It’s not quite tall enough to stand in unless you’re short. For the record, I don’t have to slouch. Much. There’s a chair and enough space around you that you don’t get any sense of claustrophobia. I put a few drops of eucalyptus essential oil on the towel and it’s just enough to pleasantly scent the enclosure.
The walls, I should mention, are clear. You can watch a movie from inside if you want to, but I suppose you’d have to keep wiping the moisture off. As for myself, I like the old sit-and-shvitz method of steam cleaning. You just sit there. And breathe. And think.
I’m not surprised that cultures as diverse as Native Americans and Scandinavians would ritualize the use of steam. Maybe it’s the quiet. Or the sense of aloneness, which is quite different from loneliness. With the former it’s just you and your naked thoughts getting reacquainted. There’s something about water that seems to facilitate that process. Steam. Tears. It’s all the same.
Makes you wonder who is stepping out of the machine? And how has she changed?