I must admit to being relieved at having a partner-in-bathhouses. Linda, being from California, had packed her bathing suit and, thinking I could improvise, I grabbed my t-shirt and shorts. During the entire four-hour visit, not ONE person smiled or was kind.
Must be a Staff Rule. But Linda, already charging into the gorgeous main hall, with its Art-Nouveau glass roof, had found the check-in office. Our Budapest city tour guide had warned us about this. At the get-go it was apparent my shorts and t-shirt were verboten. I could rent. You must be kidding! Or, buy. We headed for the adjacent bathing suit store. Suspecting a tall, good-looking, blond California woman has purchased more beach apparel than I ever would, I looked to Linda for guidance.
She glanced at me, scanned the rack and grabbed a suit. I surrendered the rest of my Forints to the clerk. In , my last suit purchase, I chose black.
Visualize a brown and orange one-piece, strung with wooden beading, made in China. This is when the real problems began. We walked into the Spa and showed our passes. The door man, who did speak English, demanded towel money. Heck, four bucks a towel, that was chump change. But, Linda, a successful entrepreneur, was not having it. We were greeted inside by Mrs. Stern Matron 1. I instantly realized most of the female spa-goers were wandering around in the buff, which left me uncomfortable, mortified, and squirming.
I am not proud of my inhibitions. She wrote 4 p. Rather clueless, we suspected pm was our massage time. That would give us two-hours in the baths.
