Describe a place where you like to go to relax

The place where I go to relax is a jjimjilbang near my apartment in Seoul. A jjimjilbang is a Korean public bathhouse with saunas, and this one is quite old, maybe thirty years old, but it is very clean and cheap.

I go there every two weeks, usually on Sunday evening. In winter I go more often, almost every week, because the weather in Seoul is very cold and the heated floor feel amazing.

First I take a shower and I sit in the hot pools for about twenty minutes. After that I wear the T-shirt and shorts what they give you, and I go to the common area. There are different sauna rooms, one is very hot like an oven and one is full of ice. Between the rooms I eat boiled eggs and drink sikhye, it's a sweet rice drink. Then I usually read a book or I sleep on the floor for one hour. Many people do the same, families, students, old men.

It helps me relax because I leave my phone in the locker, so nobody can disturb me. Also, everyone wears the same clothes, so nobody cares about the appearance, and I don't need to worry how I look. And it reminds me my childhood, because my grandmother took me there when I was a kid. When I come out, my body feels very lightly and my head is empty.

The place I go to unwind is a jjimjilbang, which is a kind of Korean bathhouse, about five minutes' walk from my flat in Mapo, in Seoul. It's a slightly shabby, old-fashioned one that's been there since the nineties, but it's spotless and it costs less than the cinema ticket.

I try to go every other Sunday evening, and in winter it's more like once a week, because there's nothing better than a heated floor when it's minus ten outside.

The routine is always the same. I shower, then I soak in the hot pools until my fingers go wrinkly, and after that I change into the baggy T-shirt and shorts they hand out at the counter and head upstairs to the shared area. There's a row of sauna rooms, one built like a charcoal kiln, which is almost unbearably hot, and another that's basically a walk-in freezer. In between, I'll have a couple of baked eggs and a cup of sikhye, a sweet rice drink, and then I'll either read or doze off on the warm floor with a towel rolled under my head, surrounded by families, students and elderly men snoring gently.

As for why it works, I think it's partly that my phone stays locked away, so for three hours nobody can get hold of me. It's also oddly freeing that everyone's dressed identically; there's no pressure to look a particular way. And there's a nostalgic element, because my grandmother used to take me there as a child. I always walk out feeling lighter, as if the week's been rinsed off.

Whenever I need to switch off, I head to a jjimjilbang, a traditional Korean bathhouse tucked down a side street five minutes from my flat in Mapo, in western Seoul. It's a bit faded, and the tiles probably haven't been updated since the nineties, but it's immaculately kept and costs less than a cinema ticket.

I'm there every other Sunday evening without fail, and in the depths of winter it becomes a weekly ritual, because nothing beats a heated stone floor when the wind chill is hovering around minus fifteen.

The evening follows a well-worn pattern. I start with a scalding shower and a long soak in the hot pools, then change into the shapeless cotton T-shirt and shorts everyone's issued at the desk and wander up to the communal floor. There's a series of sauna rooms ranging from a domed charcoal kiln, where you can last about four minutes, to an ice room that leaves your eyelashes stiff. Between rounds I'll peel a couple of smoky baked eggs, wash them down with chilled sikhye, a sweet rice drink, and then sink into a paperback or simply nod off on the floor, with a towel twisted into the traditional little bun under my head.

Why does it work so well? Partly it's the enforced disconnection: my phone is locked in a cubbyhole downstairs, so nobody can reach me. Partly it's the levelling effect of everyone wearing the same baggy uniform; there's something liberating about a place where appearance counts for nothing. And partly it's sentimental, since my grandmother used to bring me here when I was tiny. I invariably come out feeling as though I've been wrung out and hung up to dry, in the best possible sense.