At exactly 6:03 a.m., I opened my eyes to see Anita, a tall, lanky woman in white pants and sun-yellow shirt, standing over my bed at Steigenberger hotel Der Sonnenhof, a property in Bad Worishofen, Germany - a small Bavaria town known for its Kneipp water cures. Little known in the U.S.  Kneipp water therapy uses warm and cold water  to increase circulation, improve lymphatic function, reduce headaches and promote overall wellness. Spas, hospitals, as well as outdoor parks feature the long, water-filled troughs, used for stepping (feet) and soaking (arms).

The night before, the spa staff had advised me of the delivery of the hay pack – a warm linen sack filled with approximately 20 steamed grasses, flowers, and herbs including chamomile, St. John’s Wort, and sage – so I would not be startled by the early morning visitor.

The ritual is common in hotel spas all over Bad Worishofen, as it's believed that in the early morning, the body, in its quiet state, is better able to receive the healing properties of the warm, herb-infused flowers and hay. After placing the fragrant bundle under my shoulder blades and tightening the blankets around me, Anita slipped out of my room.  And breathing in the fresh, hay-and-herb-scent, I drifted back to sleep. 

Forty-five minutes later, Anita returned to remove the hay pack - then guided me to the spa to begin the Kneipp ritual of soaking arms - then feet -  in troughs of warm, followed by  ice-cold water.

Only a half-hour outside Washington DC, the terrain was already beginning to feel like ‘home.’ The rolling hills, wooden-fence-remnants from the Civil War battlefields, the faint scent of honeysuckle, and the horses, one rolling joyously on its back, soaking up the first rays of summer, were infused-in-my-veins familiar. I grew up in these parts, not far from the Mason-Dixon line.

My driver, of course, has no idea (his assumption, I learn later, is that I’m from California), and so I revel in his tales of the area. “Jackie Kennedy had a horse farm (Glen Ora) here, and used to leave the White House to come out here and ride,” he tells me. “And of course, some of Virginia’s best wineries are right here. Be sure to try the sparkling wine. First Lady Michelle Obama loves it. She loves The Salamander too, she’s visited several times, comes for the spa.”

My plan exactly.

Despite my intense familiarity with this rolling-hill, horse-wine countryside, it is always spa – no matter where I am in the world –  I feel truly  ‘at home.’ And The Salamander Resort & Spa proves no exception. Immediately upon entering the hotel, amidst the cozy burning fireplaces, and women in slim jeans and high boots heading to brunch, I smell it. Sensually fragrant. The intoxicating blend of jasmine and citrus. Spa. And within minutes of checking into my room,  I'm headed to the spa's Moroccan-inspired rasul, for a red flower treatment, in a ceramic-domed steam chamber. 

 In its heyday, Baden-Baden was the place to see and be seen. Europe’s upwardly aspiring bourgeoisie would flock to the German town for month-long kurs, drink the magically curative waters and parade in finery along the promenade. While the scene has changed since the baths were opened in 1877, Baden-Baden and its historic Friedrichsbad public baths (a combination of hot-and-cold pools, thermal steam rooms and warm-to-hot air baths) are still very much in vogue.

“It’s the diet. The buttery pork, the shepherd’s cheese, the gelato,” says Gaby Weissman, my German-born tour guide, who’s lived on Sardinia for decades, attempting to explain why so many people in Sardinia than elsewhere in the world, live to be 100 years and older.
 
Popping an olive into her mouth, as we dine in a tiny Cagliari restaurant, she eyes her debate opponent – driver and Sardinian-born friend Carlo Pia, a stocky man with jet-black hair who’s shaking his head in disagreement. Longevity doesn’t come from the cuisine, Carlo is saying. But from the wine, the sea, the work.

​“Sardinians drink one glass of fine red wine a day. They swim every day in the sea. And they never, never stop working. All day long, in the open air and by the sea, Sardinians fish, tend to their sheep. Their lives are peaceful. Of course, I will die young,” he sighs, gingerly touching the pocket of his tailored black suit jacket. “I’m like the Americans. Always in my car. Driving, driving. Yesterday I started smoking – from all the stress.” He flashes a pack of Marlboro as proof.
 
Sorry Carlo, but at least one car-owning American doesn’t believe driving along stunning sea and jagged coastline on an island with more sheep (4.5 million) than people (1.8 million) is even remotely stressful.
 
He laughs. “Excuse me, I must smoke now. I’m very, very stressed.” As he exits the restaurant, shaking hands, slapping shoulders in greeting, he looks happy, relaxed,  joyous even. The look is common across this gorgeously craggy island about 125 miles off the northern coast of Italy.
 
Shaped like a loaf of ciabatta and dense with cork groves, millennia-old olive trees, pink flamingos sunning on one leg, and brilliant red poppies dancing among ancient Roman ruins, Sardinia – thought by some to be the lost Atlantis – is the very picture of tranquility.
 
It’s here that stressed-out Italians come to escape the urban frenzy; here that Europe’s yachting set descends in sensual appreciation of the bluest of blue Mediterranean waters, and here that European football teams (that’s soccer to us) come to recuperate in the salty thalassotherapy pools at Thermae del Forte spa.​

Gaby leans closer now, pouring more wine. “No worries,” she laughs. “We’re not driving. Now, do you want to know the real reason Sardinians live so long? It’s the megere, Good witches," she translates.  Always female, megere are “chosen” at a young age by a female elder (mother, aunt, grandmother) to carry out their practice. Most villages have at least one and the “real” ones never take money for their work.
 
“Could I meet with a megera?” I ask, eagerly.
 
Outside, overhearing our conversation, Carlo hastily stamps out his cigarette and confesses that his grandmother was a megera. “As a boy I used to hide under the kitchen table from her.” No, he cannot drive us to see her. He smiles. Ah, but yes, he can drive us to Pula – a nearby town of winding cobblestone streets where crisp laundry airs between colorful houses, and fresh figs and sun-dried tomatoes are for sale under the shades of umbrellas.