Last but certainly not least, was our adventure in the hamam, the 500-year-old Turkish bath in Istanbul. Vi and I had saved this adventure for our last afternoon in Istanbul. I’m glad we did. It was a finale to remember!
First we had to find it—and that isn’t easy in a city of 12 million, few of whom speak English. But after wandering around narrow cobblestone streets near the Grand Bazaar and making a few memorable mistakes asking our way, we found the place Gulin had said was a MUST, the 500-year old hamam of Istanbul..
Rather timidly, we entered. At a ticket counter, we bumbled back and forth with the Turkish ticket man and finally bought a ticket for around $17 each. This included the massage that was the hard part to translate! Entering a side door—away from the dark inner lobby where men sat smoking and drinking coffee, we paused—obviously not knowing what came next.
An attendant walked up to each of us, handed us a key to a locker for our clothes and a flimsy see through cloth. She gestured, take your clothes off. The room was a rather public place, we thought, but we obeyed. Wrapping the thin cloth as best I could, I followed my middle-aged attendant attired only in a scant black bikini and bra, into a cavernous two-story high room. A thin murky atmosphere of steam partially obscured the naked women strolling around.
Filling the entire room was a round 25-foot table-top slab of marble. Reclining around it somewhat like the hands of a clock lay women of varied sizes and shapes— but mostly thin! My attendant flopped me down on my back, and with a cotton mitt on one hand, leaned over me and began to rub me briskly. Within minutes, I feared I’d be rubbed raw. Her only word of English, it seemed, was “goot?” “goot?” (in a German accent)
“Goot,” I replied, worried that she’d then rub even harder.
When the ordeal was over, she yanked me up and led me through the thick steam to an alcove containing only a sink and a pail. No words were spoken. Not knowing what was coming, I waited. She grasped the pail, filled it with luke-warm water, and suddenly dumped the pail of water over my head. I learned the lesson that from then on I’d better keep my eyes closed.
Now she took me back, clean and sans cloth wrap, of course, onto the marble slab. She picked up a two-foot-long white cloth bag, much like an American cake icing utensil. I shut my eyes just in time. Leaning over my prone figure, she pressed the bag, and I felt a slathering of foamy soapy substance spurt out all over my head and my body, which she massaged every inch of. (I think my masseuse must have learned her trade in Germany, since all she ever said was “goot?” “goot?” And I was afraid to say “nein” for fear she’d press all the harder on tender spots.
Then, without warning, she disappeared. I lay there waiting for the attendant to return and do something. Nude Turkish ladies came and went. Time passed. I gazed overhead at the small hole in the ceiling, guessing its design was to let out the steam from this hot steamy room.
More minutes passed. I meditated. I observed Vi on the other side of the slab. After what seemed like half an hour, I decided it was time to do something; I didn’t relish walking around naked like the Turkish women were doing so casually but made it over to Vi and questioned what we should do. Ultimately, we decided to leave.
We walked out into the locker room; all the attendants were sitting around chatting. Nobody said anything. We dressed. Just then, our two attendants appeared; tips, of course were required. We tipped, I generously for all the skin my attendant had rubbed raw and the energetic massage I had received.
Leaving the hamam, I was more relaxed than I’d been for months. Despite my timidity at the unexpected ambience of nudity, I should have known what to expect. After all, we had spent hours the day before in the Harem of Topkapi Palace. We had explored the life of the ladies of the sultan’s harem. And that day, I felt just like one of them.
[On to Turkey Part Six]
