Sauna Sitges: When One Is Enough

There's a logic by which this world should work. If a city is a gay mecca — and Sitges is, I've written about it before and it needs no proving — then it should have a gay sauna for every day of the week. And for every taste. And for every kind of desire. At least two or three, so you can choose. So you can say: "Tonight I'm going there, because I'm in the mood for that, and tomorrow over there, because I want this."

But Sitges has only one. Just one. Sauna Sitges. And that's, honestly, the first thing that confused me when I found out. Is it possible that a city synonymous with freedom, with nudity on the beach, with nightlife that never stops, has only one place where you can go with a towel around your waist and be sure someone will look at you? And then I realised: maybe that's exactly why it works. When you have no choice, the place has to be good enough for everyone. And this one is.

Small, But Without Complexes

Let's bust the misconception right away: the sauna isn't big. It isn't. But what does size mean when you never feel something's missing? When you have everything you need — heat, steam, water, space to undress, space to sit, space to be — then square metres are just a number. And numbers, as we know, don't tell you how you feel.

In a smaller space, you can't hide. Not from yourself, not from others. Depending on the day, that's either a blessing or a punishment. For me, it was a blessing. Because in big saunas, you waste time. You walk corridors looking for the "right" room, the "right" cabin, the "right" scene. You always have the feeling that something better is happening somewhere else, and you're on the wrong floor. Here, that doesn't exist. Here, you're there. And you know immediately where you are.

The Bed and the Pole: Cruising Without Dark Corridors

And now, what sets this sauna apart from most I've seen. The cruising area. But not the classic kind — not darkness, not a labyrinth, not a row of doors behind which secret action happens. Here, it's one large room. In the middle — a bed. A big one. And on it, upright like some strange tree in the middle of the room — a pole. Yes, a pole. I'll admit, the first time, I stared. As anyone would who doesn't know what to expect.

To the side, there's the occasional cabin, a glory hole, bits and pieces. And there's no room for pretending. You can't pretend you just wandered in, that you're looking for the toilet, that you're a confused tourist. Everyone who enters that room knows why they're there. And everyone sees everything. At first, maybe a little uncomfortable. And then it becomes liberating. Because suddenly you don't have to act. You don't have to send hints through the dark. You don't have to guess. You see. And you're seen.

Light That Doesn't Lie

And that brings us to the light. In places like this, I'm used to darkness. The kind that makes you spend the first five minutes learning where the walls are, then guessing who's across from you. Here, it's different. There's enough light to see faces. To read a gaze. To know whether someone's smiling at you or looking through you. And that changes everything.

When you can see, you can choose. You can say no without fear of having hurt someone you never even saw. You can say yes without acting. And you can accept just as openly, directly, without darkness hiding and shaming. It suited me more than I expected. I'm not sure it's better than the classic concept. It's just different. But that difference changes people. It changes you.

People: When You Take Off More Than Clothes

The biggest reason I kept coming back wasn't the space or the pole. Those are just frames. The reason is the people. The clientele varies — depends on the day, the time, what's happening in town. But I, every single time without exception, came across interesting characters. And that's no small thing.

In saunas, as anywhere people undress, a large part of the social costume comes off too. What remains is the essential: how someone enters a room, how they look, how relaxed they are, whether they're there to have fun or to prove something to themselves. And that's more entertaining than any film. You observe. You recognise. Sometimes you join in. Sometimes you just stay and watch, and they know you're watching, and that's fine.

I don't judge them by build or age. I judge them by whether they stay in memory. Most people in most spaces don't. Here, a few of them kept returning in my thoughts even when I was already far away. A certain gaze. A certain laugh. A certain way of holding a towel. Small things you remember.

Why I Keep Coming Back

If someone asks me whether this is the best sauna I've visited, the answer is no. I'm not even sure I could make such a list. But if they ask me whether I gladly kept coming back — the answer is yes. Several times. And every time without regret.

Because the best doesn't have to mean the dearest. And dear places are recognised by the fact that you don't have to force yourself to return to them. They call you. And you go. And you know you'll find what you're looking for — or at least something interesting until you do.

Maybe that's the answer to the opening paradox. Why does Sitges, a gay mecca, have only one sauna? Maybe because one is enough when it's the right one. When it doesn't try to be everything to everyone, but to be what it is — small, open, direct, without darkness and without acting. When it doesn't force you to keep searching, because you're already where you need to be.

Anyone going to Sitges will know where to go. Anyone looking for a sauna will have one to choose from. And anyone who, like me, likes to sit on the edge of that big bed, lean back, and watch who'll approach next — will probably come back. I came back. And I'll come back again.