Wandering through the rotunda of the State Capitol in Austin, Texas, I approach two uniformed Texas Rangers and ask for directions. One ranger just stares coldly for a few moments, and then it hits me. He knows I’ve just spent two days at a health spa. It’s written all over my perfumed sissy face. He smells the lavender. He sees my baby skin as sleek as a porpoise, my limp and soggy spine. In his eyes, I’m a little poofter wearing a powdered wig and knee-length satin pants. I feel like saying, “Hey, it’s your state that made me this way.”
The Lake Austin Spa Resort, 30 minutes outside of Austin, has been named a top 10 destination spa by the Zagat Survey, as well as one of the “Top 50 Best Kept Secrets in the World” by Travel and Leisure. It’s definitely a secret. Who knew there would be anything healthy in meat-eatin’, boot-stompin’ Texas, much less a peaceful sanctuary in the hilly green countryside, a few miles from Willie Nelson’s ranch? But there it is, a former guest lodge undergoing a multimillion-dollar renovation. I pull up to the wrought-iron double gates and extinguish my cigar because it’s a $200 fine “if smoking occurs in the rooms.” And at about $420 per night (off-peak), there’s no need to get carried away.
I check in and survey the acreage. The main cluster of buildings includes indoor and outdoor pools, a sauna, steam rooms, tennis courts, a boat dock, a boutique, several miles of walking trails, and wheelchair ramps everywhere. A tree-covered ridge sits across the river, and footbridges span a small stream. It’s very tranquil and European. You can imagine Boris Yeltsin wrapped in a towel, feeding the ducks on the lawn. A bulletin board lists the week’s activities: Salsa Aerobics, Resist A Ball Yoga, an “entertaining aisle by aisle tour” of a supermarket, and something called Dynamic Walking: “Observe and evaluate your current pattern of walking.” Next week features a class on creating pressed flower designs. Unfortunately, I’ll be gone.
My cabin is homey and clean: terra-cotta tiled floors, thick wooden furniture, soft white bathrobes, a phone with data port. The next 24 hours are filled with spa treatment appointments, 50 minutes and $85 apiece. Tonight it’s a Sea Salt Body Polish. I was also scheduled for a Honey Mango Scrub treatment, but an urgent voicemail message explained I’d inadvertently booked two exfoliations, and the Sea Salt is “much, much better.” OK, salt it is. The process begins with me lying on a table, naked except for a towel. Anne-Marie begins the treatment, a strange and fragrant scraping sensation. It’s pretty relaxing except for the monotonous music, which sounds like a combination of Pink Floyd and Zamfir. (It’s actually Enya, and the CDs are sold in the boutique.) I ask Anne-Marie if she has ever had a customer just completely pass out. Occasionally at the end of a treatment, she says, she’ll return to the room and find them snoring away: “We have to call a golf cart and take them back to their room.” I don’t feel sleepy at all. I feel like an Olympic swimmer-invigorated, smooth, and hairless, ready to knife through the water to victory. Outside in the dark, I surprise a group of deer munching on the lawn. They bound away, then stop and sniff. That’s right, Bambi, it’s fresh rosemary.
The spa’s restaurant does not appear to be anywhere near Texas. There are no beer signs, no animal heads on the walls, no prize for devouring a 72-ounce steak. The menu is healthy, low-fat cuisine from a well-known chef. As I choke down the pork medallions, bathed in a dirt-flavored sauce, I realize the dining room is exclusively female. Two twentysomething girls with pulled-back hair speak in conspiratorial whispers. A plump woman sits in a bathrobe reading a book. At another table of middle-aged women, one orders the Mediterranean platter and asks the male waiter, “Do you do a little Greek dance with that?” He shimmies his hips, and all of them titter. I feel weirdly trapped, held captive in a pampered hut of estrogen.
The next morning a heavy fog hangs over the river, and it’s very moody and evocative, almost like a scene from Apocalypse Now. You expect a fleet of Huey helicopters to suddenly emerge from the mist with guns blazing, chasing a boatful of Mexican immigrants. But they don’t. I show up for the Gentleman’s Hot Towel Facial, and the staff all knows me by name because as one explains, I’m an oddity-the only male guest who hasn’t been dragged here by his wife. Shelly administers at least eight different rounds of wiping, creaming, buffing, and scrubbing my face, with a steaming hot towel between each cycle. I ask if there will be cucumbers over the eyes. “That can be soothing,” says Shelly, “but we don’t do that here.” When she has finished, in the mirror is a completely different person, with a gleaming forehead, taut face, and well-moisturized skin. I have been transformed into a eunuch newscaster.
After an excellent lunch of udon soup, it’s time for the Full Body Swedish Massage, with Cheryl. Again I get on the table, and again here comes the Enya. All this restive, soothing chick energy is wearing me down. I need something manful. I want to be informed, get my massage while listening to BBC Radio: “A group of Rwandan rebel youth stand in a doorway, each armed with AK-47s. Their leader…is 4 years old.” Cheryl spends a half-hour working on my problematic back, and I can tell from her breathing it’s an uphill battle. She suggests a massage once a month, which sounds good to me. Maybe the spa people have the right idea. I’d do it again, but next time I’ll bring my own music.