But, on my most recent visit, there was definitely a presence in the lobby: Crowds gathered between the colorful tropical-themed murals, not for ghost stories, but to see documentaries.
What’s in a Name?
In 1832, the federal government granted protection for a 47-thermal-spring reserve at the base of Hot Springs Mountain, part of the Ouachita Mountains. A town grew around the springs as more and more people visited the area for promises of healing treatments and cures. In 1921, Hot Springs officially became a national park.
From the upper floors of the Arlington, one can see the unusual layout of the city. Central Avenue, the tree-lined main thoroughfare along a narrow valley, runs north to south past the hotel for about half a mile before the city widens out to the south. Along one side are shops, restaurants, and museums; along the other is Bathhouse Row, a National Historic Landmark, comprising eight structures in varying architectural styles.
The Great Outdoors
On either side of that narrow half-mile of Central Avenue, the forest of the national park stretches east and west then curves around to the north to make a 5,500-acre ring of preserved green space. A brick-paved Grand Promenade runs behind and slightly above Bathhouse Row. Paths there lead off into the woods and are part of the park’s 26-mile hiking-trail system. A winding road takes travelers up the mountain to a 216-foot observation tower, serviced by an elevator, which offers a panoramic view of the park, city, and the hills rolling away into the distance—ideal for fall color peeping.
If you purchase a golf-cart tour you’ll hear the impressive life story of Verna Garvan, the self-taught gardener and conservationist who, defying a crooked husband who tried to institutionalize her, retained control of her family’s timber empire and property and created this magical preserve. Every year, from late November to the end of the year, the gardens host a popular holiday light show.
Gangster Paradise
But it always comes back to the dangerous characters, doesn’t it? I joined a tour of The Gangster Museum of America. If you are not deep into gangster lore—and I am not—you likely aren’t familiar with the name Owen “Owney” Madden. The Irish-American gangster earned his nickname “The Killer” on the streets of New York City during Prohibition. He also ran the famous jazz joint The Cotton Club. In 1935, as law enforcement leaned on him harder and harder for his criminal activities, he packed it up and moved to Hot Springs to live a quiet, peaceful life. Yet, while he seemed to be a legitimate businessperson, Hot Springs coincidentally became one of the largest sites for illegal gambling and prostitution in the nation. Owney’s old pals Lucky Luciano and Frank Costello would show up from time to time, as did Capone. A guided tour of the museum is brought to life by a local guide dressed in character. Highly recommended.Having a Bath
But one can’t visit a place called Hot Springs and not be a little curious about what started it all. So I booked an appointment at the Buckstaff. Since its opening in 1912, it has stayed true to itself: a bathhouse serving the general public, offering effective, no-frills treatments.
I entered the men’s side and changed in a simple curtained stall, storing my belongings in a small locker. I felt like I was at a toga party as I wrapped up in the provided sheet and headed into a large tiled space to go through the stations. First, a sitz bath—exactly how it sounds: You sit in a bath, soaking in the warm water thought to bring relief for hemorrhoids and other ailments of one’s nether lands. From there, the bath attendant led me to a full tub where I soaked up to my neck, until he summoned me for the steam box bath. You may have seen such a thing in old black-and-white movies or perhaps in an “I Love Lucy” episode. I sat inside the box, and the attendant closed the two doors along the top, which included a round hole that allowed my head to stick out. He wrapped a towel around my neck to keep the steam from escaping.
Time marched on, and I debated the embarrassment of crying “uncle” versus the possibility that I let my internal temperature reach 165 degrees so that I might be safely served for Thanksgiving dinner. Another bathhouse patron walked up, stared at me a moment, and flatly stated, “Nope,” before skipping ahead to the next station. I followed moments later, and another attendant wrapped me in a large, thick hot towel to lie in state on something akin to a hospital bed where I could contemplate the wisdom of the choices I’d made that day. Finally, I was moved along to the massage room for a welcome cooldown as I waited for my masseuse.
The massage lasted only 25 minutes (as I had chosen), but I was in expert hands as the masseuse remarkably found all my known—and unknown—knots, even though I hadn’t bothered to identify them. This alone was worth the price of admission. I stepped out into the street, light and limber, wishing I could return to Hot Springs on a weekly basis.
