How much therapy would it take to unpack why getting a free "spa day" on company time fills a reporter like me with moderate anxiety instead of relief and tranquility?

Bathhouse, the swanky social wellness club that just opened at the Bellevue Hotel, invited me to check out their new bunker of relaxation in the historic French Renaissance building infamously known for the world’s first outbreak of Legionnaire's disease 50 years ago. It's now a beautifully renovated Hyatt with a revamped, upscale gym, some apartments, and a 1940s-themed restaurant, Mr. Edison, named after the famed inventor who designed the hotel's original lighting system.

I thought I'd get a quick tour of Bathhouse, talk with a brand rep and cringe afterward seeing how many times the interview transcript showed me saying, “Damn, that's so cool," or something else basic about their mood-lit saunas and pools.

But when the Bathhouse team asked if I wanted to bring my swim trunks, try the amenities and join an unspecified "event" last Thursday morning, I immediately thought, "Oh no ..."

Why? What kind of fool even hesitates about this? And then only says yes out of a fear of being rude and otherwise squandering what obviously makes for a better story?

I'm a 38-year-old man with no discernible self-pampering regimen and hardly the budget to create one. Going to a spa feels like a misuse of resources and a mismatch with the jaded presumptions I have – maybe unfairly — about their clientele. I will happily splurge on gift cards to trendy restaurants where my partner and I can never get reservations, but when it comes to deep relaxation, we're usually both pretty simple: put on "Gilmore Girls" and sing all the "La La La La" interludes together like a pair of carefree idiots in this hectic game of life.

Part of me would like to think I can roast myself much better than a sauna, but maybe that droll energy is what gave me pause about taking an elevated approach to self-care. I also don't normally work with my shirt off, and I felt a little weird about bothering members of the public who were going somewhere specifically to unwind, even if it's my job. 

"It's a true chance to kind of unplug and just like, be in your body — be in the experience," Apneet Kaur, Batthouse's director of brand marketing, reassured me. "And whether you're with strangers or talking to people in the pool, you know, it's just about feeling good."

So I got over myself and decided to do just that.

'It's very personal'

The event taking place at Bathhouse on the morning of my visit was a free day-pass experience for employees of all the businesses at the Bellevue, plus some other guests who had an "in" ahead of Friday's grand opening.

I waded into the club's 104-degree pool, surrounded by a group of servers from Mr. Edison, and introduced myself. They were all friendly and happy to offer their thoughts about the place. I felt delighted. 

One young woman, a former Bellevue security guard, told me she was shocked by the transformation of the building's lower level — formerly part of the shuttered Tavern on Broad – in a matter of months. It looked like "a bunch of rubbish" during the winter, she said, but now everyone agreed it felt like an Egyptian or Greek temple. One guy said he felt like he was on vacation somewhere other than Philly.

The first Batthouse club opened in Brooklyn's Williamsburg neighborhood in 2019, taking over a renovated soda factory from the 1930s. There are now three locations in New York City, plus the new one at the Bellevue and more clubs planned in Chicago and North Jersey.

The company's ethos centers on an "anti-spa" philosophy that encourages socializing as part of the wellness experience. Kaur told me their spaces veer away from the hushed ambiance of other posh establishments, where escaping people and noise is kind of the point. Most of the people who visit Bathhouse clubs range from about 25 to 45, but anyone over 18 can visit.

"Our customers, I think they tend to skew slightly more female, but that is a trend we have seen in adjacent industries," Kaur said. "Women tend to go more to fitness classes to workout."

Bathhouse has a dynamic pricing model that starts at an accessible $29 for a day pass to the saunas, pools and steam room. The lowest prices are available during off-peak, weekday hours. At busier times, walk-ins might pay closer to $70. It starts to get expensive when a massage is added to the bill, but every massage comes with access to the whole facility. People who love the place can buy multi-visit packs.

"We knew it was really important to be accessible for everybody, so that's a price point thing, but it's also a social thing," Jason Goodman, one of the co-founders, told me in one of the club's lounge areas. "We want to feel nice, but it's not elite. Anybody can come here. You can come with your friends and talk. You're also doing it with strangers and you're pushing yourself. We're selling a really deeply experiential product that kind of touches you, and it's very personal."

For as gorgeous as the club looks, the power of being there partly comes from the rule against bringing phones into the amenity spaces. I was given an exception to take a few shots for the story, as long as people didn't mind. Unlike other flashy attractions — the former Wonderspaces gallery at the Fashion District, for example — Bathhouse isn't going to be packed with people taking selfies. The club also meters how many people are there at any given time, which will vary based on the time of week. Sometimes it will be lively. Other times it will feel mostly empty.

Goodman, who has a background in nightlife, said operating Bathhouse is similar to running a nightclub. He and co-founder Travis Talmadge created the concept as a way to address some of the drawbacks of those environments while still offering a social outing. The club is open daily from 8:30 a.m. to 11:30 p.m.

"The problem with nightlife is that it burns you out, right? I don't want to stay up all night. I don't want to drink," Goodman said.

'Walking through the fire'

A handful of the Bellevue employees convinced me to try out the 50-degree cold plunge, where I lasted two seconds, and then we went into the infrared sauna set at 135 degrees. I felt a bit woozy. My back started beading with sweat. I got a nervous feeling, but then felt calmed by the presence of other people.

One woman, a regular runner, told me the sauna can be intense, but she finds it crucial for restoring her body to peak performance.

Goodman said the experience at Bathhouse is intended to be challenging. All guests at the club have to sign a waiver acknowledging that the amenities there may test the limits of their bodies.

"It's kind of like a thing where we're like, 'Hey, let's be really real. You're gonna struggle here, man. You're gonna suffer with us,'" Goodman said. "You accomplish something. You also feel great in your body. So it's like a mind-body-spirit thing, but it is about sort of walking through the fire."

Goodman, 47, said he got into using saunas about 25 years ago during an outing with a high school friend in North Carolina. The friend comes from a family with Indigenous roots, and they built a small sweat lodge out of saplings covered with furs. Next to it was a fire pit packed with glowing stones and wood. The rocks were taken into the hut and doused with water, raising the temperature inside while the group sang together.

"I was just thinking, 'I'm not gonna make it. I'm not gonna make it. I can't leave,'" Goodman said. "It was the hottest sauna I've ever been in. I thought I was gonna die."

When the experience ended, the group ventured to a nearby creek. The shock of the cold water left a lasting mark on Goodman.

"It's not just a relaxing experience in the moment," he said. "It's that you feel amazing and realize it afterwards. You kind of sacrifice something to get to get something."

'A tremendous, beautiful city'

The Brooklynization of Philly has become a hot topic in recent years, both because of the number of transplants and the way some neighborhoods, meaning Fishtown, have evolved in recent years.

When I asked people at Bathhouse how they felt about another New York business setting up shop in Philly, none of them thought it was overkill. A few said it was exciting to have a concept like Bathhouse in the city — especially in Center City — and that most of Philly still just feels like the good, the bad and the ugly of Philly.

Goodman said he remembers moving to Williamsburg and skateboarding around his apartment when the neighborhood was filled with anarchists and punks. I asked him if he has any apprehension about Bathhouse becoming part of a gentrification debate.

"This is a tremendous, beautiful city with a tremendous, beautiful building right at the heart of it," Goodman said. "I don't really worry about some of the more academic ideas around it. Let's just build something that human beings from anywhere are going to really, really f---ing love."

That felt like the nicest way to tell my Virgo ass to just chill.

Goodman revealed Bathhouse is already at work building out a 7,000-square-foot roof deck that will open next year with a pool, a sauna and a bar that will overlook Walnut Street from one of the Bellevue's lower levels. That will be included in the regular day pass experience.

"During the summer, people can camp out on a lounge chair all day," Goodman said.

Odds and ends

When I left Bathhouse to return to PhillyVoice's office on 15th Street, I felt both beaming and dazed. I mistakenly walked the wrong way. I bought some fancy sparkling water from the club's cafe to give to one of my colleagues, who was sprayed from the carbonation when she opened it, but still grateful. I got myself a latte, which I rarely do.

I announced that I'd had a "marvelous" morning, and then pretty much immediately sat down for a meeting about another complicated story that I was unsure how to advance. It takes no time at all to feel stressed. Doing the opposite takes effort, and yes, sometimes money.

My biggest takeaway from my Bathhouse experience is that with so much talk about a lack of "third spaces," and fears about how humanity will survive the saturation of tech, it was deeply refreshing to just sit in a beautiful space, feel the water and heat on my skin, and talk to people who were hanging out enjoying themselves in a screen-free place. 

Maybe some of us have forgotten how and why to do that. The infrequency is easy to justify with a sense of guilty pleasure that's rooted in scarcity, necessity and a general awareness that the playing field for people's well-being is sharply slanted. Hell, I probably wouldn't have gone to Bathhouse if I were not a media stooge looking for something that lots of people might read about and with the privilege to try it for free. 

I told my partner I'd take her to Bathhouse, and she said that for all my hand-wringing before I went, she knew all along it would be good for me. In the afterglow of my visit, I also bought a pair of massages and day passes for my brother and sister-in-law to treat themselves when they feel like it.

So now I understand how people spend all their money at places like this, but I won't feel the same conflict about going to one if it would be beneficial for me.