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I was supposed to get one when I checked in with the nice women at the front desk, a team that is apparently so steeped in precision they never, ever, forget to give a guest his luffa. I show him my empty hands, and Tim is forced to accept this aberration. He shows me to a dressing cubicle, with three metal lockers, and pulls the blue-and-white striped privacy curtain across.
I actually came in here steeling myself for a nude adventure. I was not expecting ferns and incense, but neither was I prepared for the stark utilitarian nature of this fluorescent-lit expanse. Again, I need to remind myself, I am here as something of a time traveler.
In , Hot Springs was not simply a vacation destination. This place was, in fact, something just short of a hospital. People came from around the nation to soak in the hot, soothing waters, to absorb the healing minerals, to relieve conditions modern medicine had not yet come close to easing. Dave ushers me to one of those cubicles and invites me to slide into the tub. The water, a few inches deep, is already warm. He turns a spigot and in pours truly hot water, straight from the local earth, fed by gravity from the bowels of Hot Springs Mountain, located directly behind this building.
Flicking a switch, Dave engages the water jet, a cylindrical blue device that resembles a tiny Evinrude outboard motor.