The Hamam

Everyone seems to have a Turkish bath story. I have been to the hamam twice thus far; the first time in a hotel and the second as part of the Temal hot springs experience. The hamam makes me feel like I should be reverent, as if I am to experience a baptism of sorts. Yet while thinking about getting my entirely exposed body scrubbed to a pulp, I am anything but. This time, my friends and I have gone to a proper bath (hamam) and by proper I mean there is a pile of chopped wood to the left of the doorway, and we have to climb a precarious latter to reach the second tier changing room. The place is humble and low key, traits which the guidebooks often equate with authentic. Translation: it is not overly sanitized, no one who works there speaks English and the procedure for what the hamam experience entails is not made completely clear. There is absolutely nothing I see so far that reminds me of the glossy ads in TimeOut Istanbul.

I strip down to my underwear and put on old lady slippers. We are ushered in to sit by one of the sinks with old-fashioned handles shaped like spades. There are colorful plastic bowls and we are instructed to douse ourselves with water. You must follow the order (although what that is remains unclear), or face the wrath of the old woman wearing nothing but saggy underpants and a kerchief who runs the joint, as my friend found out when she tried to wash before her scrub. She was immediately reprimanded with a firm slap on the back. We splashed water on ourselves and laughed while our skin absorbed the moisture. I felt like some mystery meat that had been set out to defrost. Ah, the anticipation before the scrub...not exactly sitting in the waiting room reading People before your green tea facial, but this wasn’t Burke Williams.

I waited for what felt like forever. My pores looked open, my skin supple. I went from defrosting to a chicken basting in my own juices. I sat in my underwear waiting until it was my turn to lay face down on the marble.Finally, the lady screeched in my direction, which I guess meant I was up to the plate.

Her prune face placed her in grandmother territory, but her strong legs and vivaciousness put her in the middle-aged category. She was probably timeless, perhaps having spent most of her life in the steamy tranquility of the hamam.

She grabbed a bowl to rinse the dead skin flakes from the floor, and the motioned for me to lay on the heated marble. She then proceeded to scrub with the same mitt she had used on the previous moistened body. I knew I should’ve brought my own mitt.

She signaled it was time to turn with a slab of the thigh or back. I was on my back, stomach, and sides with an arm overhead in some version of a sexy cheesecake pose. She seemed pleased at all the grime that was falling off me like grey snowflakes. I had no idea I was so dirty. I tried not to think about bacteria or water bugs, or look at the old lady crouching in front of me. I found it oddly cathartic to watch my skin slough off.

I rinsed, I toweled off, and put on fresh clothes. When I went back to the changing area, I noticed a tiny window into the men’s side through which money was exchanged for water. This made me realize there could be many such holes coming from the men’s side or even the roof of the hamam. A not so comforting thought.

Despite the unconventional circumstances, I felt clean and refreshed in body and mind. Its amazing what shedding your old skin can do.