Destination: Wellness
Jim Wilson/The New York Times; Sam Hodgson for The New York Times
Clockwise from top left:
Pacific views at the Esalen Institute, reflexology path at La Costa
Resort and Spa, yoga and pool at Rancho La Puerta. More Photos »
By JESSE McKINLEY
Published: December 28, 2012 63 Comments
SO I’m sitting in a hotel in upstate New York with my feet in a bucket
of warm water charged with electricity when it suddenly hits me that
maybe “getting well” wasn’t going to be as much fun as I thought it was
going to be.
Multimedia
The procedure I was receiving was an “ionic detox foot bath,” one of
dozens of allegedly medicinal services offered during a Health and
Wellness Weekend held in November at the Edge Hotel,
a woodsy establishment in Lyons Falls, N.Y. In this case, the bath
involved placing my feet in a small bucket of salt water charged with a
small current for half an hour — a process that was meant to draw out
the “yucky stuff” in my body by osmosis according to its practitioner, a
frizzy-haired former chain smoker named Brenda, who assured me the bath
was perfectly safe.
“But,” she added with a laugh, “I don’t know anything about ampage.”
Oh boy. At first glance, this mission had seemed like a breeze: a search
for “wellness” — that seemingly unimpeachable state that has become as
common a come-on in travel circles as “eco-friendly.” There are wellness
retreats, wellness diets, wellness beauty treatments, wellness classes,
wellness resorts, wellness hotels, wellness weekends and, of course,
wellness experts.
“Wellness is this feeling of confidence, this feeling of vitality, this
feeling of “You got this,’ ” said Dr. Jim Nicolai, the medical director
of the Andrew Weil integrative wellness program at Miraval Resort and
Spa, in Tucson, Ariz. “Wellness is a verb just as much as an adjective.”
And, often, a very lucrative verb, dressing up everything from
alternative medicines to anti-aging products. A week at Miraval, for
example, can set you back $475 a night. And it’s not just for scenic
spots either: the MGM Grand in Las Vegas has added special wellness
rooms and suites; Canyon Ranch’s SpaClub in Vegas also employs “wellness
professionals.” In October, the InterContinental Hotels Group, which
owns Holiday Inn, announced plans for its Even Hotels — with an
“intrinsic focus on wellness in terms of food, work, exercise and rest” —
at dozens of locations across the country. So-called wellness tourism
is estimated to be a $106 billion chunk of the trillion-dollar worldwide
“wellness cluster,” a market that includes travel as well as things
like medical tourism, nutrition and fitness, according to a 2010 study
prepared for the Global Spa and Wellness Summit by SRI International, an independent, nonprofit research firm.
But what exactly is wellness? I thought I’d find out. And so, saddled
with a sore Achilles’ tendon, an ever-present threat of heartburn and
all manner of life stressors, I embarked on a cross-country search. I
was left, on various occasions, body-weary, sleep-deprived and
incredibly waterlogged. Along the way I meditated and hyperventilated,
and was plyometric-ed, watsu-ed and ceremonially “crowned.” I hiked and
ran, floated and swam. I had my chakras read — my aura looks like a
giant pistachio — and ate more quinoa than I can remember. And at the
Esalen Institute, perched on the California coast and seemingly on the
edge of the world, I got naked with a bunch of strangers and watched the
sunset.
ACCORDING to SRI, the wellness movement is “a proactive and holistic
approach” meant to address “the root causes of our personal and societal
ills.” The term wellness, though, has old roots and myriad modern
meanings. Dr. Halbert Dunn, author of the 1961 book “High-Level
Wellness,” described it as something that included self-knowledge,
creative expression and good health. Since then, that definition has
evolved to the broader one we have today, which includes sleek, strictly
regimented operations like the Ranch at Live Oak, a $5,600-a-week “endurance, wellness and nutrition program” in Malibu, Calif.
But there are still places where you can go to experience something more
along the lines of what Dr. Dunn was talking about. Though Esalen
does not drape itself in wellness terminology, the 50-year-old
institute is still advertising its goal of “pioneering deep change in
self and society,” and thus seemed like a pretty good place to explore
the roots of what wellness might be. For me, Esalen long had a
reputation as a mystical hideaway on the California coast, but
unexpected guests have not traditionally simply dropped in. Most are
there to attend one of the institute’s hundreds of workshops, which can
range from tantric sex to Gestalt theory. (Not at the same time, of
course.)
Over the years, Esalen started allowing for so-called “personal
retreats,” which you can book after donating at least $50 to the
Institute. I did exactly that, and booked a $650-a-night “point house”
in mid-November.
Mind you, just getting to Esalen had involved flying across the country
and then driving three hours south from San Francisco, a long day that
had left me with an empty belly and soft brain.
But when I finally arrived, my first impression was simple: wow.
Situated on a nugget of land thrust into the Pacific, Esalen has
commanding views of the California coastline, with its cliffs tapering
into the ocean, and a campus that is both rustic and seemingly in
harmony with Mother Nature. Vines creep along cobwebbed and rust-flecked
fences that line the edge of a central glade where groups do
HoopYogini, which combines yoga with a hula hoop. Monarch butterflies
and green hummingbirds flit about the institute’s central garden —
organic, naturally — while a stream burbles down a canyon to the surf
below. At one point I looked down during a walk and saw the words “Thank
you” and “Love” in small stone and twigs arranged on the ground.
Well, I thought, that was easy. I feel better already.
But as Esalen’s acolytes might say, the road to inner peace doesn’t take
place in one night, which was all I had. Nor is it always luxurious.
While the point house was a treat, with a small cliffside deck, complete
with an old bathtub, much of the lodging here is more rudimentary, with
a variety of shared rooms for visiting seminar attendees and so-called
“work-scholars,” an often scruffy and idealistic crew who help staff the
institute’s kitchens and other parts of the institute between their
studies. Meals are buffet-style in a communal dining room hung with
guitars (and, surprisingly, often populated by quite a few people
surfing the Web). There were healthy-looking people of all ages
everywhere having animated conversations, playing chess and even sharing
a smoke outside, something that seemed both charmingly and shockingly
old-school.
That said, there are only a few enlightenment options for those who
aren’t attending a workshop. I went to a relaxing early-morning guided
meditation but avoided the Open Seat session, an Esalen tradition where a
facilitator listens to whatever issues you want to discuss. The night I
was there, attendees included two anxious-looking women and a
patient-looking man. But I was not that man.
Speaking of manhood, though, I was a touch nervous about the details of the next Esalen tradition: the bath.
While the baths are not formally nude-only, I saw not a stitch of
clothing on my dozen or so fellow bathers. Not that I was looking.
Instead, I was enjoying other vistas; the baths, which are fed by
sulfur-scented hot springs, sit just 100 feet or so above the Pacific,
with an uninterrupted view beyond. And with massage tables both inside
and out, you can get your back rubbed and taste the surf at the same
time.
With the sun sliding beneath the horizon, questions of modesty or
embarrassment quickly vanished. A couple of guys in the bath next to me
chatted about sports, but most of my fellow bathers were just quiet. As
was, surprisingly, my mind. I could hang out here — and let it all hang
out here — for a while.
IT was with just such a sense of serenity that I next traveled to La Costa Resort and Spa
in Carlsbad, Calif., a sprawling hub for the well-to-do spiritual
seeker. Touting itself as the No. 1 wellness spa in the nation, it
boasts more than 600 rooms, 17 tennis courts, 6 swimming pools
(including a booze-friendly one just for adults) and 2 golf courses.
It’s also, notably, home to the Chopra Center,
a polished, commercial outlet that sells everything from mala beads
(starting at $5.50) to weeklong teacher training courses that can run
more than $12,000. The event and product catalog is more than 70 pages,
and includes a range of products specifically geared for your “dosha,”
which it defines as your “mind-body type.” (There is a quiz, no kidding,
to help you figure it out and shop accordingly.)
The center is also where Deepak Chopra — a well-regarded mind-body
expert and author — has recently initiated his concept for “workplace
well-being,” a group wellness program aimed at corporate customers that
purports to decrease absenteeism, increase productivity and promote
greater vitality and mental health. Prices start at $3,995 for a
90-minute lecture by one of the center’s speakers — but not Mr. Chopra —
for up to 40 people. A full-day session for such a group starts at
$20,000 for stress management tips and group meditation (including
ayurvedic lunch).
“The path to wellness begins here,” the center’s press material says.
For its part, La Costa — which recently underwent a $50 million
renovation — calls itself “California’s original destination for mind,
body and sport,” a definition that can result in some odd
juxtapositions. The night I arrived, there was a yoga teacher training
class going on at the same time as a poolside party for the Del Mar
Cigar Club.
Outside, in a Mediterranean-style courtyard, a Ferrari was parked with a
small sign on the windshield: “This vehicle is for sale.”
La Costa is handsome, dotted with exotic flowers, fountains and a
spacious spa offering all manner of treatments and other indulgences.
But trying to be all things to all people comes with a certain risk,
namely the impression that certain “wellness”-related flourishes are
little more than window-dressing. For dinner, for example, at the
resort’s Blue Fire Grill I chose something called From the Fields, which
was described as an “ayurvedic inspired vegan dish of the best local
produce and grains.” What it turned out to be, however, was an
over-roasted acorn squash, stuffed with a bland fist of quinoa and
carrots. It made me long for the simple grub at Esalen.
The squash was still weighing me down the next morning when I decided to
try a plyometric power class. Fitness is a big deal for many at La
Costa — you can’t toss a mala bead without hitting a jogger — and when I
arrived at the fully stocked gym, 10 minutes late, the three other
older men in the class were already sweating. One guy dropped out after
20 minutes, and I was soon huffing so badly that I was unable to finish a
section of bear crawls. The sequence involving sprints, squats and
thrusts, meanwhile, made me consider calling 911. I do seem to remember
music — Billy Idol, maybe, though I also vividly recall Cher — and
finally, thankfully, some stretching. On the floor. The sweet, kind
floor.
When I stumbled out, I still didn’t exactly know why they called that
plyometrics. But let’s be clear: I did not feel well.
MY final stop was Rancho La Puerta,
a venerable wellness resort just south of the border, in Tecate,
Mexico. Founded in the 1940s by Edmond Szekely, a Romanian philosopher
who ardently believed in the power of fitness and who, according to
reports at the time, apparently chose the area because it was on the
same latitude as Galilee. (“Romanian Professor Founds Cult,” read a
headline in a 1949 edition of The San Diego Union.)
Nowadays, guests are still strongly encouraged to take morning hikes —
often leaving before dawn. There is also a hefty roster of bodywork
options for your tired calves and backs, one of which was something
called watsu, which is basically aquatic shiatsu, a process that its
practitioners say replicates the feeling we all have in womb.
“For most people, we came into the world perfect, loved, no disease, no
pain,” said Dave Towe, my watsu instructor, a former executive with a
physique like a giant G.I. Joe doll. “And, at the end of a watsu
treatment, clients immediately will say, “Oh my god, I haven’t felt that
way in years.’ ”
Considering that I could barely walk after my run-in with plyometrics, I
was willing to try anything. Still, as I gently eased my way into the
pool — heated to a skin-friendly 96 degrees — I felt just a touch silly
at the prospect of being swooshed around by a man who looked as if he
could bench-press a house. And yet that quickly dissipated as Mr. Towe
massaged my muscles in what approximates a weightless environment.
Despite what Mr. Towe said, I felt more like a fish than an embryo,
something that felt weirder when I later ate unadorned tuna for lunch.
(The food here was relentlessly healthy, though alcohol is available
only on special nights.)
Most visitors to the Rancho come for a week to take in an array of
almost nonstop classes and activities, as well as its lovely small
cottages, landscaped gardens and ample statuary of the female form. I,
again, had only about 24 hours to peruse the offerings, and was almost
instantly — perversely — stressed out: Would I go to a life coaching
class, a “ranch Spanish” course or something called sound healing, which
involves lying on the ground and listening to the ghostly echoes caused
by rubbing crystal bowls?
Still moving slowly, though, I managed to miss them all the afternoon I
arrived. I was wandering toward the Rancho’s labyrinth — an inlaid stone
maze under a bower of trees — when I was approached by Briggitte
McReynolds, who asked me — unprovoked — whether I wanted to “get
crowned.”
Was it a euphemism for a mind-altering substance? No. Instead, Ms.
McReynolds had been running a workshop, for three days, on making
ceremonial crowns out of paper decorated with all manner of feathers,
baubles, fake flowers and butterflies. Would I, she asked, “energize”
one of the crowns in a ceremony?
Well, sure. Soon enough I was standing in a circle, holding a crown and
surrounded by other members of a workshop I had not attended. They were
an eclectic bunch that included a stressed-out mother of a Cornell
student; a grandmother from Houston who had made crowns for all her
grandchildren; and a gay male couple from San Diego.
Ms. McReynolds, holding a bunch of sage and a rattle, explained the
process: each person would talk about why they made the crown, walk the
labyrinth, and then place it on their heads, to “put the batteries in,”
and take their place as a “leader in their life, not a lingerer,” with a
connection to the “divine male, and divine female.”
I rolled my eyes. But then, Ms. McReynolds — sporting red henna hair and
purple toenails — said something that knocked me off my high horse.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “We’re just making this up.”
And then, when people began to talk about why they made their crowns and
what they symbolized — finding their voice, finding wisdom, for their
grandchildren — it was hard not to be touched. And after I walked the
labyrinth (O.K., limped the labyrinth) and was crowned, I walked back to
my room feeling surprisingly good.
Maybe that was it. Maybe wellness — like a crowning ceremony — was just
what you made it: a catchall of anything and everything aimed at making
you happy, or healthy, watsu-ed or whatever. And just like walking a
labyrinth with a paper crown, it might not lead anywhere in the end. But
it feels good while you’re doing it.
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