Liz, my wife, reported less salubrious results. One of her therapies was a CO2 bath. She sat in a tub of the murky but health-giving waters draped with towels so only her head was visible. No noise, no rush of air or water, just a few bubbles occasionally rising from the warm liquid.
She also was favored with Douche de Vichy ou d'Evian—a $28 number—which consisted of a massage while being sprayed with either Vichy or Evian mineral water. An acquired taste, perhaps.
There were other adventures. A fancy battery charger kneaded my back with little black suction cups, and Mr. T. did it further damage during a massage that demonstrated steel rod fingers with which I am certain he can rearrange internal organs without the necessity of surgery.
The best part of our "cure," however, was its epilogue. Swathed in robes and bath slippers, we padded the few steps to the warm, sparkling little outdoor pool, with its fabulous view of the sheer rock wall looming over the city. There we luxuriated for 20 or 30 minutes. When we emerged from the water a pool attendant met us with large, heated bath towels.
Wrapped in these and our robes, we sank exhausted onto chaises and capped our therapy with a cold beer. RHB
