Talkin' Shit About A Pretty Sunset

In the back of a basement in a subdivision outside Detroit, buried under a cobwebbed clutter of old telescope parts, broken outdoor window panes, and dusty wooden bed posts, lay a sauna that hadn't been used for 20 years until I unearthed it yesterday like some suburban archaeologist.

After I'd spent an hour hauling the junk to a far corner of my in-laws' basement and taken a wet rag to 20 year's worth of spider webs and grime, the clean sight of a functioning Finnish sauna was a beacon of shining perfection---surely more encouraging than the north star was to the Three Wise Men two thousand years ago.

And now I'm a sauna lizard, obsessed. Here's my cycle: take a shower; crank up the sauna rocks to 190 degrees fahrenheit; jump in for 30 minutes or until my body can't take the heat; take a freezing cold shower; drink a cold beer and eat a dry sausage; then repeat that process three times.

Finns think of saunas not as a luxury, but as a necessity, and now I see why. The feeling is the best natural high I've had, and even somewhat disorienting (in a good way). I've been coming to my in-laws' house for five years and never knew they had this room designed purely for relaxation. My world is changed.