We recently renovated our Midcentury Modern home, spending way too long thinking about our primary bathroom when we could ponder slightly more important issues such as world peace and why Home Depot plays such godawful 70s rock music when I’m shopping for begonias. Traditionally, bathrooms in 1950s homes were all about function–efficient, unpretentious, and sadly, Lilliputian in size–around 5 feet by seven feet.  Like, I-can’t-stretch-out-my-legs-in-the-tub small (true story). I mean, a queen-size mattress is 5 x 7 for goodness sakes. Our existing loo was not the room of our dreams.

Our bathroom definitely did not vibe with our vision of a “spa-like” space. Yes, that is a cliché phrase that every designer on HGTV utters on every episode of every home show. But despite the cliché, we really are spa-like people. We are all about the soaking and relaxing and scrubbing and luxuriating in a private calming space that doesn’t smell like toilet cleaner.

And I’m not going to lie, I know a thing or two about spas as I’ve fortunately had many spa experiences around the globe, both good and not-so-good, starting from my days as a teenage exchange student living in Peru. It was there in South America I learned that showering isn’t always a pleasurable indulgence. Every morning I entered the sole bathroom in my host family’s home, a tiny space (as in airplane bathroom small) that the seven of us shared, for my daily shower.

But no matter how long I waited after turning on the water, it stayed bone-chilling cold. So, I learned to first use my hands to splash it on my shivering body as that seemed to numb my senses. Then, holding my breath, I’d walk into that ice cold stream of water. As I gradually lost sensitivity in my body parts, I imagined that this was how the Titanic passengers felt when they slowly sank into the frigid Atlantic and lost the power to swim. Or think.

To top it off, there was no shower curtain either. That meant that the terrazzo floor in the bathroom was soon covered in cold water that I was sure would turn into an ice rink later. Then, after I left the bathroom, the maid would leer at me as she covered the wet floor with newspaper. Apparently shower curtains and mops and hot water and spa-like bathrooms weren’t a thing in this country.

But then I met up with some of the other American exchange students in the Peruvian town where I lived, and casually mentioned how weird it was that Peruvians didn’t have shower curtains or hot water in the bathroom, and how they oddly used newspaper to soak up water. They all stared at me like I was under the influence of ayahuasca.

“Um, my host family has a shower curtain,” said one of them. “Yeah, mine too,” the rest of them added.

“And I take a very long, very hot shower every day,” said another. “Ditto,” the rest answered.

“Let me guess, your host families all have mops, too?” I asked as they nodded. Apparently, I couldn’t fault the entire Peruvian culture for lack of a spa-like bathroom experience–it was just the quirks of my particular host family. There was a cultural lesson in there somewhere, and I was sure it would come to me as soon as my brain thawed from my icy shower.

Fortunately, I had much better experiences in spas after that—well, for the most part. We couldn’t wait to soak in the steaming, natural lakes of the Blue Lagoon in Iceland, an outdoor spa experience that didn’t disappoint. The water really does appear a mystical blue, the exact same color of the blue milk Luke Skywalker drank in Star Wars: A New Hope

But alas, it’s not magic after all, as much as I wanted it to be, but just boring science (the high silica content reflects the sun and creates the color, blah, blah, blah). The water is a steamy 100 degrees Fahrenheit, and you can rub the smooshy, white mud at the bottom all over your body and you will miraculously look like a teenager again. Not really, but one can dream. And I did slather it on quite thick just in case.

But the scariest part happened beforehand, when you are required to shower in the bathhouse before going outside and into to the lagoon. Being wet and wearing a swimsuit in 14 degree Fahrenheit air is probably a tactic they use at those CIA black sites, because it is more torture-like than spa-like.

We soon learned that spas were everywhere, even in Almaty, Kazakhstan where there is no freedom of the press, but definitely freedom to have a spa day. The Arasan Spa we visited had it all—saunas, steam rooms, hot pools, cool pools, massages, and even a bar where you could sit with nothing but a towel wrapped around your waist. Pornstar Martini, anyone?

We weren’t allowed to enter the sauna without first buying a little sauna hat–a strange, four-sided felt structure that you definitely can’t look cool wearing. Supposedly, the hat helps you avoid overheating the blood vessels in the head. This was already starting to sound scary because overheated head blood vessels just sounds like an awful way to die.

As we began to enter the “Russian” sauna (one of several country-inspired rooms), an employee asked if we had brought our own “whisks.” Except with his thick accent it sounded like he said “whiskey,” and of course we said no because that stuff burns my throat, And then we thought he said they would have “whiskey” for us in the sauna. Whatever. When in Rome…

Once inside, we climbed several tiers to the top of the sauna where there was space for us to sit. Then, we soon discovered why people didn’t sit up here, because it had the same temperature as an air fryer turned on high. “I can’t blink. My eyelids have dried to my sclera,” I told Jamey.

Just then, two burly, mostly nude men entered the sauna and headed toward us, holding not whiskey bottles, but what seemed to be the leftovers from a tree trimming job. They were speaking Kazakh (we guessed) and motioning us to move down one tier as they scooted behind us. They were clutching small branches of crunchy-dry leaves. Hmmmm.

The next sensation I felt on my back was someone peeling off my outer layer of skin while heating it with a blow torch you would use to crisp the top of crème brûlée. “OH MY GOD!” I exclaimed. The burly man chuckled. “Am I getting a skin graft?”

“He’s hitting you with those branches,” Jamey replied, just as his burly man started to beat him too. “HOLY HELL,” Jamey whisper-choked.

It was about as far from “spa-like” as I could imagine. I must’ve blacked out because I don’t remember much of this experience, which apparently is a traditional Russian activity that “stimulates circulation, exfoliates the skin, and provides aromatherapy with the natural oils released from the leaves.” From my perspective, it’s how the KGB got information from spies they caught. Those darn Russians.

A visit to a traditional public hammam—also known as a Turkish bathhouse—in Tunis, Tunisia offered another tortured spa experience. Hammams were introduced to Tunisia by the ancient Romans, so we figured something that’s been going on for 2,100 years must be top notch.

That is, until we had the traditional body scrub. On paper, this sounded great: “An exfoliating treatment that removes dead skin cells, improves circulation, and hydrates the body leaving skin soft, smooth, and rejuvenated. Whose skin couldn’t use a little rejuvenation?

Then a burly guy (surely related to the branch-beating guys in Kazakhstan) with a sandpaper washcloth scrubbed our backs like he was taking the paint off an old hutch. I’m pretty sure he removed the epidermis layer of our skin. I was afraid to put my shirt back on because I thought it would become bloodstained.

Another time we were with three friends in Thailand, staying in an unforgettable floating, bamboo hotel in the middle of the River Kwai (as in the one with the bridge over it in the 1957 movie). At one point, we were all lying on cushions on a floating spa raft, getting simultaneous massages from five Thai masseuses who were synchronized in all of their movements (you were supposed to close your eyes, but I love a show). Sounds like a dream, right?

Except Jamey’s masseuse had a phlegmy, nagging cough that came out every time we started to relax and yanked us out of our peaceful zone. I figured that if I got up and said, “Holy cow, take a spoonful of Dayquil!” none of us would be in our peaceful zones for a long while, so I just listened to that rattling cough and hoped I wasn’t going to catch Legionnaires’ Disease.

On another adventure we were wandering the streets in the beach resort area of Legian on Bali’s southwest coast when we spied an enticing sign that read: Fish Therapy with fish from the Garden of Eden. Much like Eve, we were easily enticed and paid something like 50,000 Indonesian Rupiah, which of course made us feel like bazillionaires (that translated to $3.00 US) to enter this storefront fish spa. While I struggled conceptually with the words “fish” and “spa” being used in tandem, I was awfully curious to test this one out.

We sat on a polished wood bench and slowly lowered our bare feet into a shallow, lukewarm pool of unnaturally blue water, and immediately dozens and dozens of tiny black fish began to nibble at our toes and soles. Now, being a fan of the 1978 horror film Piranah, where genetically altered fish strip the flesh from living people, I immediately lifted my feet out of the water as I did not want to see my feet bones. But the fish spa wrangler assured me these creatures had no teeth, so I allowed them to continue gumming the dead skin from my feet.

As bizarre as it feels to have tiny creatures nipping at your skin, it was sort of soothing and stimulating, and I liked the fact that these creatures weren’t openly judgmental the callouses on my heels as some humans do. Of course later I discovered that fish spas are banned in many countries because they carry severe health risks, such as bacterial infections, blood-borne pathogens, and loss of your toenails. Apparently the water easily becomes a breeding ground for harmful germs. And thus ended any further fish spa visits.

Now don’t get me wrong—we’ve also had amazing spa experiences that don’t involve torture or bacteria. On a tiny island in the Maldives, at a lovely resort with those other-worldly overwater bungalows that you see on screen savers, we had the spa adventure of a lifetime.

The spa provided us with a private, shaded walled garden with a fountains and terraces and tropical plants and maybe even a rainbow-colored unicorn singing to us. We had massages and facial treatments as the palm trees swayed above us and we listened to the waves of the Indian Ocean hitting the shore about 20 feet away. It was very White Lotus, just without any deaths and such.

That was the first time we saw a cold plunge pool and as much as we wanted to dive in, my lizard brain took over and said, “You will NOT enter Arctic waters voluntarily…you’ve already done that in the shower in Peru.”

Széchenyi Thermal Bath in Budapest, Hungary was another superb spa adventure. This is the largest medicinal bath in all of Europe, famous for its very grand butter-colored Neo-Baroque buildings, 18 (!) pools (15 inside, 3 outside), and even outdoor chess tables in the pool where I couldn’t understand how chess players concentrate with all that pool noise, splashing, and a thick aroma of cocoa butter suntan lotion.

Each pool inside has different kinds of mineral rich spring water from deep underground, targeted to help with certain ailments like joint pain, arthritis, and certain skin conditions. It was interesting picking which ones to take a dip in, although I wasn’t too keen to share pool water with bathers potentially suffering from eczema and psoriasis. But to be honest, the stunning interior architecture was enough to make me forget about skin disorders. I mean, we’re talking marble, Corinthian columns around the pools, baby!

In Shanghai where we lived and taught for four years, we were lucky to have the flagship branch of Dragonfly Spa at the end of our street. Housed in a lovely, historic, five story Shanghai lane house, there should be a picture of this place next to the definition of “spa-like” in the dictionary. The top floor room is known as the “love nest,” and I chuckled every time we were assigned this room for our couples massages. “Meet you in the love nest, snookums…(wink, wink).”

The best part is that our international school provided a nice stipend for health and wellness, enabling us to purchase annual VIP passes to Dragonfly. So, we Dragon-fied every week—massages, facials, manis, pedis—all those things that strengthened our health and wellness in a much more relaxing manner than say, a gym membership. It was all extremely relaxing. Well, except for the time the barely English speaking woman giving me my facial kept saying under her breath, “Ooh, maaany wrinkle. So maaaany wrinkle.”

By the end of the school year, we would have to use up all remaining funds on our VIP card, so in one loooong visit we would have about every treatment they offered. I remember once we sat in these bougie chairs while we simultaneously had a mani, pedi, and facial while wearing inflatable tubes on our arms and legs that vibrated. Nearly every employee was working on the two of us at the same time. If that’s not spa-like, I don’t know what is. I’m thinking this is what Lauren Sánchez Bezos gets every morning when she wakes up.

We even recently experienced a spa at sea on our first cruise, relaxing with a really soothing couples massage from two very sweet Philippine masseuses. They were so excited that we had visited their home country, enjoying their tasty food and swimming with whale sharks (another true story, but definitely not spa-related).

But like every employee on the cruise, they were quite focused on the upsell. Beforehand, they suggested many spa add-ons, such as a Pro-Collagen Quartz Facial (Quartz? Ouch!), an Aroma Spa Seaweed Massage (seaweed smells like dead fish, okay?) and even teeth whitening.

Then afterwards, just as we were relaxed and calm, they pushed a bunch of overpriced spa products, such as a $112 jar of invigorating bath salts that “make you feel like you just had a massage.” Unless there were little live hands in that jar, I was not convinced. Or the $145 Pro-Collagen Marine Cream, an ultra-hydrating formula packed with marine algae (Say WHAT!? That stuff that gets caught in your toes at the beach?) to reduce the appearance of fine lines and wrinkles. Wait, were they being judgy about my face, like that mean lady at Dragonfly Spa? Oh well, at least massages were more interesting than the human oatmeal who sat at the ship’s bars and scrolled on their phone.

Now that we are living back in the States, we hit the spa in any town we go to, from Dubuque, Iowa’s gorgeous Potosa Spa in an historic hotel (with treatments shaped by Native American culture) to St. Louis, Missouri’s Secret Garden Spa in a stately 100-year-old former home, where we sat in a hot tub outside when the temp was 17 degrees (it was heaven, I promise).

And of course, after all of this background spa experience, we ended up with a primary bathroom in our home that we feel is actually spa-like. It’s centerpiece is a solid stone tub (one of the workers messed up his back carrying it in with 5 others), a giant, 3-sided glass shower, an 11 foot wall covered in wavy water-like white tile, and a calming turquoise paint color that makes me think of the Maldives. Our drawers are filled with bath salts and bubble bath (the normal-priced products from Dr. Teals) and face masks and lava rock foot scrubbers.

Best of all, nobody is in there telling me I have maaaany wrinkles–though our fancy fog-free mirror is pretty revealing.