Steam, Sulphur and Skinny Dipping in Tbilisi

by Elina Mattila (Finland)

I didn't expect to find Georgia

Georgian wine is famous - and deliciously devilish. Luckily, Georgians know a natural way of curing any hangover: sulphur baths. Tbilisi’s origin story is tied to its bathhouses. Legend tells of the 5th century ruler King Vakhtang who discovered hot springs on a hunting trip when a pheasant fell into a puddle and was instantly cooked. He named the city after this discovery: “tpili”, meaning warm, became Tbilisi – “the warm place”. I didn’t want to go alone. So I did what I do best: I took to Tinder and posted an open call. There was just one problem: I’d heard that you’re supposed to go in wearing your natural suit. Meaning: completely, utterly, gloriously naked. This might get weird. My date is already waiting. We hug, slightly awkwardly like two people meeting for the first time just before they are about to take their clothes off. He’s taller than me, dressed casually, with a bit of a stubble and a questionable haircut. I like his New York accent. In the past, the bathhouses were a gender-separated meat market where mothers would come to meet single girls to find a wife for their son. Family members of a bride-to-be would also take their future daughter-in-laws for a “bride check”: to ensure that she was still a virgin. Luckily, matchmaking relatives are not needed in 2019. All hail Tinder. We booked a private room at Orbeliani, possibly the most famous of the bathhouses. I first mistook it for a mosque. Intricate blue tile and yellow stars decorate Islamic arches, and two stubby, minaret-like towers perch on both sides of the façade. It stands out brightly among the small sand-coloured cupolas of the public baths next door. Sulphur has a nasty natural smell: rotting eggs hit me but it is more faint than I had imagined. An employee shows us the room. ‘Stay in fifteen minutes, then take a shower,’ he says. ‘We’ll call you when time is up.’ He leaves. Moment of truth. This is definitely weird. I measure up my date, mentally daring him to make the first move. What’s the etiquette of stripping in front of a stranger anyway? He does act – but not like I expected. He pulls out a pair of Hawaiian-patterned trunks and calls dibs on the first turn in the bathroom. ‘Oh,’ I say, and because I don’t know how to save face anymore, continue: ‘I don’t have a swimming suit.’ He gapes at me and I can’t tell if he’s amused or horrified. ‘I mean, I heard you go in...’ I’m blushing. ‘In the public baths, yes. In the private ones you can wear whatever.’ ‘I’ll go in my underwear.’ Nice save. As my date locks himself in the bathroom – likely to escape – I give myself an exasperated glare in the mirror. Why are you like this? I drown my embarrassment in the pool. The water is hot, the ideal temperature for a nice, relaxing soak. I sink underwater and rest my head on the curved edge. Oh yes, take away my sorrows and pains and the traces of last night’s wine. This is the life. Sulphur water is said to have healing properties and help with such ailments as eczema, arthritis and digestive issues. During the Soviet era, these baths also played an important role in keeping the local population warm and clean. Fifteen minutes later, the heat is getting unbearable. I think I’m sweating underwater. I get up to shower and drink water, then perch on the edge of the tub, dipping my feet. My date has already given up and is laying on the tiled bench next to the pool. After the initial awkwardness, talk comes easily. Our voices echo in the small space. The gentle lapping of water is multiplied until it sounds like crashing waves. This is going swimmingly – pun intended – and I wonder why I haven’t thought of the concept of adventure dates before. We stroll towards the Kura river, the statue of King Vakhtang rising to greet us. I wonder if the founder of the city had matchmaking in mind when he built these baths centuries ago. He has, without a doubt, been the oldest wingman I’ve ever had.