The central plaza of Bogotá from the window of our room. In the center is the famous statue of Bolívar by Tenarani; on the right, the new capitolio; in the middle foreground the Cathedral, backed by the peaks of Guadalupe and Monserrate
Ever since our arrival Hays and I had been threatening to patronize one of the two public bath houses with a first-class bogotano reputation rumor had it existed in the capital. But in a land where the temperature rarely reaches fifty, and the floors are tiled, it takes courage, and we had been satisfying ourselves and our duty to humanity by bravely splashing a basin of icy water over our manly forms each morning on arising. By dint of strong resolutions often repeated to be up at six and visit one of the casas de baños, we did finally manage one morning to find ourselves wandering the streets by eight, with towel and soap under our arms, and stared at by all we met. We discovered “La Violeta” at last, next door to a blacksmith shop. The keeper we woke up told us we might have a cold bath, but that the sign on the front wall: “Hot Baths at all Hours,” was to be taken with a bogotano meaning.
A few mornings later we did actually find the other establishment open. We entered a large patio, the most striking of several buildings within which was a round, or, more exactly, an eight-sided house, and in time succeeded in arousing the place to the extent of bringing down upon us a youth hugely excited at the appearance of a crowd of two whole bathers all at one time. It turned out that each of the eight sides of the strange building was—theoretically—a bathroom of the shape of a slice of cake, with a frigid tile floor and an aged porcelain tub in which a bath cost only $10. At the back was a larger, though none the less dreary, chamber with a regadera, or shower-bath. The youth assured us there was plenty of hot water. I won the toss and was soon stripped. But the shower was colder than the ice-fields bounding the pole. When I had caught my breath I bawled my repertory of profane Spanish at the youth, who could be seen through a hole above pottering with some sort of upright boiler and firebox and now and then peering down upon me. Suddenly the water grew warm, hot, boiling, then, just when I had soaped myself from crown to toe in the steam, it turned as suddenly cold again, and an instant later stopped entirely. My eyes tight closed, I shouted at the youth above.
“Es que el agua caliente se acabó,” he droned. “It is that the hot water has finished itself.”
There being no deadly weapon at hand, I turned on a tap of ice-cold water and raced to the dressing-room still half soaped. Hays, scantily clad, was gazing fiercely at the youth through a hole in the door.
“Then there isn’t any more hot water?” he demanded.
“Not now, señor, but there will be soon.”
“Good. How soon?”
“Early to-morrow morning, señor.”