The way I remember public swimming baths is a nose-crinkling smell of chlorine, screaming kids splashing water, the feel of cold wet spandex against my skin and a pain in my neck from a bad breaststroke technique.
For Christmas, R gave me a pass to the public bath at
Yrjönkatu because he goes regularly and, well, oh dear. I knew I should have gone a long time ago, but you know, ehh, public swimming baths.
But it was fabulous. It was a time warp to a time more beautiful, with ladies doing a leisurely breaststroke in the nude, surrounded by 20s take on classic Roman architecture.
They have individual dressing cabins fitted with a bed for a catnap after your dip and serve refreshments directly to your cabin. I sat in my bathrobe and towel turban at a small table on the balcony, half reading Pessoa's modernist prose (fittingly enough!), half listening to the splashing and women laughing below and thought that in the same way that a gentleman may only sweat while dueling or making love in a Turkish bath, I'm quite convinced that this sort of swimming may actually be the only sport a proper lady can partake in.
Here's for many Sunday swims to come.