When I was 19, I lived with a family in Strasbourg, France, in an apartment with no bath or shower. I’d pay a few francs at the municipal baths, where a large woman in a starched white uniform would lead me to a private room, fill the enormous marble tub, and leave me to soak until my time was up. Three swift raps on the door and I’d gather my things as quickly as possible, hair dripping. Sometimes my friend Sandy and I would swim laps in the pool or marinate in the steam room. The experience was a necessity that felt like an indulgence.
The words “self-care” and “wellness” never entered my mind. And I’m sure I never uttered the word “longevity.” Now they’re inescapable, attached to everything from a face mask to a protein bar to a cold shower and a handful of vitamins. Every fine hotel in the world is adding a longevity center to keep up. Some of them are half-hearted sauna cabins and postage-stamp gyms. At a few, I’ve taken baths scattered with salts and herbs that weren’t a whole lot different from the one in Strasbourg—other than their price. I’ve also visited palaces filled with state-of-the-art equipment, protocols, and doctors ready to analyze your blood and inject you with substances. One in Italy offered a “mitochondrial fertility retreat”: five days for just under $8,000.
