Headed out to Iceland's Blue Lagoon, I felt a sense of marital fulfillment. My wife, Angela, loves this stuff: a heady mix of fresh air, minerals that penetrate the skin, entering the body and then doing who knows what, and the comfort of being surrounded by fit folks who seem not to realize that Birkenstocks are no longer the rage.
It's a form of natural oneness with the universe, a concept I've tried to avoid whenever possible.
But Angela, having been named the World's Top Spa Specialist by Conde Nast Traveler, sees it as her mission to soak in every available mineralized pothole in countries near and far. Such trips are usually preceded by a steady diet of broccoli, blueberries and kale, ensuring that I will begin our travels in a state of perpetual weakness and hunger.
And so it was that after a 45-minute ride from Reykjavik, we pulled into the large parking lot of Iceland's No. 1 tourist destination, the Blue Lagoon. Angela had already determined that the residents of Iceland were among the healthiest on the planet, and she was hoping I might pick up some pointers from these tall, thin fish eaters.
First impressions are soothing. Tucked in amid lava rocks are pools of water that have been described as the color of blue Gatorade. A smoke-like mist comes off the top, so it looks sort of like a healthy, outdoor opium den.
The view was encouraging until I remembered that although Iceland is chock-full of all manner of natural phenomena, the Blue Lagoon is not among them. The water, you see, is actually runoff from the Svartsengi power plant right next door. Geothermal water is pumped up from about a mile below the surface to generate heat and electricity.
We parked and walked into a crowded hall featuring a restaurant, a gift shop selling overpriced mud products, gathering points for tour groups and, finally, the cashier's station, where we were issued bracelets that allowed us entry to the changing rooms while keeping track of any drink purchases.
About the changing rooms: Men and women are quickly separated. Women enter at ground level, while men climb metal steps to a locker room where you must strip, store your valuables, then enter the shower area.
The lagoon's sign-maker has no sense of humor. Signs first advise that you must shower before bathing. At the open shower stations, more signs advise that guests "must remove their bathing trunks before showering."
There were lines of naked men going to the open showers and men coming back from them. There were more posted orders when I finally entered the lagoon, and staff were posted to make certain that everyone had one towel. One of the young watchers cautioned me not to hang up my towel, as "it will most likely be stolen."
Reunited, Angela and I entered the silky, muddy, fog-shrouded Blue Lagoon pool. I think I sort of spoiled her sense of joy when I pointed out that my experience up in the locker room had reminded me of certain unpleasant scenes from the movie "Schindler's List." But Angela was loving it, despite the fact that we were soaking in hot water in the middle of a ferocious rainstorm that managed to kick up just as we entered the lagoon.
As I tried to enjoy my soak without bumping into the hundreds of tourists, mostly German, who were sharing my state of ecstasy, I noticed that Japanese tourists, covered head-to-toe in gray rain slickers, were lining up quickly at the edge of the lagoon, taking pictures of us as the rains fell. They quickly snapped and ran back to the warmth of the cafeteria, where more tourists were watching us.
Three days later, we wound up in Akureyri, Iceland's second-largest city. Soon after arrival, we were headed out to "take the treatment" at the Nature Baths overlooking Lake Myvatn. I was optimistic about this "soak," as it was a sunny day, and I had heard that the Myvatn Nature Baths were both less crowded than the Blue Lagoon and fed by a deep borehole producing water high in minerals and silicates.
This turned out to be the ultimate outdoor bath, and I had to admit that I enjoyed it. We shared the huge pools with about 20 other guests. Some sections of the water were so hot as to cause yelps when bodies passed through them. But everyone tried to help their neighbors in the pool navigate the hot spots. After this super soak, we enjoyed homemade bread, beer and natural berry jam in the small cafeteria.
As much as I preferred this soak to the Blue Lagoon, the fact is we could have chosen a much worse "natural lagoon" in which to luxuriate: Buxton, England, a "spa" town in the Derbyshire district. It has had a blue lagoon for a while, a small body of bluish water that looks like a rather bucolic lake from the air.
Tourists have been coming to Buxton's "Blue Lagoon" for years in increasing numbers. The problem is that despite being "beautiful," even the city fathers admit that the lagoon, lacking the natural geothermal conditions in Iceland, is actually a horribly disgusting and severely toxic mess. They had put up signs to that effect, but the tourists were ignoring them -- even the one warning that the lagoon was filled with "cars, carcasses and trash."
So they did the unthinkable. They dyed their lovely lagoon black, hoping that not even clueless tourists would go swimming in a black pool.
I suppose I first became a fan of hot mineral-water soaks at the Fonteverde Resort and Spa in the Siena hills in the Italian village of San Casciano dei Bagni.
This area, hugged by the Orcia River, is home to lovely landscapes and vineyards. It is a peaceful and relatively undiscovered part of Tuscany, best explored from a red Ferrari. The resort was built in the 17th century by one of the Medicis, and the spa has seven therapeutic pools as well as a holistic center.
The restaurant was packed with Italians, but the holistic center was more international, as there are not that many Italians who feel the need to get in touch with themselves. But here's the thing: You sit soaking in the natural mineral waters at Fonteverde, a lovely stone pool with plenty of room and water that simply feels as though it is doing a tap dance on your skin, while glancing straight ahead at magnificent rolling hills, producing the same reaction they must have evoked when Ferdinando 1 de' Medici first laid eyes on them.
Now those soaks I remember.
Contributing Editor Richard Bruce Turen owns Churchill & Turen Ltd., a luxury vacation firm based in Naples, Fla. He is also managing director of the Churchill Group, a sales training and marketing consultancy. He has been named to the list of the World's Top Travel Specialists by the editors of Conde Nast Traveler for the past 13 years. Contact him at rturen@travelweekly.com.