Lukács Baths in Budapest: You Get What You Pay For

*The grounds outside Lukács Bathhouse in Budapest, Hungary*

As I struggled to breathe on the massage table of a Budapest bath house, virtually drowning in baby oil while laughing internally at the ridiculousness of my predicament, I couldn’t help but think that maybe I should have done some more research.

But I should back up here…

Earlier that weekend, Michael (my Aussie partner), Matthias (my Swiss friend), and I (American) had purchased the 48-hour Budapest card our first day in the city.

I’m not usually one for tourist cards like these (since I think you rarely get more value than you pay), but the boys were intrigued and it offered free entry to a Budapest bath house -- an item on our bucket list for this trip -- so we parted with our 50 euro notes as the proud new owners of Budapest City Cards.

Why are the Budapest baths such a big “thing?

See, the baths in Budapest are legendary. The city sits in the midst of a network of mineral-rich thermal waters underneath the historic cities of Buda and Pest. For centuries, people have flocked here to “take the waters” (doctors even used to prescribe it), and the 21st century is no different.

The spas here are a must-do for anyone visiting the city, but there’s a dizzying variety. From the gorgeous Széchenyi thermal bath to local-loved Rudas & Gellért baths, plus the age old cabin-versus-locker debate, it’s enough to make your head spin.

We were unable to secure Szechenyi baths tickets for the famous night party (the best time to visit Szechenyi baths), so after a particularly active Saturday night at the Ruin Bars, a sunrise climb onto the roof of our Airbnb (soz Michael) and a painful Sunday morning, we decided to flex that free entry and spend our Sunday relaxing and recovering at Lukács Baths...or so we thought.

The Fatal (hungover) Decision

Most Budapest baths are similarly organized: there are often outdoor pools with fountains, whirlpools, and other interactive features; while inside, you’ll find a series of warm and cold thermal pools, cold plunge pools (GREAT for your nervous system!), saunas, steam rooms, and massage rooms.

It was that last one that piqued our Sunday recovery interest...and which would make for one of the most hilarious wellness travel experiences of my life.

*Inside the entrance hall, just past the ticket counter for Lukács Baths*

First impressions

Upon entering Lukács Baths, we each purchased a massage for later in the day (Michael and I opted for a 20-minute couple’s massage).

After paying about $20 USD for our massages, we got our wristbands with free entry and pushed through the turnstile in search of a place to change (although Lukács is still one of the more affordable ones, with a daily ticket + locker/cabin coming in around $14-$15).

The building wraps around a series of outdoor pools, where butter-yellow walls contrast nicely with the inviting bright blues of the water. A great many locals and a smattering of tourists milled about in the pools and squelched past us in the wet hallways.

Enchanted by the bright turquoise waters on such a hot July day, we set off for the locker rooms...only to get turned around for a good 10 minutes, as all the signs are coincidentally in Hungarian.

After finally locating and using the changing rooms, we met back up, and I co-opted my boyfriend’s shoes.

Public + wet + lots of people = Gross flooring, murky water, and many wet, unidentified hairs stuck to surface

In all fairness, the main pools outside were clear and clean, but the facilities inside were clearly getting heavy use and slightly less-heavy cleaning on what is undoubtedly the Baths’ busiest day.

We popped into the outdoor pools before exploring the interior facilities. However, when it came time for our massages, we found ourselves squelching back-and-forth, trying to decipher the Hungarian signs to figure out where to meet our masseurs.

Finally, we found an employee and explained our predicament.

The fateful Massage

Our attendant led us down twisting hallways at a brisk pace, finally depositing us in a back room, where two very strong and bored-looking women lounged on their phones, awaiting their next client with an air of intense disinterest.

I smiled and offered a “szia” in greeting, and was met with a sidelong apathetic glance in my direction that clearly said, “Let’s get this over with.”

They punched a code into a box by the metal door, high-security style, which slid back to reveal a gray-cinderblock hallway that matched the vibe of their severe institutional-white uniforms.

Upon laying eyes on the hall, you got the distinct impression that you might not come back out.

But at least Michael and I would be together...right?

In fact, that was not to be.

Michael was led into the first room on the left, but as I made to follow for our couples massage, I very quickly found myself nose-to-metal with the door that had been shut in my face.

I laughed sheepishly, shrugged, and followed the other masseuse, chalking it up to a miscommunication.

As I walked through the door into my own cell-turned-massage room, I panned the foreboding room.

The same stark cinderblock walls were illuminated by the bright, buzzing overhead lights and a single electronic candle perched on a shelf in the corner—the only indication that the purpose of the room was for relaxation, and not surgery.

My eyes fell on a white leather massage table, partially covered by a single stained white sheet that didn’t quite meet the face cradle.

“Take off, lie down,” she gestured to the top of my bathing suit and then to the table.

Stowing my initial shock at the room to the back of my mind, I made for the table and pulled down my bathing suit.

I’m no priss when it comes to travel experiences, but I did surreptitiously scooch the sheet upwards to cover the face cradle before lying down, unsure of how many other patrons had come before me, and settled into 20 minutes of trying to enjoy my massage while breathing through the side of my mouth so as not to suffocate myself.

And boy did I enjoy it -- but not in the way you’d expect.

Channeling Ross from Friends

After a few minutes of face-down silence, interrupted only by the intermittent clack of my masseuse’s bejeweled nails on her phone screen, I suddenly jumped when I heard the loud crinkle-crunch of what can only be described as an industrial-sized bottle of off-brand baby oil as it came squirting--no, flooding--onto my back with force.

What happened next was basically that moment from Friends, when Ross uses toy trucks and salad tongs to roughly massage an old man he doesn’t want to touch.

Ross Salad Spoon GIF from Ross GIFs

The masseuse alternated between squishing my face into the cradle until even my side-breathing wasn’t enough, and softly poking and rubbing at the same area of my back with as little pressure as possible, while simultaneously spreading the baby oil as far and wide as she could.

Internally, I was crying with laughter.

After a long 20 minutes of me stifling laughter and her barely patting my back, she announces, “Okay. Finish.”

And as I thank her (for what, I’m not sure, but such is my reflex to be polite) and move to get up, she pushes me back into the table with a gruff, “Wait.”

With my face in the cradle, I hear the distinct tear of more industrial-grade paper towels.

I cringe in anticipation, and I’m not disappointed when she scratches them roughly over my back—very nearly inflicting paper cuts in an attempt to sop up the remaining oil that hasn’t spilled over my sides and onto the table.

I can barely contain my laughter, and suddenly, I find myself very grateful for that stained sheet.

She grunts her satisfaction, and leaves the room without another word, which I take to mean that our session is over. I later find out that Michael’s masseuse simply left without telling him it was over, leaving him lying there for 5 minutes, unsure of what to do or whether it was the end, which truly cracked me up.

As we both stumbled out of our cells (I mean, massage rooms), one look was all it took for me to know that mine was not a unique experience.

We bit back laughter with a knowing look, passed out of the cinderblock hallway, smiled and thanked the women, and walked as fast as we could to find Matthias (who, incidentally, had the same experience until he passed the 20-minute mark in his longer massage, after which point he said it was good — so maybe the key is a longer appointment!)

So if you’re considering the free entry to Lukács Baths (or an accompanying massage), I’ll say this:

You get what you pay for.

Don’t get me wrong: if you do get the Budapest Card, it’s still worth the visit! Mostly, this is just meant to be a funny story—the experience there was fine overall, and I definitely wouldn’t classify it as terrible or horrifying. The outside pools themselves were well kept and fun, but because of the condition inside with some overcrowded and murkier plunge pools (which feels almost inevitable, given the number of people there and the late hour in the day), I would recommend spending your limited hours in Budapest at a different bathhouse.

Where Should You Go Instead?

Instead, head to riverfront Rudas Baths for everything you’d hope for in a Budapest bath house plus a trendy rooftop bar where you can sip cocktails from an open-air hot tub overlooking the Danube.

We were determined to experience the legendary baths of Budapest, so we spent our last night in the city at Rudas, at the recommendation of a local friend, and it did not disappoint.

We clambered down the hill from Fisherman’s Bastion (and by “clambered,” I mean we took a taxi), and just made it for the last 2 hours at Rudas.

We watched the sun go down in the rooftop hot tub with 20 of our closest friends (read: strangers) before heading back inside to go under the massage jets and jump between a frozen plunge pool (complete with an ice chute) and hot tub.

It was glorious.