Completely cured E-Book

Günter Hosner

• Herausgeber: novum pro Verlag
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

At a stretched gallop from one comical adventure to the next. A three-week stay at the spa becomes a furious roller coaster ride for the narrator through absurd regulations, bizarre therapies and - of course - the dubious spa shadow scene! No faux pas is safe from him, no cynical prejudice taboo. When his reputation in the spa hotel of Bad Urquell seems already ruined, Dimitrij suddenly appears in his room late at night. The mysterious, filthy rich Russian urgently needs help to escape his fat wife. The dumbfounded narrator doesn't have to be asked for long and thus does himself the biggest favor ...

Leseprobe

Günter Hosner

Completely cured

Applications, excitement, spa shadows! A satirical experience report without guarantee in every respect.

For Marlene, Kaito and Minato

1)

I decided to take a cure.

Or actually, my family doctor decided me.

"Old friend," he said, shaking his head, "you should finally do something about your chronic back problems. The anesthetic injections aren't a permanent solution after all. Get a cure while it still makes sense."

"What do you mean, 'while it still makes sense'?", I replied in amazement.

"Well," my doctor said; "you're heading straight for the later semesters. When do you think would be a good time for a health break? When you're 80 and have been on the cane for ten years because of your broken discs?"

There was something to it. So I submitted an application to the responsible office and - lo and behold - only a few days later a three-week stay at the spa was approved. It said in flawless officialese that I should come to Bad Urquell for the next rotation.

Bad Urquell! I knew this spa from television. In my childhood - not so long ago - there was a popular TV series playing there. Immediately the palatial spa hotel came to my mind. The sophisticated terrace café, the large spa park, the noble liveries of the servants! And I remembered the many colorful stories about the spa guests from all over the world. Whereby colorful were actually only the stories told. The television series was still broadcast in black and white. I wonder if any of the actors involved were still alive?

Already days before the arrival I started to pack. After all, three weeks is a long time. Besides, one had to be prepared for all eventualities. For elegant evening receptions, I put aside three suits along with a selection of ties. In addition, there were several spotless white shirts, a kilo of socks and, of course, my beautiful black evening shoes. It also made sense to take clothes for all kinds of leisure activities in different weather conditions. The early fall was approaching with great strides. So I took all eight pairs of jeans out of my box and garnished the "leisure pile" with a few casually elegant chinos, twelve T-shirts, five sweaters, two pairs of shorts and eight pairs of sturdy shoes. Thus set in motion, choosing the right outerwear was like child's play. Two thin and two thick jackets were followed by a trench coat, two hats and a cap.

The expected spa treatments also made an exclusive bathrobe necessary. Preferably one with some kind of coat of arms on the chest. To be on the safe side, I bought three of them at once and placed them next to the "evening pile.

I only got into slight turbulence with the "Underwear/Miscellaneous" pile. The estimated number of 25 underpants and just as many briefs in different colors was not even close to my box. Not to mention nice, modern swim trunks. That was annoying, of course, because I had to go shopping again. Luckily, my favorite department store was close by and I quickly stocked up on these shortages as well. Four new pajamas and a few nice slippers were also in the cart as a welcome bycatch.

Two days before departure, I drew a satisfactory interim pack balance. I had masterfully considered all occasions and aspects of a cure. Except for ... Oh no! Boiling hot, I realized the gravity of the situation: I had not yet sighted any toiletries! Immediately I plundered all stores and boxes in the bathroom. The gathered finds naturally resulted in a good basis - after all, I am a man of the world. Nevertheless, it was necessary to replenish some stocks, especially in the area of deodorants, shaving foam, creams and men's fragrances. I quickly rushed to a drugstore two streets away and sensibly purchased two additional men's toiletry bags at the same time. A little later, the "bathroom" pile completed the overall picture.

Exactly 24 hours before departure, I started packing everything. Thanks to my great planning, I could now equip my large travel suitcase without having to think further. However, it made me a little pensive that my large travel suitcase did not even offer nearly enough space. Even when my small travel suitcase and elegant hipster leather bag were also bulging, barely half of all the stacks had disappeared. Anyone else might have shown nerves now - but not someone like me. Two more large travel cases were quickly purchased, providing just enough space for the large remainder. Satisfied, I looked at the overall picture and drank a small whiskey. The four suitcases and (then again) two travel bags lined up spoke volumes. Here comes a spa guest of international stature, a man with style and taste.

Unfortunately, the day of arrival brought a nasty surprise. The trunk of my car was never, ever big enough for my luggage. Damn it! Of course, there was not enough time now to buy a suitable new car. So I had to use the back seat and the passenger seat for storage as well. A brief bout of nervousness quickly faded. Even now my organizational talent had not left me. All pieces of luggage found a worthy place. The slight restrictions in the driver's seat position and the accessibility of the gear shift only from diagonally above were hardly worth mentioning. I had to hope, however, that the roads to the spa hotel would not be too bad. Because my car was already hanging precariously low in the suspension without me.

I completed the three-hour journey with the tact of an experienced rally driver. I managed a few drifts and several unintentional internal luggage rearrangements perfectly and arrived unharmed in front of the spa hotel. Right off the bat, Bad Urquell met all my expectations. The extravagant driveway through an avenue of poplars, the time-honored building fabric of the spa hotel, the sunny café terrace, the fountain in front of the building, the balconies decorated with flowers!

As a small defect I felt only that the elevator was just stuck and I had to carry all the luggage myself three floors up to my room. My question for a valet was answered by the porter only shrugging with a "Unfortunately ...". Of course, I still managed to transport the luggage with flying colors, and half an hour later, drenched in sweat, I treated myself to my first hot shower with the fabulous healing water from Bad Urquell. The fact that it took about a minute before a little hot water finally dripped from the calcified shower head was in the nature of things. After all, the openly laid water supply lines also exuded the charm of the early 1960s. But because the old bathroom, including the toilet, measured barely five square meters, a cozy, damp warmth quickly developed when the door was closed.

My room itself was oriented to the northeast. So I could count on getting a little morning sun for at least a few minutes. I knew immediately that I always wanted to enjoy these precious moments on my balcony. However, it was also very scarce. There was just enough room for a small iron chair and a charmingly rusty cast iron bistro table. Only if one pushed the table completely into a corner and then threaded a leg over the seat of the chair, one could sit down halfway comfortably.

Unfortunately, they had also saved a bit on the storage space for my luggage. The small, old box did not offer nearly enough space for all my clothes. Not to mention the shoes. Of course, this was understandable, because with a room size of an estimated fourteen square meters, a larger box was hardly an option. Even now, after all, a bed edge limited the clearance of the left hinged door, while the right one could only be opened when the door to the bathroom was closed. Fortunately, the antique bed stood unusually high. So I could stow three suitcases under it. Not unpacked, of course.

An hour after my arrival, I finally got ready for my inaugural visit to the spa doctor. As a precaution, I slipped into a dark suit, but did without a tie. And as I expected, I made an impression. The experienced spa doctor, whom I estimated - like the hotel staff I had seen so far - to be 60 plus, raised his right eyebrow appreciatively. "Take a seat," he snarled, and then professionally-monotonously-outlined to me the conditions, the schedule, and the individual treatments of my three-week cure. "So you see," he concluded his remarks, "that from now on you can take off your suit. In fact, you won't need anything else during your entire stay except plenty of breathable sportswear."

At that moment, a slight dizziness enveloped me. Yes, my family doctor was right. My health was a little affected.

2)

The head porter had told me to be at the restaurant punctually at 6 p.m. for the first dinner. By the way, he looked a little like the long-dead actor Fritz Eckhardt after a slight stroke. Of course, I did as ordered and was immediately greeted at the restaurant door by the gaunt-faced restaurant manager.

"Now please follow me to your seat," he said distinguishedly and stiffly strode to a table in the middle of the huge dining room. "Here, please," he finally instructed me, taking a seat between two elderly ladies. "At this place you will take all meals served during your cure. It is not permissible to sit anywhere else. For your better orientation, you will find a small card here at the table with your name and room number. I wish you a pleasant stay."

For minutes I had the unpleasant feeling as if dozens of pairs of eyes were examining me from all directions from top to bottom. But I was certainly being pierced by the undisguised glances of my new table neighbors. "All not so dewy-eyed anymore," I thought. "So choose your first words carefully and avoid any statement about age, body measurements or hair color." For in this area the ladies had an excess to offer. In combination with their garishly colored jogging suits, they created an overall image that would have inspired van Gogh to paint a picture.

"Good evening. Pleased to meet you," I finally said, striving for a deep, sonorous voice.

"Genauso vui," replied the lady to my right, to which the lady to my left added a "auch. From opposite I heard a double "Griaß di" as well as a "Seavas" with again other dialect shading.

The ice was broken. As the dinner went on, I was bombarded with information from all sides.

Erni at the table to my right came from the north of our country and expected the cure to relieve her upper back. "With my rack, it would be a miracle if I didn't spit in the back at some point," she said, showing a smile with gaps in the molar section.

Anni to my left came from more southern regions and felt her lower musculoskeletal system needed readjustment and perhaps lubrication.

I was happy to leave that statement in the room for now.

The lady opposite, a certain Elke from the big city, however, acknowledged these announcements with a dirty giggle. She had very similar physical complaints and corresponding expectations. Only there should also be a little human address - excellently from understanding therapists - but gladly also from spa guests of the opposite sex.

I no longer waited for dessert and retired to my room, weary.

The first real spa day began hectic in two respects. On the one hand, I had to repair the old bed, which had broken free from a frame board during the night, squeaking loudly. On the other hand, I had to rush to the next town to get sportswear in all colors and variations. The fact that I managed to do both in time for the first spa appointment was due solely to the fact that this application was not scheduled until 10:30 am.

"Underwater gymnastics, group, spa pool 2" was the order of the day. Five minutes before the start, I was ready and first followed the written instructions on a large sign. "Before entering the thermal pools DUSCHZANG!" it read unmistakably.

I quickly did as instructed and was glad that the men's showers were far away from the women's showers. I then slid as inconspicuously as possible into pool number two, where four men and two ladies were already oscillating. The water temperature was 35 degrees and, in conjunction with the six other participants, produced rather questionable bathtub feelings.

The pool itself, however, as well as the entire ambience of this spa section, fit harmoniously into the overall picture of Bad Urquell. Various old marble inlay artworks on the walls caught the eye and skillfully distracted from many tiles that had already been badly affected by time. A large glass dome high above it looked like an apparition of light with no discernible contours in the constantly rising water mist. And that was certainly better.

But I couldn't look around any further for the time being, because a gentleman dressed all in white had positioned himself at the edge of the pool.

"Underwater gymnastics group, good afternoon!" he greeted us as warmly as he could be. "Signature folders all here on the table to the left, please!"

Of course, we all had our signature folders with us. The spa doctor had told us in no uncertain terms that this folder was the heart of our cure. Every single one of the more than 60 treatment appointments was listed in it and had to be signed off by the respective therapists. "More than one signature gap means for the health resort guest the immediate treatment abortion connected with the responsibility of all costs resulted up to now!

So: Of course, we all had our folders with us. Only they were lying everywhere on various chairs and couches, but not on the table on the left.

"Please, change that quickly!" ordered the white man at the edge of the pool.

What he triggered with this was predictable and somewhat degrading. All group participants had to get out of the pool. Most of them only managed with difficulty to keep their bathing clothes in the right places. In many cases, the suction of the healing water dripping from the body combined with the lack of grip of the elastic bands on generous fat reserves was unfortunately too great.

I concentrated entirely on the marble inlays on the walls and fortunately survived this occurrence quite unscathed. Our "sacred" signature folders, however, got off less lightly. Because everyone had fetched them frantically, without drying themselves extra, they got soaking wet and threw ugly waves for the rest of the stay.

But we also threw waves right after that. Guided from the edge of the pool, we shifted water with our hands from the bottom to the top and then from the top to the bottom for several minutes. Because this might have created an imbalance in the overall water balance of the pool, the water was shifted from front to back and from back to front. A one-leg stand combined with gyrating movements of the other leg then also got the lower water layers moving. Finally, this exercise was also completed backwards and forwards on both sides and the man in white announced the end of my first H O gymnastics unit.2

Glad to have escaped the water games in one piece, I took advantage of the now announced short treatment break for a first cappuccino on the exclusive café terrace of the spa hotel. A snooty head waiter graciously took my order. That the coffee was then served colder than the water in the thermal pool was, I did not care at that moment.

The main thing, once a few minutes alone.

The main thing - relaxation for the eyes.

If only there hadn't been that quiet voice in the back of my head.

"That's not all by a long shot," she whispered, "It's going to get a lot worse!"

Unfortunately, she was absolutely right.

3)

My next appointment sounded promising. "Parafango, Kurhaus, 1st floor, door 3, 20 minutes" was written on my schedule.

I had not expected that South American dances would also be taught during a cure. A slight anticipation set in, which was only clouded by the fact that I had not packed appropriate shoes. There one could have informed nevertheless really!

Curious, I soon sat in front of door 3, which was finally opened by a strapping, middle-aged lady. Of course, she was also dressed in pristine white.

"Parafango?" she barked in my direction.

"Yessir!", I replied, rising elegantly to immediately emphasize my suppleness. "The dance floor can come!"

The lady stared at me uncomprehendingly for a moment.

"Well, if you think of it as a dance floor, that's fine with me," she then said. "First I've heard of it. Give me your signature folder."

Instead of a mirrored dance hall, a kind of field hospital from the First World War opened up to me behind door 3. On the walls to the right and left were rows of ancient hospital couches, which were provisionally separated by plastic curtains.

"Fifth bunk on the left, upper body clear," the head nurse instructed me.

Somewhat intimidated, I followed her instruction. The next moment, a hulking fellow stood next to me and slapped two heavy dark brown plates on the couch. "Parafango!" he grinned meanly. "Lay on top. From neck to buttocks."

I did as I was instructed and went up again in the blink of an eye as if stung by a tarantula.