Hot Springs (Photo Credit: Depositphotos.com)
I worry about Hot Springs, Arkansas.
My concern has less to do with its inherent attractions than with who is being attracted. Specifically, I'm afraid the attractees are old geezers like me—people who voluntarily studied history, geography, and science back when that was something humans did instead of watching A.I. videos of horses playing with puppies. The kind of people who, upon seeing an Art Deco building, say things like, “Now THAT is some fine Art Deco,” while younger passersby stare at us the way you'd stare at a Weimaraner that had just said something in fluent Portuguese.
But before I start shouting, “Hey, you kids, get off my lawn!,” let’s consider the city’s prima facie appeal, starting with the architecture. Hot Springs’ heyday was from the late 1800s through World War II, which means the buildings on Central Avenue, the main drag, feature the elaborate ornamentation, grand display windows, and impressive signage of the Victorian, Edwardian, Beaux-Arts, and even Spanish Colonial Revival eras. This is architecture that meant something, as opposed to the modern design philosophy of “Let’s make it look like a beige rectangle and call it a day.”
-- Victorian architecture thrives on Central Avenue, the main shopping and dining strip.
Hotels, like the striking circa-1924 Arlington Resort Hotel & Spa, were designed to awe visitors with oversized lighting fixtures, mosaic tiles in the elevators, and the kind of high, echoey lobby ceilings that make you want to yodel. When Babe Ruth and Al Capone came to Hot Springs—not at the same time, though that would have made for an interesting weekend—they would check into the Arlington. You have to love a hotel that comfortably accommodates both the Sultan of Swat and a man whose primary hobbies were tax evasion and having people whacked. The Arlington has lost some of its luster (and deviltry) over the intervening decades, but its ongoing renovation is a hopeful sign.
The town’s location could hardly be more scenic, squeezed between several piney bluffs in the folds of the Zig-Zag Mountains. That’s where visitors find the eight elegant spa buildings of Bathhouse Row, famous for the 143-degree water that bubbles up from 47 thermal springs, now part of Hot Springs National Park. Visitors flocked here to reduce pain or inflammation, improve blood circulation, treat skin conditions, and promenade along the fashionable Central Avenue, where one could see and be seen.
-- The Arlington dominates the north end of downtown Hot Springs.
“People from all over the United States would come here,” said Park Ranger Cane West during a tour of the Fordyce Bathhouse. “How far would you be willing to travel to treat a chronic illness—especially if your doctor can’t fix it?”
Currently, only two of the original buildings on Bathhouse Row still operate as spas; the others hold National Park Service offices, restaurants, shops, and even a brewery—the Superior Bathhouse Brewery—the only beer production facility in a U.S. national park and the only one to brew beer with actual thermal water.
Hot Springs, at its 1920s pinnacle of popularity, was, arguably, the most stylish spa destination in America. My question: Can a city betting on retro charisma and scorching rills continue to lure new generations? Spoiler: I’m going to say yes.
--National Park Ranger Cane West uses the touch test to sample the water temperature.
The Eternal Enchantment of Extremely Hot Water
Going back thousands of years, humans have gravitated toward thermal springs for health reasons and simply because a hot bath feels so…blissful. The ancient Romans built soaking centers across their empire, including in Aquae Sulis (modern-day Bath, England). The Germans have Baden-Baden. The French have Vichy. The Belgians have Spa, whose name is the origin of the word we use today.
In America, Hot Springs was the place to “take the waters,” its chief rivals being Saratoga Springs, New York, and the Greenbrier in West Virginia. They all drew the powerful, the desperately ill, the idle rich, and some of the nation's more disreputable characters.
Before it was a resort destination, Hot Springs earned another distinction: In 1832, thanks to its thermal streams and natural beauty, it became the first “national reservation,” a precursor to the National Park System. The present-day town—population 38,000, located 53 miles southwest of Little Rock—grew up around the springs.
(Photo Credit: Depositphotos.com)
Here's the thing about 19th-century spa culture that modern visitors need to understand: The primary reason to visit Hot Springs back then was not to get a mani-pedi, hot-stone treatment, anti-aging facial, or LED light therapy (although many of those treatments are available in Hot Springs today). The reason was to submerge yourself in almost insufferably hot water and—at least, in theory—get better. Whether you actually got better was between you and the water.
If, after your hopefully healthful bath, you decided to gamble, drink, place a bet on the ponies, eat too much, and stay up dancing past midnight, Hot Springs could serve those desires too.
Enter, inevitably, the criminal class.
—Al Capone (Wikimedia Commons)
Rum-Runners, Rascals, and Reprobates
To stand in the footprints of killers, chiselers, kidnappers, and vengeful bank robbers is a visceral delight. Many of the biggest names on the FBI’s Most Wanted List found their way to Hot Springs. Think Bonnie and Clyde. Bugsy Siegel. Lucky Luciano. And the aforementioned Al Capone, who always stayed in the Arlington Hotel's 999-square-foot Suite 443.
Why was Hot Springs such an epicenter of hoodlumism? Answer: Because it was neutral territory. You weren’t going to get gunned down crossing Central Avenue by some jamoke from Canarsie who wanted to muscle in on your loan-sharking operation. Hot Springs had evolved into the Switzerland of vice, sin, and scandal.
This was partly thanks to a police force that had creatively redefined the concept of law enforcement, but mostly it was due to Owen “Owney” Madden, a New York mobster who relocated to Hot Springs in the 1930s and became the city's de facto mayor, or at least the Henry Kissinger of the killing set. Feuds were set aside. Vengeance was paused. Simmering beefs were, if not forgotten, at least allowed to cool to a more manageable temperature, not unlike the city’s bathwater.
-- Docent-led tour of the Gangster Museum of America.
Things have cleaned up considerably in the past century. The biggest crime in Hot Springs today is failing to tip your spa attendant. But for a taste of the disreputable past, I headed to the heart of downtown and the Gangster Museum of America, which is exactly what it sounds like.
The museum revels in tales of Capone, Luciano, Frank Nitti, Alvin Karpis, and other big-time crooks. Capone would come to town with as many as 40 men, including a golf buddy whose bag contained not clubs but a Tommy gun. Nitti and his wife adopted a child in Hot Springs. Meyer Lansky brought his son here for cerebral palsy treatments. Frank Costello, the self-styled “Prime Minister of the Underworld,” wrote a gracious letter declining the proffered role of Hot Springs’ unofficial gambling czar.
Gangster enthusiasts can carry on with their crime continuum at the Ohio Club (est. 1905), the oldest bar in Arkansas. In its heyday, the Ohio was a restaurant of respite for America's top mafiosi. During Prohibition, it masqueraded as the Ohio Cigar Store, a disguise that fooled precisely no one.
Today, the Ohio maintains its vintage vibe while pouring postmodern cocktails that tend to be blue or contain passionfruit (although I managed to get a very dry Hendrick’s martini with stuffed olives). The joint also serves some of the best burgers in the region. And if you need to place a sketchy bet on the sixth race at Hialeah, I get the impression that someone behind the bar might be able to accommodate you.
-- Quapaw Baths, one of two remaining full-service bathhouses in Hot Springs.
But About That Water…
I’m unlikely to be the only 21st-century American unfamiliar with traditional spa protocol. Oh, I’ve had massages and, once, even a facial, but those are the spa equivalents of saying you know about Italy because you ate at an Olive Garden. So I spent several hours at the 1912 Buckstaff Bathhouse, which represents 50 percent of the current bathhouse options in town (the other being the Quapaw Baths & Spa, a short walk away).
Here, for those keeping score at home, is exactly what happened to me:
Step 1: Remove your clothes and wrap yourself in the provided toga-like sheet. You can wear a bathing suit if you're prudish, but the Buckstaff has a men’s side and a women’s side, so let your hair down and, as we say in the scientific sphere of the spa community, go buck nekkid.
Step 2: Soak in 104-degree water in an ancient porcelain tub until you nearly lose consciousness, at which point the attendant, who has seen this before, gently lets you know it’s time to move on.
--Steam heat on the left, dry heat on the right. Claustrophobes, start running...NOW!
Step 3: Climb inside a steam cabinet that looks like a prop from a 1950s I Love Lucy episode. (Note to claustrophobes: Make sure you can open the cabinet on your own, from the inside, before the spa attendant leaves.) Your head sticks out of a hole in the top while intense heat deconstructs your body’s cellular constitution. Or maybe it just feels that way.
Step 4: Hunker down in a sitz bath. I want to be delicate here, so I’ll simply say: Nearly scalding water drips onto your lumbar region and adjacent nasty bits, and the visual impression is of a person squatting on a weird toilet. It’s not a good look. I’m telling you this as a friend.
Step 5: A same-sex masseuse gives you a 20-minute rubdown that will leave you feeling like tagliatelle al dente. In a good way.
--The Pancake Shop attracts everyone, from tourists to local politicos.
More Than Just a Place to Boil Yourself
I’ve been making Hot Springs sound like a well-preserved history exhibit, which isn’t fair to the lively, actual-city aspects of the place.
The restaurant options, for example, are extensive. I especially enjoyed the Pancake Shop (an 86-year-old downtown institution and a hotspot for local politicos), J&S Italian Villa, Kollective Coffee + Tea, and DeLuca's Pizza. Regional attractions range from Avant Mining, where you can dig for crystals like an enthusiastic back-to-the-earth hippie, to the lush Garvan Woodland Gardens. And don’t miss a free, self-guided tour of the 1915 Fordyce Bathhouse, which is both a century-old time capsule of spa history and headquarters of Hot Springs National Park.
During my visit to the city, I met many Texans who had driven 300 miles from the Dallas area— five hours in a car—to come here. There were Arkansans, of course, and several from Oklahoma. I observed young couples and families and people of all descriptions enjoying the place, older couples sauntering down Central Avenue, and kids riding bikes home from school. So maybe there is hope for the future of the most historic spa town in the nation.
Next time I get to Arkansas, I’ll head straight to the Buckstaff for a steam, soak, and massage.
I may, however, pass on the sitz bath. A man has to have standards.
--The bar of the Ohio Club is one of the most popular places in Hot Springs.
Author Bio:
Mark Orwoll writes about travel and film for Highbrow Magazine.
--Photo Credits: Mark Orwoll
For Highbrow Magazine