Creative Piece: In the Sauna with Hillary Clinton
Saunas are meant for relaxation, but I’ve always thought of them as laboratories of etiquette. How much eye contact is too much? How long can you talk before the heat melts the conversation into silence? When to re-adjust the towel? These are questions of diplomacy, really.
So when Hillary Clinton sat down across from me, I assumed this was part of her continuing public service.
“You’re Hillary Clinton, aren’t you?” I said.
She gave the smile she reserves for parades in towns that went 73 percent for Trump.
“Good to meet you,” she said.
She asked what I did.
“Nothing,” I said. “I’m a bum.”
A pause. She nodded gravely, as though chairing a subcommittee on bums.
We talked. Politics, inevitably—Trump seeped in like mildew. We compared hometowns. She asked about my family; I avoided asking about hers. We stayed away from Bill. The sauna wasn’t rated for that level of steam.
We sweated. We sighed. The conversation thinned into little declarative remarks about cedar planks and life’s drift. At one point she asked if I came here often, and I said, “Only when I want to feel bipartisan.”
Eventually she rose, adjusted her towel, and delivered a parting line that felt like both a farewell and a concession speech:
“Good to meet you.”
“Sure,” I said.
The steam hung in the air—thick, indecisive. Not bonding. Not quite détente. Just sharing, and holding the line.
So when Hillary Clinton sat down across from me, I assumed this was part of her continuing public service.
“You’re Hillary Clinton, aren’t you?” I said.
She gave the smile she reserves for parades in towns that went 73 percent for Trump.
“Good to meet you,” she said.
She asked what I did.
“Nothing,” I said. “I’m a bum.”
A pause. She nodded gravely, as though chairing a subcommittee on bums.
We talked. Politics, inevitably—Trump seeped in like mildew. We compared hometowns. She asked about my family; I avoided asking about hers. We stayed away from Bill. The sauna wasn’t rated for that level of steam.
We sweated. We sighed. The conversation thinned into little declarative remarks about cedar planks and life’s drift. At one point she asked if I came here often, and I said, “Only when I want to feel bipartisan.”
Eventually she rose, adjusted her towel, and delivered a parting line that felt like both a farewell and a concession speech:
“Good to meet you.”
“Sure,” I said.
The steam hung in the air—thick, indecisive. Not bonding. Not quite détente. Just sharing, and holding the line.
