Unhygienically
Introduction
What if I told you that once upon a time, in Europe, the very notion of a simple bath was as foreign as an alien concept? And have you ever wondered if cleanliness is truly next to godliness? Or did you ever deliberate what life would be like without your morning or evening shower ritual? Well, in that case, prepare to step into medieval Europe, a time so drastically different from our own, where the concept of personal hygiene is as mystifying as a forgotten ancient ritual.
In this piece, I will initially outline the basic hygiene practices of medieval Europe before dipping into certain anecdotes of European royal life. The hygiene customs of other global regions, being sizable topics in their own right, will be reserved for another time.
First and foremost, it’s worth highlighting the often comical and bizarre lengths to which some people go to sanitize their historical narrative, attempting to cleanse it of its less savory aspects. Yes, I’m addressing the same folk who, with a display of contradiction, proudly display the yellow and blue flag in their PFPs, all the while ignorantly lacking a deep understanding of its implications and significance. This act alone borders on self-parody. Moreover, these very same people have the nerve to claim (or as I like to call “hijack”) the heritage of Greek civilization as if it were their own, all so to adopt a grandiose legacy to obscure their own less illustrious heritage.
While ancient Greeks (and other civilized peoples around the world) were laying foundations, the ancestors of these ignorant supremacists were far removed from such advancements, living as simpletons. It’s a misguided effort to borrow prestige from a civilization that thrived on values diametrically opposed to racism and exclusion. Not only is this appropriation an insult to the rich heritage and legacy of human history, but also a desperate bid to lend credibility to a bankrupt ideology, one that favors, discriminates, and judges based on skin color. By attempting to align themselves with the achievements of ancient Greeks, they only highlight their own lack of contribution to the collective human progress. This is unless one considers the act of appropriating intellectual achievements and then branding them as their own, followed by the colonization and exploitation of those very lands, as noteworthy contributions, no? In short, the idea of hijacking Greece (and even Rome) into this so-called “Western Civilization” is more myth than all of Aesop’s Fables put together. The Greeks were Hellenic and the Romans were Latin. And that’s that.
Moving on to the topic at hand, assessing medieval Europe’s hygiene, or lack thereof, is like stepping into a time machine set to “chaos.” From the 5th to the 15th century, it was a period juggling massive turmoil: the rise of Christianity, the Roman Empire’s downfall, and feudalism’s debut. Europe’s ballooning population meant more people squished together, living it up in squalid conditions. Staying clean wasn’t simply a choice; it was a daily battle in the trenches of health and survival. But let’s be real, they weren’t always winning this war. Putting these thoughts aside for now, let’s kick off this article with a bit of a hygienic background.
A History
Rewinding to ancient times, the hygiene scene was surprisingly more glamorous. Think of Egyptian women in 4000 BCE, basically inventing the beauty industry with their metallic makeup. Or the Babylonians in 2800 BCE, the unsung soap-making champs, brewing fats and ashes like some ancient alchemists. The Mesopotamians were indeed pioneers in the field of cosmetics. And hats off to the Minoans, who introduced the world to flushing toilets in the ruins of Knossos Palace.
Jump to 1550 BCE, and you’ve got the Ancient Israelites (i.e., the people of Prophet Ya’qub, aka Jacob), schooled by Moses, linking cleanliness to health and religion. They were the OG hair care influencers, mixing ashes and oil for that perfect sheen. Not to be outdone, the Egyptians were avid bathers, dabbling in oils and salts, basically the ancestors of our modern-day soaps.
The ancient Greeks, around 1200 BCE, had their own unique cleanliness ritual. Who needs soap when you have clay, sand, and ashes? Post-oil anointing, they’d scrape off the dirt with a strigil — ancient Greece’s version of exfoliating. Cleanliness was tied to their worship, with temples honoring Hygeia, the (idolatrized) goddess of health.
Olive oil baths were the craze in both Greece and Rome, with the Romans taking it a notch higher. By 300 BCE, Roman high society was all about rosewater-soaked wool, while the common folk settled for saltwater-soaked sponges. Their plumbing was ahead of its time, but playing dice with water quality. Public latrines were in, and for a dash of revenge, they used pebbles or pottery with enemy names for… personal cleaning.
In 19 BCE, Agrippa, Augustus’ pal, kickstarted Rome’s public bath scene with the Thermae. This sparked a bath bonanza, with over 800 baths at their peak. Romans found a unique use for urine in laundry, mixing it with lye from ashes. Imagine the aroma!
Unwholesome
And now, fasten your seatbelts for a medieval facepalm moment. In 1184 CE, King Henry VI’s posh gathering at Petersberg Citadel turned into a disastrous dive — literally. The floor gave way under the noble assembly, plunging them into a cesspit. Talk about a meeting going down the drain! Around 60 bigwigs ended up with a rather smelly end. But, yeah, that’s pretty much a good way to get started on why the Middle Ages was everything that was wrong with European society.
And as our narrative plunges into this charming era, one might expect progress after centuries of ancient advancements, right? Wrong. Medieval Europe was, let’s say, a bit slow on the uptake. The crusaders, however, did bring back the concept of Turkish baths — luxurious, daily washing rituals that were fundamental in oriental culture. But Europe, especially in the Middle Ages, had a curious aversion to water. With plagues and illnesses common, the idea of a full-body dip was more terrifying than refreshing. Linen was the hygiene superhero of the day, regularly changed to keep clean. This water phobia stayed well into the 20th century, making the act of bathing a source of fear, especially in the cold winters without the luxury of central heating. Picture the young aristocrats, shrieking in horror at their first warm bath — a common spectacle.
The crusaders, however, did make another significant contribution — they brought soap back from the East. But even with soap, full body baths were a rarity in medieval Europe. A quick splash on the hands and face was deemed sufficient to tackle the dirt and grime of daily life.
The pursuit of cleanliness faced practical obstacles that would baffle the convenience-accustomed minds of today. Public bathhouses were communal affairs; you’d be soaking in the same water as countless others. And if you were lucky enough to have a private bath, prepare for a marathon of heating, hauling, and disposing of water — a logistical nightmare. So, did they stink more than us? Probably. But to them, it wasn’t as noticeable — everyone was in the same boat, or tub, so to speak.
Now, imagine the scene: a medieval household preparing for bath time, an event that was as rare as it was regimented. The ritual would unfold with an order that would put any modern-day queue to shame. First, the father, the head honcho, took his turn, followed by the mother, then the hierarchy of children from oldest to youngest. The idea was to stay clean, not just for vanity’s sake, but because of a gripping fear of the “miasma theory” — the belief that bad smells caused illness. They weren’t entirely off the mark; germs were the real culprits. However, not reeking and being actually clean were two vastly different things in the medieval world. But here’s the thing: the entire family bathed in the same water! Refreshing…
During the COVID-19 pandemic, handwashing became a mantra, but in the European Middle Ages, it was a luxury of class. Nobility and monks would ceremoniously wash their hands before and after meals, a mark of civilization. For the wealthy, water jugs awaited outside dining halls for a pre-and-post-dinner cleanse. The lower classes, however, weren’t as fortunate. Access to clean water was a luxury they couldn’t afford, leading to meals eaten with hands that had toiled in fields, tended to animals, or lacked basic cleanliness. This, unfortunately, led to illnesses.
In medieval life, clothing practices were also peculiar. For instance, when garments turned into an asylum for fleas, moths, or bedbugs, that was the cue for a wardrobe change. Linen, the fabric du jour, was the medieval version of a sweatband, soaking up oils and perspiration.
Unlike today’s throwaway fashion culture, medieval clothing was an investment. These garments were treasures, expensive either in time or coin. Washing machines? A futuristic dream. Instead, they relied on good old-fashioned elbow grease, washing in tubs or natural waters. And here’s the kicker — the secret stain-removal ingredient was none other than what the Romans used: urine. Yes, you read that right. Urine (both, human and animal), with its ammonia-rich content, was a medieval OxiClean, though it certainly didn’t leave a spring meadow scent.
Even the high and mighty, like Queen Isabella of Spain, were all about being frugal with their wardrobe. Patching up an old dress was the go-to move, way cheaper than spending on a new one. These outfits weren’t exactly hitting the laundry every other day. Think of them like that favorite pair of jeans you wear just one more time before washing. It was all about the layers — not just for looking good, but for some clever clothing strategy. The linen undershirts, huddling right up against the skin, took the laundry hit, letting those fancier top layers off easy. Linen was the real MVP here — easy to make, a breeze to clean, and getting softer and flashier with every wash. The outer layers? They had a more… let’s say, “unique” preservation technique: hanging out near the loo! Why, you ask? Simple: that stinky air was like kryptonite to moths. So, parking your gear near the privy was basically medieval bug repellent, though it definitely didn’t do any favors for your nose.
For those who could afford it, professional laundresses were the go-to for keeping fabrics fresh. The cleaning arsenal included — surprise, surprise — yes, you guessed it: urine, used both as a stain remover and a dye-setter, alongside lye soap. However, the laundresses paid a dear price with their skin bearing the brunt of these harsh methods. And in this era where laundry water and drinking water were strictly segregated, laundresses fiercely guarded their washing domains. Heaven forbid if you dared to water your animals or rinse tanner’s residue there. The wrath of a medieval laundress was something to watch out for, especially when her domain was threatened by misuse or contamination.
Pong
And now, imagine, if you will, suddenly finding yourself in the heart of a medieval city. Your first encounter wouldn’t be the sights or the humming life, but an overwhelming stench that slaps your senses awake. It’s a riotous blend of aromas, a far cry from the sanitized streets of modern metropolises (or is it now?). But what’s the culprit, you may ask? The answer is delightfully simple and grotesque: a monumental mishandling of human excrement.
Keep in mind that this was a time when the concept of a bathroom was as alien as a smartphone would be to a knight in shining armor. Sure, you wouldn’t find yourself squatting in the woods like a bear, but let’s face it, the alternatives weren’t exactly the Ritz Carlton of restrooms.
For instance, in medieval London, a population of about 100,000 people produced a daily overload of waste equivalent to the weight of an adult Asian elephant. Picture that — a daily elephant of poop! This wasn’t due to a lack of effort. Contrary to popular belief, medieval European folks weren’t exactly fond of turning their streets into open latrines. Their problem was a lack of proper facilities, another far cry from the more sophisticated systems of ancient Rome. These Roman relics, once marvels of sanitation, lie forgotten and unused, leading to a comedic disaster like a cartoon where the protagonist scrambles to plug leaks in a sinking boat.
In a desperate attempt to control this smelly chaos, a 1357 CE proclamation threatened imprisonment for anyone caught dumping waste into the Thames or other waterways. The result? People simply found new, equally unsuitable places to dump their waste, like Tower Hill, which soon became a festering, foul-smelling eyesore. This prompted a ban on waste disposal there, leading to an ironic return to dumping in the Thames. The cycle continued, a ridiculous, stinky merry-go-round. This was the perfect breeding ground for a motley crew of fleas, lice, and rats, all contributing to the eventual spread of the Black Death.
Constructing a cesspit was pricey, a luxury only a few could afford, costing about double the annual salary of an unskilled laborer. These were seen as almost decadent in their extravagance but were yet another temporary fix in the never-ending battle against the city’s digestive aftermath. And even these cesspits had their issues — they weren’t designed to hold liquids, leading to leakages that turned the surrounding soil and water sources into putrid swamps.
The smelly issue was more than just an assault on the nostrils; it was a health hazard. As we mentioned earlier, the miasma theory widespread at the time linked disease with bad smells. So, if your neighbor’s cesspit turned your home into a stench-ridden nightmare, you understood something was terribly amiss. Complaints would be filed, demanding the offending party to get their act together, adding yet another layer to the medieval waste management fiasco.
In bigger towns, public latrines were the norm, and for the less enthusiastic about public conveniences, well, any old alley would do for a quick relief. Think of it as the medieval equivalent of a St. Patrick’s Day parade, minus the green beer. The chamber pot was the silent hero of this age, faithfully serving its duty in every household. But when it came time to empty these medieval vessels, etiquette and environmental consciousness were tossed out the window, quite literally. Chamber pot contents were unceremoniously dumped onto the streets, turning walkways into obstacle courses of unspeakable filth.
Rain was less a cleanser and more a harbinger of muck-mageddon. Streets transformed into rivers of refuse, and the medieval solution to air freshening? Carrying bags of fragrant herbs to mask the stench of reality. The job of muck-rakers, though noble in intent, became a Sisyphean task, especially when the heavens opened up.
Homes weren’t spared from this bizarre disregard for cleanliness. Erasmus noted that floors were layered with rushes, hiding a treasure trove of nasty accumulations. This blend of spit, vomit, and other unspeakable remains had been laying there undisturbed for decades.
Post-Black Death, as Europe nursed its wounds, folks started putting two and two together about cleanliness and health. In a move that would’ve gone viral today, the English parliament, back in 1388 CE, decided it was time to tidy up. They slapped fines on anyone caught dirtying the waters or air. It was a baby step away from their grimy past, a flicker of hope in an era more twisted than a mystery novel.
Flashback to 1421 CE: investigations into public housing uncovered a stinky secret. Without privies, folks just chucked their waste right outside their doors. Talk about a mess — it was an eyesore and a nose nightmare, with the local church getting the worst of it. Nighttime made this whole scene even sketchier. Take John de Abyndon in 1290–91 CE. A midnight trip to the communal privies was basically a daredevil stunt, and poor John paid the ultimate price. So, what’s a medieval person to do? With the horror of sleeping near a full chamber pot, window-tossing seemed like the lesser evil.
Laziness had its role in this bathroom drama, too. If you were posh enough to have a chamber pot, you probably had staff to empty it. The rest had to make do with the outhouse. But chucking waste in the streets wasn’t the final curtain. Enter the medieval gutter system — rainwater; it would wash away the muck, at least for a while.
And in this mix, the concept of privacy — or the total lack of it — was as common as dirt. Although public urination eventually became a no-no for health and decency, it wasn’t a complete taboo. Cut to 1307 CE, and Thomas Scott’s side-road bathroom break leads to a brawl — a scene not too alien if you’ve ever been desperate at a crowded bar.
Public defecation was a bigger blunder. A 1339 tale talks about a beggar kid getting hit by a cart while squatting in the street, and the harsh judgment he faced. It’s a slice of medieval classism that sadly still echoes today.
Yet, in all this, medieval Londoners did crave some privacy. Privy walls in castles and homes bear witness to their need for modesty. Like in 1333, when a tenant kicked up a fuss over a removed cesspit wall. Being spotted in such a compromising spot was a big no-no, a sentiment that’s easy to understand, even today.
Remedial
And now, diving a bit into the strange world of medieval European medicine, the line between the absurd and the ingenious is as thin as a surgeon’s blade. In this era, the term “medieval medicine” might just send shivers down your spine — and not necessarily for the right reasons. Here, the line between treatment and torment is blurred, and the “cures” could be as terrifying and dangerous as the diseases themselves. Picture this: you’re in an age where the bizarre is the norm, and your trusted physician might just be as likely to end your life as to save it.
And as for bloodletting and leech therapy? Those were the basics. But the Middle Ages had an arsenal of remedies so spine-chilling, they make modern horror look tame. We’re talking about facing a choice between a gruesome medieval remedy and a painful affliction. The thought alone is enough to make the bravest souls sprint away!
However, it wasn’t all doom and gloom. Some pre-germ-theory methods hit surprisingly close to the mark. But then again, there were the blunders — the kind that make you question reality. Take this unsettling “cure” for gout: boiling a red-haired dog in oil, adding worms, hog’s marrow, and herbs, and applying this macabre mixture to the sore spots. Or the bizarre frog remedy — snatching a frog under the cloak of night, amputating its legs, and attaching them to the sufferer, hoping for a miraculous recovery. These… “treatments” leave us in shock, disbelief, and a bit of a giggle at the sheer absurdity. Mind you, we’re only talking about medieval Europe here; elsewhere, the field of medicine was far more advanced.
In an age when modern medicine was but a distant dream, European folks turned to nature’s apothecary, relying on plants and herbs not just for their aroma, but as a shield against miasma. Their medical playbook? Straight out of ancient Greece, with a twist of bodily fluid balancing — think black bile, yellow bile, blood, and phlegm. And how did they strive for this synchronization? Welcome to the world of bloodletting, starring leeches. These wriggly little bloodsuckers were the medieval answer to a doctor’s prescription, latching on to patients in a scene straight out of a gothic novel.
But wait, there’s more — maggot therapy. Yes, you heard it right. These squirming, soon-to-be-flies were the unexpected knights in shining armor on the bloody battlefields of the 14th century. Far from causing harm, they munched away at infected flesh, innocently playing the role of tiny healers. This practice, older than the hills and still kicking in modern medicine, was like finding a diamond in a dung heap.
In this fascinating era, the line between medicine and mysticism was blurrier than an intolerant monk’s vision. European doctors weren’t just slicing and dicing; they were also stargazers, turning to astrology for medical advice. Your treatment plan could depend on your zodiac sign. A Pisces? Clearly, your lymphatic system is out of whack, symptoms be damned. It was an astrological adventure in a world where guesswork was the name of the game.
But hold onto your hats, because the oddities don’t end there. Enter the world of saints and their holy relics. In times where faith and science were two peas in a pod, the remains and belongings of saints were more sought after than a royal decree. People journeyed far and wide, fueled by hope and desperation, seeking a brush with the divine for their maladies. The regard for these relics wasn’t a passing fad — it was a marathon.
And then, the pièce de résistance of medieval European medicine: mummy powder. A tale of lost-in-translation that takes a turn for the morbid. Bitumen, or mummia, was the bee’s knees of remedies. But as it waltzed into Europe, a chilling mix-up occurred. Mummia, in the minds of European pharmacists, became synonymous with actual mummies, sparking a grotesque gold rush for this supposed cure-all. What followed was a shady industry of thieving and defiling corpses for this grim mixture.
Now, imagine rubbing your wounds with a potion as revolting as it sounds: dung ointment. Yes, in the medieval era, this wasn’t a prank but a serious medical treatment! Animal excrement, the main ingredient, was mixed with eggs, lard, or wax to treat infected wounds. If animal dung was scarce, well, let’s just say human alternatives weren’t off the table. Shockingly, this bizarre ointment worked somewhat like antibiotics, only with a nose-wrinkling stench.
But enough of medicine for now; let’s talk about medieval urine tasting — a practice that makes wine tasting seem utterly dull. Doctors back then didn’t have labs; they had their taste buds. Diagnosing illnesses involved a curious tasting session, where a doctor, like a sommelier of sorts, would sample a patient’s urine. Color, smell, and taste were all clues in this urinary mystery. They even had a “urine wheel,” a tool resembling a color palette, but for matching urine to various ailments. It sounds archaic, but back then, it was a breakthrough in medical diagnostics.
And then, enter dwale, the medieval anesthetic that sounds more like a potion from a dark fairy tale. This potent brew contained a mix of pig’s bile, hemlock juice, lettuce, opium, and vinegar. A sip before surgery meant a pain-free experience, but it was a gamble; the mixture was as poisonous as it was effective. How many woke up after this medieval anesthesia? That’s a mystery lost in time.
Upper Crust
Moving on, it’s best you brace yourself for a peek into royal hygiene, or rather, the lack of it.
In 1535 CE, King Henry VIII went on a grand tour, not for leisure but to escape the grotesque aftermath of his royal entourage’s stays. Over 700 people, moving from one grand palace to another, leaving behind heaps of human waste. Palaces like Hampton Court were abandoned temporarily for extensive clean-ups. Even the surrounding livestock and land needed recovery time from feeding this massive crowd. This was a year-round cycle, as Henry and his now 1,000-strong court hopped between 60 residences in a quest for cleanliness.
Even Versailles, in France, the so-called “essence” of opulence, wasn’t all golden glamour. Behind the scenes, a small army of cleaners toiled to maintain some measure of cleanliness amid daily visits by thousands. While nobles tidied their own quarters, the public and royal rooms were a different story. Imagine a nightly brigade sweeping, polishing, and scrubbing, all to keep the palace presentable.
And then there’s Queen Elizabeth I, with all her royal resources; she barely bathed once a month. In her times, women, including the Queen herself, applied “Venetian Ceruse,” a lead-based skin whitener. Elizabeth layered this makeup daily without washing off the previous day’s application, a practice that was either a sign of medieval hygiene standards or sheer laziness.
And here’s a twist: the “Groom of the King’s Close Stool” was a role in high demand. This lucky individual carried the English King’s portable toilet and attended to his personal needs. Far from being demeaned, this position was a ticket to the inner circle, privy to court secrets and influential policymaking.
Even the Germans raised eyebrows across the continent with their casual disregard for handwashing before meals and their irregular bathing habits. Anne of Cleves, Henry VIII’s fourth wife, was no exception. Before meeting Henry, her advisors scrambled to persuade the… “scented” German princess into a much-needed bath. Ironically, Henry VIII himself, despite his habitual bathing and daily undershirt changes, was an outlier in royal hygiene.
Then there was Countess Platen Hanover, suffering from an irritation sickness, who bathed in milk and then, in a bizarre act of generosity, passed the used milk to the poor. Revolting…
Rewind to the days of Henry IV, where Marguerite de Valois could have shed tears in an onion-chopping contest, thanks to Henry’s garlic breath and hatred for baths. Speaking of royal stench, Louis XIV treated bathing like a rare comet sighting, choosing instead for a quick wipe-down with whatever was handy — water, saliva, or alcohol. Legend has it he took a grand total of two or three baths in his lifetime. His court wasn’t much fresher, with body odors mingling in a potpourri of unwashed nobility.
Speaking of body odor, back in the Renaissance, folks were slathering on perfume like it was going out of fashion, all to mask the funk of not-so-fresh bodies. Let’s face it, the stench was so fierce that the perfumes had to pack a punch, with heavy hitters like musk and amber leading the charge for their nose-grabbing potency and rumored spicy side effects. They also tossed in some floral heavyweights like jasmine and tuberose for good measure. During this aromatic arms race, the perfumed glove strutted onto the scene in Grasse, turning heads and wrinkling noses in equal measure.
This fad caught on so well that the Glovers-Perfumers snagged themselves a perfume monopoly, edging out the apothecaries and spice dealers. Grasse, meanwhile, crowned itself the perfume capital of Europe, drowning in scents that invaded every nook and cranny. We’re talking perfumed bodies, wigs, outfits, grub, and even tobacco. Pets weren’t spared the spritz, with pooches and parrots getting their own fragrant makeovers. Aristocrats lounged on potpourri-stuffed pillows and fumigated their chambers with scented wafers and mists to keep the dreadful stink at bay. The court reeked of high society, with the elite swapping scents daily like it was a status update.
Perfume wasn’t just for show; it was medieval bio-warfare gear, a holdover from when a pomander was your best bet against catching the plague. These scent bombs evolved from spice-stuffed balls to trendy sachets and acorns, while plague doctors looked like steampunk cosplayers in their beaked masks, stuffed with herbs to ward off death by stench.
The May-”Flower”
Let’s briefly dive into the tale of when the English ship Mayflower hit Plymouth Rock, bringing with it a cargo of Pilgrims and, unbeknownst to them, the revolutionary concept of “Eau de No Bath.” Yes, our intrepid settlers, with their pioneering spirit, seemed to have left one crucial supply behind: soap. According to Native American whispers and a rather bemused Squanto, these newcomers had a curious aversion to water that went beyond ordinary hydrophobia. It was as if they treated bathing with the same enthusiasm as a cat does a bath. Squanto, in a failed attempt that deserves its own historical footnote, tried to introduce the concept of regular washing. One can only imagine his sales pitch: “Trust me, a little water never hurt anyone. Well, except for witches, I suppose…”
The Pilgrims, bless their cotton socks (which, by the way, were probably not changed or washed frequently), had an interesting take on hygiene. It wasn’t that they didn’t care about cleanliness; they just had a different way of showing it. As we mentioned earlier, changing their linen undergarments was their nod to personal hygiene, operating under the belief that these linens could magically absorb all impurities. The logic was impeccable: “Why cleanse the body when your shirt can do the heavy lifting?” This approach to cleanliness had moral undertones too. A visible white collar wasn’t just a fashion statement; it was a billboard proclaiming, “Look at me, I’m clean and godly.” This was the 17th-century equivalent of a humblebrag.
Now, onto the Native Americans, who were no strangers to the concept of bathing. Rivers and streams were their preferred bathing spots, which they used regularly, much to the befuddlement and mild horror of the Europeans. The Native Americans’ approach to personal hygiene was holistic, extending to dental care, where they employed chew sticks, fresh herbs, and even charcoal for that pearly white effect. In comparison, the Europeans’ oral hygiene routine seemed to rely heavily on the “hope and pray” method. The cultural exchange was lopsided, to say the least. One can imagine a Native American watching a Pilgrim wipe his nose with a handkerchief and then pocket it, thinking, “Well, that’s one way to carry your memories with you.”
The Pilgrims’ lack of enthusiasm for bathing wasn’t just a quirky cultural difference; it had dire consequences. Their unwashed bodies became vessels for diseases, unwittingly unleashing epidemics on a population that had no immunity to such illnesses. The introduction of European diseases to the Native American population was a tragic and unintended consequence of this clash of hygiene practices. But then again, this narrative, often too readily accepted, overshadows the dark, grim, and despicable reality that ethnic cleansing was as much, if not more, a factor in the extermination of indigenous peoples — the innocent people of the land.
Back to Pong
For the average elite Joe and Jane of the time, a full bath was as rare as a blue moon, usually reserved for… “special” occasions (wink, wink). Face washing was the daily drill, but with all the courtesans and mistresses floating around, one can only imagine the whispers about their… ahem, personal hygiene. This casual attitude toward cleanliness was a VIP pass for diseases like syphilis and smallpox, which partied like rock stars, especially in Paris.
Marie-Antoinette, the queen of bath-time extravagance, pampered monthly in a luxurious soup of nuts, roots, bulbs, and candy paste. But sadly, even royal baths couldn’t keep body odor at bay for long. Meanwhile, King James I of England was a no-bath zone, resulting in his royal chambers becoming a hotspot for lice.
Versailles, along with the average home, relied on bamboo brooms to sweep away the sins of the day, and people were as likely to relieve themselves in corridors as in a proper chamber pot. Weekly clean-ups were introduced in 1715, but let’s face it, that palace was a perfumed pigsty.
Imagine the irony: the grand halls of royal homes were marinated in a cocktail of leftover food, animal and human leftovers, and ash from endless fires. Royal parties left the palaces smelling like a medieval dumpster. And don’t get us started on Catherine the Great’s reign, which was less about magnificence and more about walking through a minefield of horrible odors and lice-infested quarters.
As for the court of Louis XIV and Charles II, their superb appearances in paintings were just a façade, masking the real deal of unwashed clothes and flea-ridden pets. The quest for cleanliness in these courts was like trying to mop up the ocean with a tissue. Sure, they could boil their linen undergarments, but those fancy outer garments? Not so much. State Robes, worth a king’s ransom, were hardly ever cleaned. A dab here and there might have removed a stain, but the eau de sweaty royalty remained.
Lacking the opulence of a full wardrobe, the lesser nobility faced a unique challenge: airing out their one and only lavish robe to keep it somewhat presentable. Now, picture this: a garment that cost an arm and a leg, dancing in the wind, while its owner squeezed into an alternative outfit. These jewel-encrusted outfits, paraded at every high-society bash, gradually surrendered to an inglorious destiny — they began to stink. Badly.
This aromatic challenge wasn’t limited to the showpiece robes. The everyday attire of the courtiers, though less bedazzled, couldn’t escape the stench. Their go-to fix? As mentioned earlier: a liberal splash of perfume, and trust me, they weren’t stingy. Take Liselotte von der Pfalz, for example. She was so generous with her fragrance that it once knocked the Dauphine out cold. This olfactory overkill often backfired, resulting in a bewildering mix of scents that was an assault on the nostrils.
Desperate to ward off the funk, courtiers carried around embroidered sachets packed with fragrant herbs or petals. Seasonally-rotated potpourri and burning herbs marked the place, all in a vain attempt to freshen the foul air.
And let’s not forget the aristocratic ladies, whose hairdos were more than just fashion statements. They were a haven for lice. Those combs and picks weren’t just accessories; they were weapons in an ongoing war against these tiny invaders. Shampoo was a stranger to them; instead, they relied on powders and perfumed ointments, creating a sticky, flammable mess — quite the hazard near candlelight.
Then, re-enter the world of Henry VIII, where the fight against grime was as persistent as it was hopeless. Imagine the king, covered in furs to dodge critters, while his court enjoyed themselves in unhygienic bliss. Ironically, the large red X’s meant to deter public urination became unintended targets — yes, the palaces indeed marked spots with large red X’s for individuals to relieve themselves!
Peter the Great, Russia’s big boss, was supposedly a man of the world — traveled, learned, you name it. Yet, when it came to the basics like keeping clean, let’s just say he missed that memo. The guy saw no issue in turning the palace walls into his personal urinal. His idea of a bath? An occasional dip in a mineral spring, because why bother with regular washing?
Enter Catherine the Great, fresh from Germany — a place where they actually knew a thing or two about soap and water. She walks into the Russian court expecting glittering elegance, only to find it’s more “glittering garbage can.” It’s like stepping into a fairy tale, if the fairy tale was written by someone who confused opulence with filth. Peter, our “enlightened czar,” was leading the charge in this luxury-meets-lack-of-lavatory-logic lifestyle. His choice of wall art? Pee. His spa routine? Occasional and outdoors, because who needs a bath when you’ve got a whole spring to yourself? The palace was a bizarre blend of lavish and filthy, where splendor slept spooning with squalor. (But hey, at least Pete had the decency to punish anyone caught tossing their trash — of the very personal kind — onto the streets. Small victories, right?)
Zip over to Spain’s dynamic duo, Ferdinand and Isabella, and you’ll find a plot twist in the hygiene saga that’ll have you scratching your head, where things went from weird to “are you kidding me?”
In their realm, taking a dip was basically flirting with vice, a straight-up invitation to naughtiness, and a hefty spiritual no-go. Cleanliness next to godliness? More like cleanliness next to godlessness. Pilgrims hitting the road to Jerusalem turned it into a dirt marathon, dodging baths like it was a game of hot lava.
When Ferdinand and Isabella caught wind of the Muslim bathhouses, they didn’t just disapprove; they went on a demolition spree. Picture Columbus spilling the beans about the daily splash rituals in the Bahamas, and Isabella’s horror: “Stop that sinful scrubbing right now!”
Isabella’s bathing record? Two baths in her entire life — and historians aren’t arguing. That’s right, a whopping two. Talk about loyalty to grime.
But wait, there’s more dirt-dishing on the Spanish royalty. Phillip II said adios to the last of the bathhouses, while it is said that his daughter, Isabella, turned “grime loyalty” into a national sport. Her promise? No underwear swaps till Ostend’s liberation.
Fast forward three years, and let’s just say… the color transformation of her undergarments is better left unsaid.
So, there you go — our time travel through Medieval Europe, where urine wasn’t just something to flush away — it was the go-to stain remover. Makes you grateful for your modern-day shower, right? But don’t you worry, EU fella, because Klaus Schwab will take that privilege from you as soon as you surrender your other rights first, starting with your right to eat meat.
Sources
https://www.healthyway.com/content/medieval-hygiene-practices-of-the-middle-ages/
https://www.culturefrontier.com/8-bizarre-medical-practices-of-the-middle-ages/
https://partylike1660.com/17th-century-hygiene-or-the-many-smells-of-versailles/
https://www.history.com/news/royal-palace-life-hygiene-henry-viii
https://www.history.com/news/american-colonists-pilgrims-puritans-bathing
https://muslimvilla.smfforfree.com/index.php?topic=3219.0;wap2
https://greekreporter.com/2023/07/19/hygiene-baths-religion-ancient-greece/
Note: Images were either generated or taken from Google Images.
