Happy Bert'sday!

Berti turned 30 on Friday!

And you know, 30 has so far proved the yummiest age for guys. Or maybe it's just that as the years go by, the peer group that I find attractive keeps the same pace. Whatever. Suffice to say that somewhere around their mid-twenties is when long-necked boys become bewhiskered, sexy, broad-shouldered men, and that Saxon is no exception.

To honor the occasion, I kidnapped Bert to a hotel in the spa town of Baden-Baden, directly across from the Roman bath house (Friedrichsbad); and we spent his birthday in our birthday suits.

Yep -- no better way to say, "hey, check me out, I'm 30!" than being naked in front of a bunch of rich people! It was really fun. At the top of an enormous, carpeted marble staircase are two separate doors for the men's and women's changing rooms, so we had to part ways for the first couple steps of the fourteen-part ritual; but the lady at the posh front desk assured us we'd meet up in the main baths around step six, so I pushed open the frosted-glass door and stepped into... opulence.

Chandeliers, mirrors, cushioned seats, hairdryers, fluffy towels on heaters. Simple, elegant signs posted at each step inform you exactly what is to be done at each station and for how long ("16 Minuten," "3 Minuten" -- adorable Germans, even relaxation is timed and organized!). I follow the instructions to the changing booth, hang my clothes on the hangers, attach the locker key to my wristband, and step out. Naked. Okay. We are supposed to be naked at this point, right? I look around, but don't see anyone else in order to check their be-robed status. Gingerly, nakedly peek around the corner which leads to the baths. See someone!

She's dressed.

Er.

She spots me and waves me over. "Good day!" she says. "Do you speak German?"

I nod (nakedly).

"Then welcome to to the Friedrichsbad! Here is the first step, the shower room. After you've finished, you can take a sheet to lay on the bench in the next room, the hot-air bath. Just follow the signs, they'll take you through. Any questions?"

Since I still didn't see any other bathers, I couldn't help asking. "Just one. I see you're fully dressed. Am I supposed to be this, well, nude??"

Her, feigning surprise: "Certainly not!"

Before my heart could quite stop, she burst out laughing. "Haha, just kidding! The Friedrichsbad is of course entirely in the buff. Enjoy your visit."

I cracked up. I mean, who plays such a joke on visitors? How could you not? Her laid-back attitude dissolved any remaining sense of self-consciousness and I stepped on through into another world.

The hot-air sauna was particularly wonderful: pinkly glowing women recline on wooden benches in peaceful silence, and after around minute 3.46 you feel your bones start to melt. Enjoyable as it was, though, by step six (the steam sauna) I started looking for Bert. This is where the baths were supposed to mix, and I wanted to find my birthday boy! So I pushed the door open to the next room and found a hot pool.

Full of soaking middle-aged men.

Who turned and looked at me.

Feeling a little bit sheepish again, I scuttled into the next room. Here only one person, also a guy, was stewing in some bubbles. Still no Bert. So I had a seat in the bubbles, too, and tried to act natural. (Ha, very natural!) But finally, a tall gorgeous figure appeared through a side door, and from then on the evening was perfect.

It's funny how quickly you get used to a bunch of nekkid folks. In fact it's quite pleasant, much more so than at some public pool where we're trying to self-consciously stuff ourselves into spandex and wire in an attempt to simultaneously cover and flatter our bodies. When really, we humans are a rather nice-looking species already! Women especially are much prettier au naturale than in pinching, bulging, garishly-colored swimsuits: their curves are allowed to flow in smooth, uninterrupted lines that make hippy girls in particular look like lovely ripe pears. Unabashed, Bert and I soaked and swam and bubbled and frolicked and steamed until our fingers were so wrinkly we probably could have gained enough traction to gecko up the walls. We'd been hanging out for almost three hours by the time we reluctantly went back to our respective dressing rooms, applied warm towels and lotion and hairdryers, and re-emerged, damp and pink-cheeked, into the real world.

Dinner was a cozy Sicilian place with about six tables and Italians yelling their southern dialect back and forth into the kitchen. "Maria! Lelinguineaifruttidimare!" (We even heard one waiter yell, "Capisch?!") The food was of course delicious. A short walk through downtown took us back to our posh hotel and we slept until the last minute before going down to a china-served breakfast.

Pleasant as Baden-Baden is, though, we realized it's not one of those places we'd really want to live. Most German towns take their sense of belonging from a nearly tangible shared heritage; Baden-Baden residents, though, seem to share only the fact of their wealth. We went for a walk the next day and had a seat on a bench next to a path where rich mothers clopped by in their high heels to pick up their kids from some Saturday-morning program. All the same fashionably-dressed, blond-highlighted women in their early forties with the same Esprit-backpack-carrying schoolaged children. We had fun speculating about their jobs and wondering where the fathers were (playing tennis, we decided). They were probably perfectly nice people; but not quite our crowd.

On your 30th, you've gotta do something posh. But for my 28th, we'll probably go camping. (Maybe naked.)

Happy birthday, darling!