Living the Spa Life

by Calla Jones Corner

Last January, one of the first things my son-in-law wanted to know was if I'd found a " boy toy" after spending a week at Lavey-les-Bains, following our Christmas holiday in Burgundy, where half of us now live. The other half lives in Australia.

The renowned Swiss thermal waters lie under les Dents du Midi, that rise above Lac Léman in the Swiss canton of Valais like four glistening white enamel incisors. Applicants for Swiss nationality must name Les Dents if applying for a Swiss passport in le Valais or le Vaud where we lived for sixteen years, from 1968 -l984.

The answer was "No." I hadn't even given a recent widow's thought to finding a new mate while I indulged myself in spa life – mornings filled with what my father called a "real breakfast” – Swiss-churned butter, puffy croissants, confitures faîtes maison, creamy scrambled eggs, bangers and bacon, fresh fruit, and freshly brewed coffee and tea. All that before a 4 km walk along the rushing Rhône, followed by an hour's divine massage (I had seven – all different), an hour in the warmest thermal waters in Switzerland (33 c. to 36 c. depending on which bath), followed by 20 minutes in a sauna and freezing cold shower (I know the routine as I'm half-Swedish), topped by a bain-side-bar lunch with other sybarites, of salad and smoothie, still in my thick, white terry robe.

The Afternoon Schedule

Rest with a book in my comfortable, if not luxurious, room, overlooking an attractive sculpture garden, or a short excursion. One afternoon I ventured 20 minutes to Martigny to spend several hours at La Fondation Pierre Gianndda visiting the superb exhibition "Les Années Fauves" and the permanent exhibitions of French photographer Félix Nadar's portraits of la vie Parisienne's 18th and 19th century stars and celebrities and the outstanding, eye-popping collection of dozens of beautifully restored old cars from a Swiss 1908 Martini to a 1930 Bugatti.

Another afternoon I zipped down to Le Musée Swiss de Jeux, just outside of Vevey in a medieval château. I was curious to see if my card game, GOULASH I'd donated to the museum in 1985 (in which you match food pairs; the game was sold at Harrods' food department and other food emporia and toy departments world-wide), was on display. It wasn't. I was assured it was in storage. I was pleased to discover that all the usual games humans have played for 5,000 years were on display, but astounded and disappointed to be the only one visiting those rooms. The other families had stuffed themselves into three rooms dedicated to video games. Apparently, the museum directors believe that video games are here to stay and that it's not a bad thing. As a family, I'm happy to tell you we still play GOULASH and, now that I live in France, I am developing games that match wine and cheese. In the warm months, there are umpteen alpine hikes or beaches for the afternoons.

I haven't skied for over two decades, since a snowboarding teenager hit me full force as he soared over a mogul in Verbier, sending me flying toward a concussion. I vowed then and there that I never would ski downhill again.

Now I have five snowboarding grandchildren, two snowboarding daughters and two snowboarding sons-in-law, one of whom wants me to find a lover with home-making skills, who will tackle my never-ending "honey do" list that comes with buying a 300-year-old house in France.

Mud Baths and Massages

My parents "discovered" Lavey-les-Bains on one of their annual three-month winter trips from windy Cape Cod to the snowy vineyards above Lutry, forty minutes down the road from Les Bains. Were they escaping babysitting or just in search of the perfect spa for my mother's arthritis? Or were these long weekends also part of their incessant curiosity about spa life? One year they ventured south to Abano, Italy for the morning mud baths and afternoons in Venice.

After my father died and we moved to Brussels, my mother continued trips to Lavey-les-Bains (instead of the Belgium town of Spa, where for many fashionable Europeans in the mid-19th century, spa life was de rigueur, replete with jewels, parasols, and boy toys casing sumptuous Belle Époque cafés for wealthy widows). My indefatigable mother (who passed away two weeks short of 100) swore it was Lavey-les-Bains' thermal waters that were responsible for her long, active life and corralled widowed friends for a week's stay at the baths. She needed company during her spa life, especially for dinner. I now understand.

When my parents stayed at Les Bains, all meals were served in the gracious Belle Époque dining room. My parents dressed in their finest. They regaled us with the different lunch and dinner menus. Now, meals are served in a modern extension and jeans and trainers are accepted. My daughter suggested I bring a book for company. Instead, at my table for one, I occupied myself by constantly going to the lavish buffet and chatting up the charming chef who suggested one evening grilled kangaroo (it's low in cholesterol).

My father would have loved this new spa life. I'm not sure about my mother. But I did.