I was shivering in the outdoor cold plunge when two very large, flaccid penises came bouncing down the steps. They were attached to groins that were attached to men. I tried to be polite and avert my eyes, but all I saw were genitals.

A few seconds later, the three of us were chatting mindlessly, like we were waiting for frappuccinos. “Can you believe this weather? So warm for February!”

Nestled in the Alps near the small Austrian village of Leogang, the Hotel Krallerhof is a sprawling, family-friendly ski resort in a cutesy wooden Schloss. It’s also the closest I’m ever getting to a nudist colony.

After a breakfast buffet of wildflower tisanes and sausages with unpronounceable names, my husband, children, and I would wiggle into our salopettes and head to the chairlift. We returned to the lodge in the afternoon filled with fresh air and schnitzel. The kids headed straight to the games room—and, I suppose, so did we. Instead of numbing our aches with après-ski Krug (we’re not in Aspen), my husband and I hobbled to the spa.

The Krallerhof’s facilities, accessed by an underground tunnel, have very little in common with something out of Heidi. Designed by starchitect Hadi Teherani, the building has the cool efficiency of an Apple store, with a curved, grass-covered roof that suggests that it simply bubbled up from the Alpine soil. One wall is made of glass, and passing hikers certainly get an eyeful, because the spa’s raison d’être is chillaxing in the buff.

Let’s try to ignore the naked bodies spread-eagled in the steam room for just a moment. Sauna bathing is celebrated for producing some of the same physiological benefits as walking and running. To cool down the body, the heart has to work maniacally, and as it does, the metabolism and circulation rev up, which is said to reduce oxidative stress and inflammation. No wonder cedar-clad cabins are popping up in gyms and spas and billionaires’ backyards all over the world. I’m a believer, baking away in my infrared blanket while binging on The New Look.

But the nudity—total, stark, unignorable—scared me senseless. Is it because I’m an American or just too literal that I associate it with sex? According to my Viennese friend Karin, who invited us here, “That is not a very Austrian way of thinking.” Unlike me, these Europeans don’t have to suppress a snort when they see random genitals. Here, the sauna is a centerpiece of community life, a municipal institution on par with the public library. Karin’s octogenarian mother, who lives in the countryside, frequents hers several times a week. When she needs a break from the heat, she plays cards and drinks tea in her towel.

The women around me, walking and chatting from tub to sauna, didn’t seem the least bit self-conscious. I wish I could say the same. On my first dip in the outdoor pool, I was halfway submerged before I flung my caftan toward a lounge chair. Most days, I really like my body, but apparently not enough to parade around in the nude altogether. It feels so exhibitionistic, so … Emily Ratajkowski.

At the Krallerhof spa, my modesty presented a challenge. Robes were permitted only in the relaxation room, where overstuffed lounge chairs and artfully arranged bookshelves would have been Instagrammable if taking pictures wasn’t verboten. (Thank God.) The placards on the door read, textile-free. (“It’s in English for a reason,” Karin whispered.)

The idea is to dip in and out of the saunas and steams, rinsing off in the showers that line the walls. There’s the Blue Grotto, which is a mood-lit indoor pool, a steam room, an infrared salt room, and a walk-in freezer, with its only fixture, a single-person swing. My favorite was the krautersauna, a cedar-paneled cubby heated to 150 degrees and smelling of sage, thyme, and lemongrass. The mack daddy of them all is the Finnishsauna, which, at over 200 degrees, could probably singe the skin off your forehead. (Stay for longer than 15 minutes at your own risk.) It resembled a small amphitheater, with stadium seating for about 40 people and a glass wall that overlooks the mountains.

And it is here, every day at 6 p.m., where the Krallerhof’s guests gather for the traditional aufguss ceremony, in which a saunameister pours water, often infused with essential oils, onto the hot stones and then circulates the vapor through the air using a large fan or towel. At first, I resisted the idea of squishing my hips against a stranger’s in such conditions, but I suppressed all instincts to flee. Out of national pride, I hung my robe on a peg, smoothed my towel on the bench, and took a seat, rounding my back and crossing my legs in an attempt to disappear.

In the clothed world, we are bankers, lawyers, teachers, entrepreneurs, and parents, burdened with a variety of complexes and complexities. But without our daily costumes, we were more alike than different. I tried not to look, but I’m a journalist. I wasn’t going to miss the rare opportunity to study this mishmash of humanity in all its glory.

We’re just bodies, after all. We have stretch marks, patchy bits of hair, soft arms, softer bellies, freckles, veins, and scars. We droop and sag; we look inelegant when we walk. And yet, together, what would be flaws seem to lose their power. It’s one thing to know that penises and breasts come in all shapes and sizes; it’s another to witness 50 of them at once, as individualized as characters in a Tom Stoppard play. It’s all so real that it can’t help but be beautiful.

So let’s get started. Laszlo, our twentysomething master of ceremonies, ran the show. He had a nifty buzz cut, smooth chest, and transverse abdominals that would make Mark Wahlberg weep. On some days, he wore patchwork palazzo pants; on others, just a towel. (Unlike the rest of us, he was on the clock. Also, I’m not convinced that even the Austrians could handle 15 minutes of full-frontal.) Equal parts shaman and Magic Mike, he poured scented water on the coals and rhythmically snapped a towel toward our faces, sending gusts of scalding air into our reddening cheeks. Music, from Mozart to the Aladdin soundtrack, played in the background. It was delightfully bizarre and, at least initially, painfully awkward. When Laszlo gave a slight bow, most of the gang wandered outside, still naked, to recover in the cool evening air.

Eventually, I gathered the fortitude to join them. By the end of our week at the Krallerhof, I was spending more time in the sauna than on the slopes. It began to work its magic on my mind; I became less self-conscious, less self-critical, less prudish. I’m older now than I’ve ever been—that’s the way time works—and yet floating there in that cold plunge, I felt as fresh as a newborn. And I was even able to start looking at all those bodies—and myself—directly in the eyes.

Ashley Baker is the Executive Editor at Air Mail Look