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It was my first week in the freezing German city of Bonn, on my first-ever international trip – shivering from the cold and bewildered by culture shock. At my hostel reception, a woman tried her best to help me settle in. “Die Sauna is free after 6pm,” she said cheerfully in a mix of German and English, adding that all I needed was a towel.
From that day on, sweating in the steaming sauna became my nightly ritual. I couldn’t quite join the occasional conversations that bubbled up around me – my German was very basic and my confidence level was hitting rock bottom. So mostly I sat quietly, listening, nodding, absorbing the rhythm of strangers unwinding at the end of their day.
A week later, two Afghan students from Kandahar checked into the guesthouse. Instantly I felt at home. I insisted on hosting a small welcome dinner.
And later I took them along to the sauna. Suddenly, we had our own little gang – laughing, gossiping, talking freely. Time slowed. There was no rush, no interruption. For a few precious moments we just sat, sweated and unwound together.
Fast-forward more than a decade – past a fallen democracy in Afghanistan, brushes with war and years spent in journalism in different parts of the world – and I landed in Melbourne. I was staying at a hostel on Swanston Street when I noticed the Melbourne City Baths. Captivated by its grand exterior, I hesitantly stepped inside one afternoon, half-expecting a quiet, museum-like relic. Instead I was met with a buzzing indoor aquatic centre and vibrant community.
I’m not a stereotypical gym junkie, but late-night workouts and regular sauna sessions have helped me physically and mentally. More importantly, they have helped anchor me to new communities as I’ve moved around the world.
The real turning point came when I discovered that local pools are scattered across Melbourne – especially in the suburbs – and membership fees are actually affordable.
Our local centre in the south-east suburbs seems to glue the community together. Especially the sauna. But if saunas and gyms belong to adults, these public pools belong to children and families – and to the wider community.
This scorchingly hot summer, my kids’ favourite hangout has become the local wave pool. Every other day during the school holidays, they beg to dive in. What surprises me isn’t just their enthusiasm, but the sheer vastness and robustness of the community gathered there. “So many people live here,” they tell me, wide-eyed. “And my this-and-that friend also comes to the pool.”
What ties all of this together – the sauna in Bonn, the late-night gym in Melbourne, the wave pool in summer – is the quiet magic of shared spaces. Places where phones lose their grip, conversations resurface and communities breathe together.
In the sauna rooms, men and women sit side by side, deep in uninterrupted conversation about housing affordability, food choices, travel plans, rising bills, aching knees and weekend barbecues. I can’t help but observe these little segments of society, stripped of titles and uniforms.
In all its forms and shapes, on any given day, the pool offers a warm, communal feeling of belonging – in stark contrast to the shopping centre across the street, where people sit shoulder to shoulder in the same food court yet feel utterly alien to one another.
And the cultural diversity is extraordinary. Accents mingle. Stories drift across generations and borders. No one asks what you do for a living. No one checks their phone.
These public pools feel like a cultural refuge – a small, steamy world where conversations survive, muscles recover and minds reset. Whether students, tradies, retirees or weary office workers, the pool reminds us that wellness isn’t just about fitness. It’s about carving out moments of calm, community, and even absurd little joy – in a world that rarely slows down.
