The sauna is small. Very small. It fits about six people, but cranky sauna-goers treat it like a private club. There are rules. No talking. No sweating on the rocks. No breathing too loud. One guy once tried to meditate so hard he fell asleep and snored like a chainsaw. The rest of us just sat there, melting, trying not to laugh.
And the steam room? It’s a fog machine in disguise. You walk in, and poof—you can’t see your own hand. Great for pretending you’re in a spy movie. Terrible for finding the door handle when it’s time to leave. I once spent a full three minutes groping the wall like a blind zombie. The staff still giggle about me.
