Give yourself to it, and it reciprocates. A tour of Kohler's fantasy design centre followed, with peeks at experimental rooms beyond the means of all but few Americans. Polished display toilets in every imaginable colour were stacked to the ceiling, as if in preparation for some fecal apocalypse. Couples poked around the showroom, prodding sinks and whispering to one another. I asked about the Kohler spa, shamelessly. Did I want a massage or a facial? Or anything? Vicki said anything. I said a massage, and in a few minutes, my appointment was set. I lay prostrate in a robe, naked underneath, and stared at old Wisconsin women and their daughters. I ate an apple. I was rubbed down by an older woman who spent 10 minutes outlining her variety of oils. I was ready for dinner. Smiling Plump Blonde Concierge was gone, which was a shame. I'd drug-dreamt of asking her to dinner during my two hour soak. She was replaced by a stern-looking man who recommended I try the Wisconsin Room for supper. I changed sweaters in a weak attempt to convince myself this was some sort of occasion, and then called to reserve a table for one. That's never easy for an ego, but the anticipation of ordering the most expensive things on the menu without remorse sort of canceled it out. I sat at a large table in an enormous room that looked out onto a garden. A few well-dressed elderly couples talked quietly or not at