Big Apple Turnover

After signing in and strapping on a wristwatch-like device – it opens my locker and also allows me to electronically add food and spa services to my bill – I change into the supplied shorts and tee, then wander upstairs to the second floor, past a notice that reassuringly warns that “immoral acts” will not be tolerated. The centrepiece here is Sauna Valley. There’s an LED Sauna, which uses colour therapy to enhance everything from creativity to energy. There’s a Gold Sauna, a Jade Sauna, a Salt Sauna and a Loess Soil Sauna, which, at 86°C, is almost hot enough to boil your blood. I catch wind of a faint aroma. Kimchee, I think. I hope.

Another floor is dominated by “bade pools,” each of which uses different combinations of aqua jets to “benefit rheumatism, muscle aches, immune system and your overall sense of well-being.” Tempting, but I’m here for a Korean massage, so I head downstairs to the “men only” section. There I strip naked and undergo the Body Scrub – a rough exfoliation that comes close to leaving no stone unturned, figuratively speaking. After the scrub, my masseur begins the real work. His hands are strong, the treatment rough. But when he’s done, my back and shoulders – taut and rigid from too much time spent in an office chair – are as pliable as overcooked pasta.

A decidedly more refined experience can be found at Okeanos, a modern, clean-lined banya frequented by transplanted Eastern European hockey stars and featuring a seductive, dimly lit lounge stocked with Zyr, a premium vodka. Clearly, it’s a long, long way from the banya in Eastern Promises.

After changing into my swim trunks, I’m met by Vadim, a Siberian ex-pat, who directs me to the steam room. It’s uncomfortably hot and so steamy that I almost cannot see my hand in front of my face. After a few minutes, I’m ready for the dry sauna and the second part of my treatment. Vadim leads me to the sauna’s top row, its hottest tier, and puts a wet towel over my head.

And then he starts hitting me.

Actually, it’s more like brushing. And he’s not using his fists. Rather, he’s wielding a tied-up bundle of birch branches, which, he says, will help make me even hotter.

Vadim leads me to the sauna’s top row, its hottest tier, and puts a wet towel over my head. Then he starts hitting me. This is platza, a traditional Russian treatment.

To finish off, Vadim escorts me out of the sauna and places me under a cold shower, holding me so I can’t move as icy water splashes down for five full seconds. This is platza, a traditional Russian treatment that, by alternating between extreme heat and cold, is said to be recuperative. “There,” he says. “After platza, you won’t be sick for three months.”

“Great,” I say. But Vadim has a question: “You are financial expert?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Financial expert, yes?” he asks again. “I need to know what to do with my money.”

It’s around 11 p.m. at Bar Jamón in the Gramercy district, and this tiny, dimly lit resto-bar is packed with patrons jammed elbow to elbow at stand-up-style tables that dominate the room. I’m here to meet up with an old friend who also happens to be the managing partner of a hedge fund. Contrary to what you’d expect, he’s done very well in these challenging times. Sitting with us, however, is an interior designer who worked mainly in the Hamptons before the nightingale dung hit the fan and her business dried up over-night. Later another guy joins our group. Last year, he generated stellar returns for his sole client, a European billionaire. This year, he’s down, a lot. Still, he’d like to buy a bottle for the table. “Really,” he says, “I’d be happy to do it.” Briefly, I think of Weimar-era Berlin.

Everywhere we go, from working-class taverns to lavish hotel lounges, the volatile financial markets dominate conversation. In a world economy turned upside down, NYC was the canary in the coal mine. It strikes me, yet again, that New York must find a way to make itself well. But true wellness cannot be achieved through the manufactured serenity of the spa alone. Now, more than ever, New York could use places of true quietude that lesser cities have in abundance.

Walking along Fifth Avenue’s Museum Mile, I pass the Guggenheim and make my way toward Central Park’s north end to the Conservatory Garden. Entering the huge, ornate wrought-iron Vanderbilt Gate, I look over an expanse of manicured lawn. This is the Italian section, flanked by two smaller gardens in French and English styles. Sitting on a bench in the wisteria-filled pergola, I feel completely removed from the city – until construction noise, from the nearby Museo del Barrio, intrudes.

In midtown, refuge is scarce. And when you find it, it seems out of place, like an awkward pause in a lively conversation. There is the odd public-space corridor, like the one at 1325 Avenue of the Americas, which connects 53rd and 54th streets and provides a relatively placid place to eat your takeout falafel. The Ford Foundation Building has a gorgeous tree-filled atrium, with ponds fed by rainwater collected from the roof. But, tellingly, there are no benches; your stay will be sweet but short. Much is made of the tranquility of nearby Tudor City Greens. That these postage-stamp-size spots of nature – near a fairly busy thoroughfare – are renowned for their serenity speaks volumes.

Oddly, it’s in busy SoHo, behind a non-descript door at 141 Wooster Street, that I come closest to calm. After being buzzed in, I climb a narrow, steep stairway to the second floor and encounter a most extraordinary thing: an entire room full of dirt.

Created by artist Walter De Maria in 1977, the New York Earth Room consists of 3,600 square feet of floor space, piled high with 127,000 kilograms of soil. Frankly, I’m not at all sure what De Maria was trying to say with this installation. But standing here alone in the silence, surrounded by a sea of peaty-smelling loam, I’m glad it exists.

Afterwards, at the Four Seasons Hotel, the bellman kindly arranges for the hotel’s private car. I slide into the leather seat and shut the door. The car, a Maybach, is exceptionally luxe. There is, however, something else. There is no noise. None. It is, without doubt, the most tranquil spot I’ve experienced here.

Our car turns down Park Avenue. It is a fine-looking boulevard, broad and imperious, certainly worthy of its reputation. But looking out the darkened windows, I realize with some regret that the city I idealized as a boy overwhelms me as a man.

We turn another corner, en route to another spa, and I continue staring up at the buildings we pass. From this perspective, they look so tall.  

Write to us: letters@enroutemag.net