Iceland’s Water Cure | NY Times

On a frigid February day in Reykjavik, I stood bare-­chested and dripping wet just inside the dressing room at the Vesturbaejar pool, facing a long, cold walk to the outdoor hot tubs. My host was stoic, strong, a Viking. I was whining.

“I just don’t want to go out there,” I said. “How do you make yourself do it?”

“You must, to swim in the pool,” Valdimar Hafstein said with a shrug. He is a folklorist at the University of Iceland who studies the country’s pools. “Kids hate it, too. I have to haul my kids kicking and screaming.” I took a deep breath and tried to think of warm things. Wearing only a Speedo bathing suit — I had packed three, in honor of the island’s reputation as one of the company’s most avid markets — I stepped onto the deck. It was a few degrees below freezing.

Imagine the feeling you get when you hold an ice cube tight, that combination of sting and ache, except imagine it all over your nearly nude body. Battling my long-­ingrained instincts never to run at a swimming pool, I fell into a kind of brisk walk-trot, aiming for the large set of interconnected hot tubs in the center of the complex. I’m sure I looked ridiculous. The good news: I’d never been less concerned about my appearance while wearing almost nothing in public.

Small snowflakes glittered in the sky, which at 4 p.m. was already darkening toward dusk. I reached the largest hot tub and sank to my chin. For one glorious moment, I felt my mind go blank: There was just my body, my big, stupid body in its stupid bathing suit, enveloped in warmth, the cold wind on my ears only heightening my delight. Behind me, Valdimar ambled across the deck, saying hello to a neighbor in another hot pot.