My Stay at Vivamayr Altaussee: Day 1
Although I arrived yesterday, following two impossibly bumpy flights and a whole host of delays, today is my first official day as a guest here at Vivamayr Altaussee. Now if you’re reading this and thinking “and what the heck is Vivamayr Altaussee when its at home?”, then I shall summarise briefly: Vivamayr Altaussee is one of the world’s toniest spa/medical centres, occupying a prime spot on the shores of Lake Altaussee in Austria. Since opening in 2015, it has attracted an illustrious clientele including Alessandra Steinherr (former beauty director of Glamour), Liz Hurley, Rebel Wilson, Theresa May (yes, really) and…er…me, a newly single, newly unemployed person from Whitley Bay, England. Depending on how you look at it, this trip is either truly brilliant or truly awful timing. In any event, I find myself in dire need of R&R.
I wake up at around 7.45 a.m., which is relatively late by Vivamayr standards, but then yesterday was a long day. When staying at a hotel, my first instinct is to get up and make myself a coffee as soon as I can, however caffeine is strictly off-limits at Vivamayr, so I make do with brushing my teeth, getting dressed, and heading down to breakfast. As I’m yet to see the doctor — the meals at Vivamayr are individually prescribed — my first breakfast is a relatively lavish affair of scrambled egg, puréed avocado, and a piece of Vivamayr’s famous “chew training” bread. Although its hardly the smashed avocado on hefty sourdough that I’m accustomed to, it actually isn’t half bad.
My initial medical consultation, or doctor’s appointment, is booked for a sprightly 9 a.m., so I head up there after breakfast. Vivamayr’s protocol is to assign you a physician for the duration of your stay, and mine is Dr Katrin Brauer, who weighs me, takes my blood pressure and, perhaps most unexpectedly, inspects my teeth. We discover that I’ve lost weight (probably a consequence of the events mentioned in the first paragraph) and that I have low blood pressure (standard), and when colonic irrigation is recommended I point-blank refuse it, mostly because it reminds me too much of Gillian McKeith. Otherwise, I am happy with the plan she puts together for me, and I wander somewhat merrily towards diagnostics for some routine blood tests. Dr Brauer reckons I might be low on vitamin D, so I have this checked, too.
At about 10.30 a.m., I sit down with one Doris Bayer for “cure coaching” and “chew training”, which is really just an informal chat and bit of hand-holding ahead of the detox process. The Mayr method, which was originally developed by Austrian physician Dr Franz Xaver Mayr and is what Vivamayr is based around, is big into the idea of chewing one’s food as much as possible — think forty to sixty times per morsel. So when I am presented with a small (but deceptively tasty) piece of poached chicken at lunchtime, I chew each minuscule mouthful until it is more or less liquefied.
After lunch, I set off Nordic walking around the lake with instructor Esther and three other guests, Anastasia, Sarah and Vicky. It is the first time I’ve ever used walking poles and, to my immense surprise, I manage not to mess it up. We’re out for about an hour and a half and the air is beautiful, the landscape magical. I don’t even mind when my Doc Martens get covered in all manner of detritus.
On returning to the hotel, I partake in what is known as a liver compress, which is something I definitely didn’t sign up for but that I go along with anyway. It involves having a hot water bottle placed against your liver, being encased in some sort of bodybag, and then lowered into this weird-looking waterbed contraption. Although it relaxes me to the extent that I doze off for a little while, the whole experience proves a bit much for a claustrophobic person like me, and so I promptly cancel the second liver compress on my schedule. (NB: Vivamayr offers scores of weird and wonderful treatments such as this; I myself am barely scratching the surface of what’s on offer.)
In a stupor, I head back to my room. I call my father so that he knows I’m still in one piece. Dinner is served promptly at 5.30 p.m. and consists of nought but clear broth. I go to bed hungry, but not uncomfortably so, and admittedly pretty worn out. I feel marginally more optimistic than I did last night, however, so I suppose that’s not to be sniffed at. If I can keep this up, it will have all been worth it.
This piece was originally published on Part Time Beauty in 2020.