We’re about an hour into our session at the Russian and Turkish Baths, an outdated-school bathhouse in New York’s East Village, when my buddy Matt closes his eyes, throws his head back, and suggests, “I’m having hit.” The two of us are sitting on a tiled ledge. Half-bare persons in robes and bikinis mill about. I’m experience sweaty and, as regular, anxious. But by the time we arise onto the sidewalk an hour later, I experience immensely refreshed. My palms are wrinkled and pale, and I’m calm in means I have not felt in weeks. I obtained the hit, way
