Watershed Spa, Minneapolis’s first and only communal bath, opened in 2022. It offers a “bathing ritual” including a soaking pool, steam room, cedar sauna, and cold plunge in the low lit basement of a refurbished mill building upriver from the U. For about $60/person you get 2.5 hours there. In that time, as you steam, soak, and sweat, you’ll have to contend with your private thoughts, your innate solitude, your various mind-body dilemmas, and the fact that the staff will bang a gong if you talk or appear to be having fun inside the spa. This made for an odd Day Date. Lee and I didn’t bath alone together. Mostly, we bathed alone apart.
The list of rules Watershed emails you prior to visiting instructs you not not to talk, not to look at other patrons, and to keep your swimsuit on. Not talking, not looking, and not getting naked is supposed to allow you to reach a “watershed moment.” If there has ever been more inducement to having a panic attack during a luxury wellness experience, I’m not sure what it is. The facilities are nice, but mostly I felt like Lee and I had entered into somebody else’s swimsuit fetish in which communal bathing could only be imagined between the extremes of isolation and orgy. The chance to indulge this fetish remains quite popular with our fellow Minneapolitans: We’d had to make our 11am Monday reservation two months in advance.
In hindsight, this seems even more wild to me. I have fond memories of visiting the Russian and Turkish baths in New York City. The New Yorkers in those baths act about like they do in public parks--self-contained, exuberant, tolerant. Just like in a public park, behavior is regulated by the people sharing the space. Even though I’d read Watershed’s rules, I couldn’t help but think the spa would exude some of this same character. I thought of this as innate to communal bathing, and it didn’t occur to me that any amount of Scandinavian reticence could squash it. I was wrong! Lee, a native Midwesterner, interpreted the rules literally and therefore knew better what to expect. She expected to ruminate for two hours, which she did.
As soon as we entered the soaking pool, we decided that going through the spa on our own would be less nerve-wracking than sitting quietly side by side. Alone, I spent much of my time noticing and trying not to notice the bodies of the people around me. I also found it necessary to follow a careful etiquette about entering and exiting the sauna and steam room. It felt important not to crowd any single space and heaven forbid I inadvertently follow another bather somewhere. I spent some time wondering how Lee was doing, and some time trying not to worry about her. I looked forward to eating lunch.
After we rendezvoused in the steam room and whispered a plan to leave early, Watershed became more enjoyable. I cycled through the sauna and cold plunge several times. When we left I felt light, tingly, and calm. But, I’d felt the same, if not better, a month earlier when we used a $15 Groupon to visit a sauna and cold pool in the spare room of a dingy yoga studio.
In the end, though, Lee and I did achieve watershed moments. Back in the car, I was certain that, as a Twin Cities transplant, more opportunities for reflective solitude are the last thing I need. Lee was ready to quit her job and move back to Chicago.
What if instead of “communal bathing” this town had some hot tubs you could rent by the hour?