I Bathed in Wine

Somehow, on a sweltering Friday in mid-June, I found myself sitting in a cool stone cauldron in an underground cave beneath Sevilla, Spain.

The “somehow” in question was a Google search: “what to do on a solo trip to sevilla.” Google taught me that a wine bath and head massage at a traditional Spanish bathhouse would only cost me 50 euros. 

I’d spent the past three hours soaking in every type of bath you can imagine: hot baths, cold baths, ice baths, warm baths, bubble baths, salt baths. Now, tepid red wine spewed from a rusted spout and pooled around me. The cave was dark, its walls illuminated only by the flickering candles that hung from the ceiling. Carafes and bottles of multicolored wine were strewn throughout the room. 

Lucía, my masseuse, entered through a trap door and selected a bottle of red from the corner. She popped the cork with bravado, holding it out for me to sniff while the memory of its sound echoed through the cave. She poured a glass for me and dumped the rest of the bottle into my bath. I resisted the urge to lap it up like a dog and wished I knew anything about wine.

Despite repeated assurance that I am capable of feeding myself, Lucía insisted on placing cheese and grapes onto my tongue for me. After staring into my eyes as I chewed and swallowed each bite, she poured more wine into the bath and massaged my head.

For the finale, Lucía led me up 6 flights of stairs to the roof, wine dripping from my limbs. I rinsed off in an outdoor shower floating above the city. A soft breeze dried my hair as I admired Parque de María Luisa from above, where I’d later write this story beneath an orange blossom tree. After a tapas dinner and a glass of wine I didn’t know the name of, I’d wander the cobblestone streets of Sevilla, gelato dripping down my forearm, and wonder if someone beneath my feet was bathing in wine.