Strolling through Marienbad, Czech Republic, Encountered deer, Stepped on mossy terrain, Sipped from a forgotten spring's self-centered waters, as described by author Aurélien Bellanger
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Stepping off the train after midnight, my first brush with water in Marienbad was with the mini bottle of bubbly H2O I used to dilute, in absence of brew, the swig of booze I'd found stashed in the hotel minibar - a regrettable impulse. I knew then that come morning, I'd be lacing up my sneakers for a jaunt in the forest to restore balance and health - the assurance that spa towns provide.
A continent devoid of sea
Nowadays, UNESCO refers to this scattered network of European cities as fleeing the sea as much as possible to tap into distant, often murky sources of water. Cities independent from each other, linked only by those deeper, shimmering more romantically than a transitional society - the one that believed it would last forever post-Napoleonic wars and before the trench of 1914 became imaginable. Europe may have discovered or created a second coastline here, an invisible interior ocean, except for those bustling ports filled with grand hotels, colonnades, and porticos - echoing the paintings of Claude Lorrain, and beyond them, a "continent" of antiquity or Belle Époque, hovering between prosperity and convalescence, self-indulgence or decay.
Old Europe
Now that the trend has faded, like the central empires have faded, spa towns resemble archaeological sites: Europe still portrays what it could have been, what it aspired to be, throughout the 19th century - an era that, following the closure of the Napoleonic wars and the barely imaginable chasm of 1914, assumed it would persist forever. Marvel at Edward VII's personal cabin in Marienbad, where he came to heal with the waters - and find yourself pondering his whispers to History about the notion of eternal peace, now twisted with a reproach of superficiality hanging heavy over the entire society, especially its crowned heads. We now know that the barbarian invasions were still to come.
But the spa towns, having drifted away from the ocean for a century, haven't completely lost hope. They still possess a slight semblance of capital towns, the capitals they once were, hosts to the occasional artists, visited sparingly by actual emperors. The water of Marienbad retains a touch of aristocratic air, drunk in measured sips and with medical caution. It's the old water of kings and the world's elite.
Good thing I'd brought along my fleur-de-lis cap to don and join this slightly creaky historical merry-go-round - France seems to have overlooked Marienbad. It's unclear if Barbara, the singer who crooned of it, ever made it there, and the Resnais film doesn't take place there. However, many others have, following the footsteps of Goethe, Gogol, Edison, Chopin, Mark Twain, or Franz Kafka - the latter for long enough to break off with his fiancée and succumb to melancholy amidst the towering hotels.
Oh, and by the way, Marienbad isn't really called Marienbad - we're in the Czech Republic now, with the town named Mariánské Lázně. More springs in Marienbad than lines in Ovid's Metamorphoses: the gods have widely endowed Marienbad with forty springs, dedicated here and there to neoclassical colonnades or porticoes. The therapeutic ritual involves filling these cups with a dentist's-like spout, hoping to solve the mystery of your aching body. Unfortunately, the custom has lost its allure, and the fascinating, article-like object only exists in the petrified form of souvenirs in the stores along the main colonnade.
Theatre or Therapy
In truth, it's challenging to maintain objectivity with regards to this place: the visitor becomes an actor on the stage of this outdated Marienbad drama, where the Social Security-approved curative properties of the waters create only a satisfying nostalgia. At daybreak, I witnessed gardeners painstakingly trimming the edges of ancient beeches, or meticulously repainting immaculate street lights as if Marienbad's first day must remain eternally fresh - the romantic daylight barely touched by the sun's hand-shaped beam. After venturing into the forest, I felt primal and cast aside all irony, driven by an urgent need to break free from the city's clinging kitsch. It was there, amongst the wild nature, that I glimpsed deer, traversed moss, drank from a lost spring, and became a favorite of the gods in a serene stroll towards Paradise.
Upon my return, I found it fitting to honor Goethe by seizing the opportunity to snap a selfie with the statue of the man himself. I didn't visit the musical fountain - the most naive, childish attraction of the town - but noticed the irony in Goethe's words that "he who remains a child remains invincible." Was it possible that Marienbad, appearances notwithstanding, was not merely a city abandoned and in convalescence, but frozen in time, captive in its own childhood? It was then that the colonnades morphed into the stainless steel spheres of the musical fountain.
Every hour, a parade of spa-goers assembles to listen to the aquatic versions of Céline Dion, Beethoven, or Vangelis, as if Marienbad's existence depended on the faithfulness of these performances. And as if everything around us, the shops, the carriages, the statues, the hotels, turned and revolved around the fifteenth and main source of Marienbad, whose tap, now tarnished by mineral salts and two centuries of over-the-top sentimentalism, slowly unscrewed before our eyes. We were all, in that moment, trapped in an enchanting spell, made courtiers of kings and emperors, transformed into ancient inhabitants.
A Divine Soak
Finally, I descended into the Roman baths of the Grand Hotel Nové Lázně, where time seems to pass more slowly than anywhere else, to immerse my body in fluids of progressively higher temperatures before plunging into a bucket of cold water for a refreshing shock. Repeat this process again and again, as instructed at the reception, to discover the ultimate heart of Marienbad: a place that offers more than just healing waters, but also an opportunity to time travel.
Aurélien Bellanger, a French writer and philosopher, explored the spaces and their themes, delving into the realms of high-speed train construction, cities and suburbs, Europe, and French television. His works have earned unanimous praise from critics as he continues to reveal the inner workings of contemporary times.
In the spiritual realm of spa towns, Marienbad, now known as Mariánské Lázně in the Czech Republic, retains an allure that transcends ordinary travel experiences. As Aneurélian Bellanger delves into the high-speed dynamics of modern living, one can't help but draw parallels between the grandeur of the past and theaway-from-the-sea lifestyle of Marienbad, a sanctuary for those seeking in-flights from the mundane. Its home-and-garden appeal, with its intricately manicured landscapes, mirrors the tranquility and serenity often associated with a harmonious lifestyle. Meanwhile, the town's rich historical roots and therapeutic waters serve as a testament to the transformative power of travel, as Marienbad, much like the destinations highlighted in the initial reads, invites its visitors to step into history and come face-to-face with the spirit of Old Europe.
