Turkish Bathing Beauty

As I lay buried under six inches of foaming soap bubbles covering me from head to toe, I wondered how I had talked myself into this. The word bath conjures up images of relaxation, solitude, and warmth. Warmth is the only thing I seemed to have gotten. Heat from the large circular marble platform I was lying on and the warm flush of my lost modesty. Perhaps the relaxation and solitude were still to come, I thought hopefully.

The practice of the Turkish Bath or Hamam, is centuries old. The Cemberlitas Hamami is a popular Turkish bathhouse in the heart of Istanbul that reigns from the 16th century. On day three of my week long holiday in Istanbul, I decided to partake in this ancient ritual. Given that I am fairly shy, it was only three years ago that I had finally succumbed and had my first massage in Thailand on a previous Christmas adventure. While I knew I wanted to try the Turkish baths, I still had a hint of apprehension cloaking me.

Torrential rain drove me to the Hamam that day. After seeking refuge in the Grand Bazaar, I wandered around the stalls until the power went out, leaving me with some time on my hands. All signs were pointing for me to visit the Hamam. Standing outside I watched as droves of locals and the odd tourist confidently went inside. I took a deep breath before making my way down the slippery marble stairs to the front desk of the Haman.

After getting my token and washcloth, an attendant arrives and takes me up the winding staircase to the women’s communal dressing room where she shows me to my locker and hands me slippers and a checkered pestamel, my towel. I change into my pestamel and go back downstairs to the staging room where a female attendant is folding towels. She gestures for me to go in the double doors to my right.

As I open the doors, the steam from the room obscures my view and I gingerly walked in. Standing under the enormous elaborate 16th century dome, I pause to take in the scene before me. Women of all shapes and sizes are lolling around like seals on the gobek tasi, the circular heated marble slab that dominates the room. Glistening and naked. So very naked.

Pushing my panic aside, I join the gaggle of naked women sunning themselves under the dome. Taking my cue, I lay my pestamel lengthwise on the marble slab and climb onto it face down. Unsure of what is supposed to happen next, I try to relax and get to the blissful state of mind of those around me. Unfortunately, I am too aware of how naked I am and how exposed I feel to be able to relax.

A few minutes later, the double doors open with purpose and a gang of big-boned Turkish women enter the hot room. Clothed only in underwear, their heaving breasts sway with each step. They pause to collect their brassieres hanging from a water pipe near the door and secure them over their enormous breasts. With military precision, they march over to the marble slab and select their victims.

My attendant taps me on the shoulder and as a greeting indicates that I need to roll over onto my back. It quickly becomes clear that the pestamel will not be used to provide me with any sort of coverage. As soon as I roll over, she douses me with a bucket of warm water. Yes, an honest to goodness bucket of water. She then grabs the washcloth I had purchased and starts to methodically scrub every inch of my body. And I do mean every inch, nothing was considered off limits. After the manhandling was done, she soaps me up by blowing through a lace cloth, which looks like a large icing bag that you would use to decorate a cake, and covers me with bubbles from head to toe. I am then doused with the bucket one more time. I am without a doubt squeaky clean.

Thinking my Turkish bath molestation, I mean experience is over; I am surprised when she gestures for me to grab my sopping wet pestamel and slippers and has me follow her to one of the washing basins on the outer edge of the room.

If I thought I was uncomfortable with the massage, what happened next was just painfully awkward. The attendant sits me on a ledge near the washing basin and proceeds to wash my hair. Sitting there naked and dripping with water, I start to find some humor buried in the humiliation of the situation of having a woman dressed only in a bra and underwear wash and comb my hair as if I was a little girl. Thankfully, she is efficient and soon our time together comes to an end.

Feeling raw physically and emotionally from the heavy-handed and intimate massage, I felt no need to extend my time at Cemberlitas Hamami and declined the cup of tea offered in the lobby. I dashed up the stairs to the street and welcome the rain falling from the sky.