This city is a hotbed for secrets. I think I could live here for one hundred years and never uncover half of them.
Secrets like little spas tucked away around corners with unassuming entryways and no-fuss decor. Spas where you're quietly directed down long, narrow walkways, deeper and deeper into the earth until some five floors beneath you, you find yourself in a sub-city oasis, far from traffic and people and deadlines and trains. Where waterfalls flow into a bubbling hot tub surrounded by chaise lounges and stacks of neatly folded towels. Where you can sit in the quiet and sip hot lemon tea with honey and ease off of the stresses of the day until you're called for your facial.
Probably the most wonderful facial you've ever had.
The kind of facial that makes you forget that you're in the middle of the din of a frozen metropolis as you sink into the bed. The kind that makes you forget your own name as you melt into the warmth and steam, ten fingers feeling like hundreds as they tenderly soothe every last worry out of each tiny muscle in your cheeks, your forehead, your eyes.
Do you know how much tension you hold in your face?
This magical city is made up of millions of these little experiences. The kinds of experiences where even after you've peeled yourself off the table, dressed and plunged headfirst back into the biting cold, heading home, you're able to feel quieted. In the busiest city in the western world, you feel alone, in a good way.
They're the kinds of experiences where even though you know for a fact that thousands, maybe millions of people have tripped their way across Bowery to that same spa, this one feels like it's just between you and the city.
Your little secret.
Great Jones Spa in Nolita, the deep cleansing facial. It was a gift, but I'm guessing you won't be disappointed. Remind me to get one for my mother.