Bath Butler, Take Me Away

Escaping the real world under a pile of bubbles.

by Helen i-lin Hwang

As I walked into the 25th-floor corner room of the Ritz-Carlton, with a full view of the City Hall clock and the William Penn statue, the fragrant smell of roses permeated the air. There were no fewer than 29 roses scattered about, forming a path from the tub's edge to a bath mat where a pair of cushy slippers rested. Plush white towels emblazoned with the Ritz insignia were an arm's length from the tub. An elizabethW rose-scented candle beckoned. The setup was so gorgeous I hesitated to add water.

I was about to dip into an Eternity bath, one of eight choices offered on the Ritz-Carlton's recently revamped and expanded bath menu. The Eternity includes a rose petal turndown and a bottle of champagne with two glasses. But this day I was on my own — and happy to be so.

Three months ago I gave birth to a girl I named Elliot. Since then I have spent nearly every moment, awake and asleep, with the child attached to my hip — or, as I'm nursing, somewhere slightly north. Beginning with the delivery, my body no longer belonged to just me. As an anesthesiologist poked my spine for an epidural and the OB doc cut away at my insides for a caesarean, I felt like a cow being carved up at slaughter. And the post-op recovery, coupled with caring for a newborn, felt like a 24-hour endurance sport that starts anew every day. I was bleeding for weeks. Lack of sleep was the norm. I was well overdue for rejuvenation and a little alone time.

And a bath at home just wasn't an option. I have an embarrassing secret: Our tub is disgusting. Somehow it never stays clean. With the exception of peeing (I hope), there is virtually no bodily function my husband Peter does not like to perform in the tub. He brushes his teeth. He shaves his nasty little whiskers. And just before I left the house to take this Ritz bath, I caught him in there armed with an electric razor shaving his legs — part of the regimen of a would-be bicycle racer.

Here at the Ritz, the housekeeping staff had made the knee-deep porcelain tub immaculate. There was even a person designated as a "bath butler." Mine — a gentle, bald man with a broad smile named Trammel — had beautified the marble bathroom with the aforementioned petals and candles, plus a multicolored assortment of rubber duckies.

The duckies come from the Rubber Ducky bath selection, which Trammel had thoughtfully prepared for my daughter, who, until I found a sitter, was also scheduled to attend. A guest can also choose the Stock Exchange (comes with house wine); the Exotic (includes Oriental black tea and Amalfi lemons); Tranquility (accompanied by a book of poems); Invigoration (geared for the "young adult"); For Him ("perfect masculine" bath); and For Her (magnolia scents).

In a dry setup, the bath butler is virtually invisible, save for his handiwork in the loo. I had the dry setup, which meant that candles, gels, salts and petals were all waiting for me when I unlocked the hotel room. I would've never met Trammel had he not knocked on the door and offered an adorable, miniature-size Ritz-Carlton bathrobe for Elliot. I gasped in surprise at his thoughtfulness and wished I had brought her. In a wet setup, the bath butler would've run the hot water and prepared the bubble bath right before I was to get in.

I padded around in the comfy slippers, wearing the adult-size Ritz-Carlton bathrobe, sucking the marrow out of my minutes in this oasis. I paced from the queen-sized bed to the bathroom, back out and then back in again, wowed again each time I saw the colorful flowers. I was starting to feel giddy. My stomach flip-flopped over luxuries I hadn't felt in a very long time. Finally I turned on the faucets to fill the tub, then slid in.

I squealed.

Bath gel slithered out from a leaf-shaped Waterford crystal, quickly creating an immense amount of uncontrollable bubbles. They stuck to my skin and created a frothy muff on my arm as I reached to add more water. Trapped between the rosebuds, the translucent bubbles reminded me of intricate spider webs. Time seemed to stand still.

The double-handled silver urn holding the bath salts was polished so brilliantly I could see my reflection in the curved surface. It looked mystical enough to give a slight rub, and I well expected to soon be granted three wishes.

The bubbles, you see, the bubbles were getting to me.

What baby? What house? These were the questions that ran through my head as I soaked.

Rose petals ran amok in the water. My hair, which I had been trying to keep dry, was now stringy and wet. I stuck a washcloth over my eyes and slipped it onto my forehead to keep the loose strands from tickling my face. I was a little girl again. No responsibilities, no obligations.

When the guilt kicked in and I missed Elliot too much — this took about 45 minutes — I got out of the bath. I felt like I had undergone a spiritual cleansing, washing away the unpleasantries of surgery and postpartum exhaustion. I was ready to go back to my little girl and my ordinary life, which doesn't involve a bath butler — at least for the moment. Peter and I are in negotiations about that: If he's going to shave and do God-knows-what else in our tub, the least he can do is scrub it every week. And a rose or two wouldn't hurt.