923 to 2008. Archive stories reflect the journalistic standards and practices of the time they were published.
