Spa Land
For way too many years, I did not know I needed a post-secular communal embodied healing ritual that was a full part of civil society. Now I do, and it’s all thanks to Spa Land.
Spa Land is a classic ’90s-style Korean spa, and it’s located in a densely Korean part of my greater metropolitan area, but this city is very diverse, and everyone drives, so word has gotten out, and every kind of person goes there now. This is a foundational part of what is so wonderful about it.
Now, it’s not surprising to me that this kind of post-secular light-woo attraction is broadly appealing to Americans. We have a rich tradition of this here. I’m reminded of the Integratron, and indeed the glorious feeling I feel walking out of Spa Land reminds me of that place very much on the social level. But on the physiological level, Spa Land is intensely healing in a way sound and vibes alone cannot achieve. I am here to implore you to find your local Korean spa and try it.
Spas and saunas are part of my ancestral tradition. I had a grandfather who went to the shvitz in Chicago; it moves me deeply to even imagine that scene. But it wasn’t a thing in my nuclear family or my friends’ families. It just never became a part of the routine.
I was introduced to it by my wife, who used to go to a Korean spa with her sister and some friends back when we lived in LA, and then she found one here. She prefers a different one, actually, one that’s smaller and more crowded but also fancier and more ornate. Spa Land is big and vast — “like an airport,” someone I know recently said — but therefore also quiet, navigable, undemanding. And the vibes are just right for me. It’s my happy place.
I recently had a night to myself and spent what I can honestly say was one of the best nights of my 30s at Spa Land. That’s when I realized I needed to take a few pictures and write about this place, so that I can enter it into the record as essential householder spiritual practice for me and anyone listening.
Spa Land is in a large shopping center populated mostly by Korean businesses, but its imposing edifice dominates the environment. It’s kind of an intense look, but I like it. It feels fortified, like when you go in there, Spa Land will defend you from the troubles outside.
When you check in, you hand over your ID and receive a waterproof wristband with a locker number and key on it. There’s a chip in it that allows you to tap to purchase things inside; there’s no need to exchange actual money during your spa time.
From the lobby, you split off by gender as is typical in such spas, but the facilities are identical as I understand. Everyone is reunited in the inner sanctum, where the food court, massage rooms, dry saunas, and other mysterious treatment areas and lounges are, but the bathing part comes first.
I didn’t take my own photos in the bathhouse; signage is pretty serious about not allowing phone use in the locker rooms and bathing areas for this exact reason, but here are some Spa Land-provided photos of the amenities:
Bathing is the primary practice of being here, if you ask me. I spend the majority of my time at Spa Land making a rotation through the various elements of the bathhouse. I do the cycle as many times as my body can stand, and after that I go into the jjimjilbang to recover and pamper myself. Sometimes I go back for another round or two.
It’s also the most transcendent part. It’s the part where everyone strips naked and undergoes transformation. Everyone looks different but is palpably the same. No ideas about anything are necessary. The process unfolds according to the nature of water, temperature, and the human body.
My process — which may be more or less the recommended process, I’m not really sure — is to go straight to the steam sauna. You walk through the tub room to the far end to get there and pull open a door that always emits a big puff of steam. Inside is a square room with benches around the perimeter, and the etiquette is to bring a towel in there to sit on. It’s quite hot and steamy, and the steam gets turned on by what I assume is a humidity sensor every so often to fill back up. It pumps in steam for a minute or two, and then it shuts off, and the room goes quiet except for the sounds of the other people. I try to sit through two or three cycles of sweating, breathing deeply, and relaxing before I get out. I often massage my own legs, shoulders, neck, and face while I’m in there. I’m not much of a getting-massages person — though Spa Land caters handsomely to such people — but I do like to self-administer them when I’m doing a hard-reset sort of relaxation.
From the sauna I hit the showers, which are arranged in semi-private stalls around the perimeter of the tub room. This is strongly recommended on signs around the spa: sweat it out in the sauna first, then wash off, then you can get in the tubs. Shampoo, conditioner, and body wash are provided, and I try to scrub off pretty good in this first shower. It’s very important for me to get the temperature of this shower right, since I’m coming out of the sauna. Not too hot, not too cold. The cold part is coming up next, and the shock of it is important, so I try to set the shower to keep my body temperature more or less where it is.
After the shower, it’s time for the cold plunge, which is the heart of the practice for me. It’s quite cold, and I used to hate getting in cold water, but what I learned in this tub at Spa Land has cured me of that problem. The trick is to count to three and then just DO IT, no matter what forms of mental resistance arise. I have to do that twice: first to walk straight down the steps and into the water, which hits me at about waist height. Then I walk to a corner of the tub, face out, put my hands on the sides, and count to three again. Then I plunge my whole body into the water and hold myself under while breathing out forcefully, until I’ve exhaled completely. Sometimes, if I really need it, I’ll repeat that plunge a couple more times. Getting my head underwater completely punches through the shock of the cold. After that, I turn around and sit on the underwater ledge, so now the water comes up to my shoulders.
Then comes the part where I feel like all the real work gets done: I just sit there, feeling the cold, moving my attention through my whole body one muscle group at a time, willing it to Relax. Unclench. Loosen. I’m not sure I had the skills to do this prior to the development of my qigong practice. Whenever I tell my friends that “all you have to do in cold water is tell your muscles to relax,” they make fun of me like I’m telling them all they have to do to bake an apple pie is create the universe. But when I tell you that this cold plunge practice has transformed my relationship to my body in a perpetual and lasting way, I’m not exaggerating. It’s not just that going to the spa relaxes me transitively. It’s that I can relax myself at will using the skills I — quickly! — learned in the cold plunge.
I stay in the cold tub until I feel actually cold; there’s a difference between the shocked, quick, goosebumps cold on the skin and the deep, dark, in-the-bones cold that starts to set in after a while. Once that starts to happen, I get out and go straight to one of the two hot tubs, whichever is emptier, and then… I experience the womb.
Once I’m done in the hot tub — which is sometimes after half an hour, not gonna lie — if I intend to make another cycle, I go back to the sauna and start again. Otherwise, I take another shower and head back to the locker room. I may have a shave with the provided razors and shaving cream. I may avail myself of the moisturizing lotion on the counter. I may even brush my teeth (they provide toothbrushes and toothpaste, too). Then I go to the shelf where the baggy, comfortable Spa Land shorts and t-shirts are folded by size, put on a size L set, and head out into the lobby. On the way, I pass one of their allegedly airborne-virus-zapping robots.
This robot is far from the most woo-woo technology on offer at Spa Land. Indeed, that’s what the inner sanctum of the place specializes in. And I’ll get to that in a moment, but first, a banana smoothie from the food court, paid for with a beep of my locker bracelet.
The actual food is really quite good — well, the things I’ve tried, anyway. When I was in line for my shake, the cashier said to the person in front of me, “I just want to be honest: The sweet and sour chicken is not the best.” So keep that in mind. The banana smoothies are a required medicinal part of my Spa Land experience at this point.
Once I’ve slurped my smoothie, I like to take a visit to the infrared light pod tables. I don’t really know why; if you asked me what they do, I’m really not sure, and they’re pretty uncomfortable. I guess I just like the warm light. I’ve included a photo of the manufacturer’s emblem, so you can look into this thing if you’re curious, maybe let me know what it’s supposed to do.
In addition to the infrared pod rooms, the private massage rooms and its queue of attendants is adjacent to the cafeteria, as well as some other strange, large spaces, one of which is apparently a movie theater — though I’ve never seen it in use — and one of which is allegedly a playroom for kids, which I’ve definitely never seen in use and does not look fun, but that’s not to say there aren’t often kids around at Spa Land, and I think that’s nice, as long as they’re quiet.
But the other main room in the inner sanctum is dark, and it’s full of lounge chairs and couches. Smooth jazz is generally playing at a mostly inoffensive volume. I often do some reading in there. This time, someone was asleep on a couch and snoring so loudly that my preferred lounging spot was unusable, but I swear that is a deeply unusual experience.
What you can’t help but notice in there, though, is that it is surrounded by freakydeaky sacred-geometry-looking dry sauna rooms comprised of various materials, advertised to confer various salubrious effects, and all set to varying degrees of hot. I don’t have a terribly religious relationship to these places, but I like to check them out and get a little more sweat in.
I certainly will go back into the bathhouse for another round or two sometimes, but the bathing cycle takes more out of me than I sometimes realize. To end the visit, there’s a “cold sauna” that feels kind of like walking into the walk-in refrigerator at a foodservice establishment, but it’s a much nicer environment to hang out in. This room tends to be a little chattier; somehow it’s physically obvious to the body that this is the end of the experience, and it’s time to reintegrate.
After that, I go back to the locker room, dump my Spa Land uniform in the hamper, change back into my clothes, and check out by beeping the bracelet at the front desk. I retrieve my ID, walk out those doors, and step out into the big parking lot. By now, it’s night. On this visit, it was raining calmly but steadily with distant thunder and lighting for atmosphere. What a pleasure. What a relief.
The whole drive home — and it’s a long drive, but worth it — my mind is silent.
