Today, between 9am and 5pm, I spent 8 hours talking.  The students have been giving increasingly perplexed furrows of the brow in the past few weeks.  For the last hour of my web development class, from 5pm to 6pm, I sat at the front of the room nursing my overextended vocal cords with occasional water fountain sips, bathroom breaks, and iPhone prods.  And knowing that the end was nigh, I indulged my students’ questions with patience and affected concern until the clock struck 6, at which point the computer lab manager, Tony, who I have only ever seen dressed in a velor tracksuit every Saturday for the past 3 years, began silently wiping my marker scribbles off of the white board with the dry erase marker eraser, indicating in his not-necessarily passive way that it was time for me to clear the room.

As I sit here in the dark now, half a day later, pulling lamb bone out of my mouth betwixt slurps of store-bought kharcho from Domino, the local Russian gourmet supermarket, I can’t help but think it required some gall for me to have accepted Elliot’s insouciant proposition.  He text messaged on Thursday, “NJ banya on sat?  Me you and luis…”, followed up by a call on Friday, “I’ll bring the afikomen… we’ll hide it in the banya.”

It just so happens that Dad, my father, had arrived from Paris on Friday evening soon after Elliot’s confirmation call.  Mom, my mother, had picked Dad up, and brought him home to Mystic Pointe, where I was sitting on the couch contemplating the virtues of toxic asset relief, making myself at home.  The taxpayer is clearly getting screwed.  Dad pottered around a bit, then ate some of the two pounds of leftover chopped liver I had brought for Passover from Adelman’s the local kosher deli in Brooklyn.  I, me, had already eaten enough chopped liver, roast beef, potatoes, broccoli, and pareve cake in the past few days to sustain me through the remaining cold days of spring, although I had managed to sneak in a bit more liver, imbibe much of the remaining belgian-brewed Duvel I had semi-accidentally left in the fridge while clearing it of chametz, as well as masticate two slices of the local Cappricio’s pizza and sip an americano while chatting with childhood pal Mike Lyons at the Black Cow, found after idly cruising the ole’ home town that afternoon looking for something to do or somewhere to go.

Rather than continue along the path of overconsumptive idleness in suburbia, I had decided, by the time Dad arrived Friday evening, and two days after I, myself, me, had arrived there, that I was going to get active and take a drive all the way around the condo’s circle loop to the Mystic Pointe clubhouse, and swipe the magnetic key to lift a few weights and sweat in the sauna for an hour or so.  An ambitious plan, but one I thought I could manage.  I had even gone so far as to take an exploratory mission to the clubhouse, pre-heated the sauna, and returned home to be present to greet Dad upon his arrival.  Dad, forever spry, even after an 8 hour flight, decided to come along to the sauna soon after arrival.  And off we went, lifting weights, running on treadmills, elliptical machines, etc.

Once in the sauna, we were able to get the temperature to about 140 degrees Farenheit – a mild heat.  Dad and I began to sweat as we poured ladel upon ladel of water over the rocks.  And after the steam began to fog the sauna door window looking out to the exercise area, Dad divulged that he had begun preparatory work on a novel is planning to write about his experiences in Africa. And that’s when I began to feel light-headed.

Having brought myself intentionally to heat exhaustion many times in the banyas of Brooklyn, and being no stranger to head rushes, dizzy spells, or extreme hot or cold for extended periods of time, I went into the men’s room and jumped into a cold shower quickly.  If I was going to have a dizzy spell, I might as well make the most of it.  I then returned to the sauna feeling refreshed.  But as Dad continued to expound the third-world plot, something was still wrong.  I returned to the shower once again, but the water was not adequately cold to cause a change in my body, and being wet and room temperature in the clubhouse basement only made me feel like a moldy carpet in a grandmother’s damp room.

My dizziness persisted, and I seated myself near the soda machine and water fountain outside of the sauna.  The kitchen-like table has had upon it large-format photo books of the hudson valley, probably since the condo’s conception.  I doubt anyone has read them.  Dad, also having taken a quick cold shower, returned to the sauna, with an imperceptibly slight look of concern.  I sat a bit longer, tried to put my head in various positions to unsuccessfully mitigate the growing nausea.  Then I vomited small clumps of tomato and miscellaneous small-format pieces of semi-digested leavened bread into the trash can next to the water fountain.  God had smitten me with kareth. I could feel Dad watching calmly through the foggy sauna door.

All this to say that it was not without apprehension that I met Elliot outside of my NYU classroom building at exactly 6:10pm this evening, today Saturday April 12 2009, with the agreement to ford the Hudson River into New Jersey land, seeking out the elusive New Jersey Banya for a night of sweating, cold plunges, and eating.  Afikoman or not, even if it caused further purging of chametz, I was intent to find out whether this New Jersey banya I’d heard so much about was worthy of the all the talk.

According to Elliot, Luis had decided not to partake of the banya party at the last minute today, which meant that to maintain the unity of the tribe, we required ourselves to rationalize that he is not truly part of the clan in the first place, so his absence only makes us stronger.  This worked well.

Arriving at the banya, officially named BRC Sauna, I changed into my perceptibly baggier swimtrunks than the Speedos I am now accustomed to wearing in my diving board classes.  I always bring my own flip flops, which are the perfect banya flip flops: foam soles and artificial fabric straps, both of which keep them cool, even in the steamiest schvitz with venik pushing scorchingly dry hot air over my toes, and today was no exception in this regard.

Elliot had stayed behind in the car for a minute, so I proceeded to explore the banya. I found myself walking in what felt like a loop, past many tables with people sitting around civily discussing the day’s topics in both Russian and English while munching snacks. It seemed very calm and composed, and most importantly the sitting area was relatively clean.  At the end of the path, I came upon the Turkish steam room.

The Turkish room in the New Jersey banya is by far the best I have ever experienced.  Walking in, the steam was so consistently thick that visibility dropped off entirely two feet in front of me. After a few hesitant steps, I discovered the step leading up to the tiled sitting ledge, where I perched myself as my senses adjusted to the quiet murmers emanating from the distance out in the fog.  Steam continually spewed from discretely hidden valves, and although I never did see the far end of the room, I was able to surmise that it was not so big, perhaps 12 square feet.

Occasionally a rustling noise could be heard, like footsteps on a rocky beach, which, as I learned later, was exactly what it was.  The Turkish room has a small pebble-strewn walkway for exercising and massaging the bottom of one’s feet.

By this time, Elliot had been found in the sitting area, and we proceeded to the Russian dry sauna.  The wood-paneled room was relatively cozy, but not small, and it was clear within a few seconds of entering that the air here was significantly hotter and drier than in its brethren in the city.  The wood seemed relatively new, the floors were relatively clean, and the air had a distinct smell of fresh resin.  Most noticeably, the ceiling was well plastered in a tactful natural tone, and the amber hues of the walls, ceiling and wood benches gave the entire room a honey-lathered sheen of coziness that kept the heart warm, but not too warm.  A look at the thermometer showed 190 degrees Farenheit – about 10 degrees more than the typical sauna temperature in Sandoony.

It didn’t take long before I was in the cold shower, this time not to suppress my instinct to vomit, but because I was working my way up to the that point, after several cycles of intense heating and cooling, at which you feel in ecstasy.  The shower outside the Russian dry sauna is the gravity type which gravity dumps a heavy load of freezing water on you once you pull a lever.  This type of frozen shower gravity dump is extremely gratifying and should be experienced by all.  The gravity dump in the Neck Road banya in Sheapshead Bay is more shocking and intense, in my memory, but this Jersey dump was quite good.

After another cycle of Turkish and Russian steam rooms, and a dip in the immaculately clean but slightly chilly swimming pool, and more sauna, I noticed that the cold plunge was too heavily chlorinated, and was not as cold as I would have liked.  Very disappointing.  The gravity shower dump was far more satisfying, so I stuck with that from then on.  But by then anyway, we had reached banya satisfactoin, and were ready to order food at the bar, manned by two suburbanly healthy-looking girls who would not at all feel at home in the free-for-all that is Sandoony – they were of the “practical” variety, and not the “kept” type seen more frequently in Brooklyn.

Elliot ordered a mesclun salad (spelled “masculine” on the menu) with tuna, and fried potatoes with garlic.  I, having avoided food all day besides a croissant and green tea latte from Starbucks in the early hours of the morning, ordered a Greek salad and fried potatoes with garlic.  Rather than wait for our order, we paused to approvingly note the elegantly colorful paintings of rubenesque middle-aged fully-clothed Russian women on the walls, and then we returned to the saunas.  Banya atmosphere is an important ingredient of body sweat, and this banya was, relative to others, decorated like a boutique basement hotel.

Sweat running freely, and again returning to our table, Elliot discovered that the waitress had mistakenly given him a Greek salad, not the masculine tuna he had been hoping for.  This “ruined” his dinner, and cast a pall of sobriety over the otherwise festive atmosphere of banyadom.  The waitress, in a surpringly service-oriented tilt, tried to placate Elliot by replacing the Greek with the masculine salad he so desired at reduced cost.  But it the meal had already been ruined.  Such things would never happen at Sandoony, and it was difficult to ignore the unfavorable comparison of the food service at the two banyas.  Sandoony thrives on its attentive waiters who gladly turn a blind eye to the transgressions of the clientele.

The Greek salad, which came topped with thinly sliced well-cured basturma and jarred pitted green olives, was acceptable.  If it weren’t for the excellent salads available at Sandoony, I may have said it was good compared to the average restaurant.  The plate of potatoes were peeled, sliced and fried to such a saturation point of grease that somebody should be able to run a biodiesel automobile up and down the New Jersey Turnpike on New Jersey banya garlic potatoes for weeks before needing replacement oil.  The flavor was good, like a banya home fry, however, the portions and overall gastronomic impact seemed significantly smaller than the equivalent at Sandoony.

Overall, my impression is that New Jersey banya has a far superior Turkish steam room to any other banya I’ve visited to date.  The Russian dry sauna lives up well to its dry moniker, and is as a result more penetratingly hot than any other I’ve experienced.  New Jersey banya doesn’t seem like the place where you’ll see a lot of agonizingly vigorous venik treatments – things are more even-tempered and cool-headed for that.  Equally unlikely is the possibility of setting up court at a poolside table and drinking vodka or cognac while nibbling fresh fruit with ten of your most trusted friends.  New Jersey banya is tactfully decorated, efficiently operated, and the clientele are unlikely to confide in a stranger with jokes such as, “Little boy wakes up in middle of night and sees strange man at kitchen table.  Boy asks man, ‘Are you my new babysitter?’  Man says ‘No, I’m your new motherfucker!’”  New Jersey banya retains a thick veneer of suburban assimilationist conformity.

The food that I ordered was not as good as can be found elsewhere – perhaps there are other dishes that would elicit a more favorable review next time.  But food aside, this is a very strong challenger to the Sandoony throne, and assuming traffic over the George Washington Bridge can be kept at bay, I believe New Jersey banya to be good banya for enthusiastic intelligent-type.