I am visting my Aunt and Uncle in Chelsea. (near Boston).I'd never been to Chelsea before. I pulled over to check the map. 4th Street. Looks like I had overshot by one exit too many. Through heavy sheets of rain I circled around Chelsea City Hall, up Maple, back down Broadway. Eventually I found it tucked away on a residential street. I got out of the car. From the street I could see the girders of the Tobin Bridge. It was an odd feeling being so close to a bridge, but not actually being on it or heading towards it.

I had never been to a Russian bath house before. But here I was. Here I go! I walked in and approached the desk. "What'll ya have today?" Interesting question. If I were a woman I would have launched into queries of what was available, what was the best, what did he recommend, how does this all work, are there any specials? But I'm a man. So I feign jaded expertise as if I do this every weekend. "Just a steam," I reply. I'm handed a towel, flip-flops, a lock, and a disposable razor.

There's no locker room but instead a block of lockers, right there next to the desk. I change into my towel. "Enter rooms at own risk. Shower BEFORE and AFTER entering rooms" the sign says. I open the door to find three shower heads and doors to either side. I take a quick shower and go into the room on the left. Three levels of wooden benches. Rock walls. HEAT. I climb up to the top bench and I sit. And I sweat. To my left sits an older russian man. He's naked. He has a belly. He descends from his perch and grabs a branch of oak leaves from a bucket of water. He climbs back to his spot on the bench and begins to hit himself with the branch. Holy sh*t! I've read about this! I'm seeing this! He's not beating himself but is administering a pattern of one-two swats on his back, then his legs, his chest. Some of the small hard leaves fly off the branch. Sweat is pouring from every pore in my body. It feels good. My reign as youngest person in the place by at least 30 years is relinquished as two guys around my age come in and sit down. They're wearing their own personal flip-flops. They're talking about the Red Sox. I hate them. I'm saved by the appearance of three more large naked russian men all wearing the same sort of burlap hat. I don't understand the hats. But I kinda want one. They start turning a faucet that has a sign above it clearingly stating that it should only be touched by employees. These guys know what they're doing. Russian conversation fills the room. Twenty minutes later I'm fantasizing that they're talking about me and about how manly I am to be taking in the heat with men like them from the old country. I want to start a sentence, any sentence, that starts with "In Old Country.....", missing article and all. I want to play them in chess. I'm getting light-headed. I hit the showers again (heaven) and head towards the lounge area.

Cheap lounge chairs arranged in a crooked semi-circle face a table filled with half-eaten food and a bottle of Vox vodka from which a few russian men pour themselves nips. A few feet away in an area recessed by a single step, a large screen TV fills the wall and more chairs line facing it. I play it safe and decide not to eat anything. It might not be community food. Plus my stomach needs to recover from the stress of the possibility of getting lost on the drive over.

I take a seat and watch some TV. I haven't talked to anyone since I got here. Look over here. I am a young eager ear. Tell me your stories. Look at my soft smooth hands. They are honest, but they have not seen hard work. Tell me I am fat and lazy and that when you were my age you held three jobs and slept five to a bed. When I complain about traffic tell me how you once waited in a line for eight hours for a cup of sugar and 3 pieces of bread once. And you were thankful. Ah, I understand you need some time to warm up to me comrade - I understand. I won't push.

I'm the only one with a towel wrapped around my waist. It's noon and I've seen a lot of penie today. It's time to go. I change, pay, and head out. I've had a good schvitz. I will be back. And I will grow on them. Kind of like the fungus I'm convinced will appear on my feet soon from this little adventure.