Things you should know prior to reading this blog:
1. I am deathly ticklish
2. I hate feet in general and I hate people touching my feet. They are completely off-limits.
3. I embrace the fact that I am the stereotypical "American Prude" by European standards, as far as my (severely negative) comfort level with public nudity is concerned.
4. I am cheap. I obsess over my savings account and will sacrifice a lot of comfort in the name of stretching my dollar (or Euro) a little further.
5. I will do pretty much anything for my husband, including 'taking one for the team' with regard to Numbers 1-4 above.
-----------------------------------
This all started with the innocent question of, "What do you want for your birthday?", which I posed to Scott sometime in early October. We'd already planned to spend our birthday week in Istanbul so I knew we'd both be shooting for the "experience" over "tangible gift" birthday scenario.
Scott wanted to visit a Hamam or Turkish Bath for his birthday. I commend him for his ability to choose such a unique and culturally fitting "experience" for his birthday but I knew as soon as the words left his mouth that this decision was going to severely conflict with Numbers 1-4 from above. I was correct.
After a debate over which of Istanbul's Hamams we would visit, we (I) made the tragic decision that we should save some money and choose the slightly less expensive option, which was located just down the road from our hostel.
We thought we knew in general what to expect out of this. The typical hamam experience includes being wrapped in a towel (and sometimes a bikini top for women) and stretching out on a slab of heated marble in a 14th century bath house. After about a half hour of relaxation, we knew we'd be transferred to a heated floor where water would be poured over us. Next, a staff bather would exfoliate our skin with a fabric cloth and then bathe/massage us. I had done extensive research on this topic, and reviews of the more expensive hamams suggested that the experience was very modest, relaxing, and culturally enriching.
We entered the hamam and after discussing the bath process, the price, and the fact that I am morbidly ticklish, we were rushed into a changing room with the assurance that we would at no point have to be separated. We emerged a few minutes later, wrapped in towels (um, where's the bikini top?) and were ushered into a marble room with domed ceilings.
"You. Lay. Sleep", the bath attendant ordered.
We stretched out on the marble and were just mellowing out when a door swung open and the attendant belted out, "Lady. Come. Now!"
In one fearful, fluid motion I was up off that marble slab and slinking into a separate room. Enter my first "Red Flag" that all was not as expected.
The door slammed shut and I found myself in a smaller domed room with low stone benches and sinks. As I stood reeling from the surprise venue change, the attendant went about setting the water to run in the sinks. Then out of nowhere, she turned to me and "WOOOSH", snatched the towel from around me. Needless to say, that caught me a little offguard and as I debated whether or not to just bolt from the room and run for my life, she spread the towel out and ordered, "Lady! Sit! Water!", before storming out of the room.
There I sat, naked, in a 14th century bath house, pouring water over myself with what looked like a petfood bowl, while the Muslim call to prayer blasted across the city form the mosque next door. I won't ever forget how surreal and strange that moment was. Nor will I forget the awkward moments that followed when the attendant led in two Korean women and produced the same morbid embarrassment in them that she did me with that little towel maneuver. What felt like three eternities later (probably more like 20 mins), the attendant showed up again, this time topless, and pointed to me. "Lady! Come. Now!" At this point, I was up to about five 'Red Flags'.
I ended up on a massage table and the exfoliating process began. Don't let anyone ever try to convince you that this is relaxing. The "fabric cloth" is no more than a brillo pad and was used head-to-toe and nearly made me cry. Next came the soaping and massage, which was not terrible until she got to my feet. When she was finished, she poured several buckets of hot water over my head and shouted, "Lady. Go!" I was wrapped in a dry towel and ushered into the hamam's lobby, where I sipped apple tea and watched a Turkish soap opera with the other bath attendants.
My first clue to the fact that Scott and I had had very different experiences came when I began my second Turkish soap opera and he still hadn't emerged from his side of the bath house. The second was when I saw his attendant emerge. This man was enormous and I knew Scott had probably been given the most severe massage of his life. He finally came out looking content but also looking like he'd just been beaten up. Apparently, his attendant had cracked his neck, back, and shoulder joints, in addition to his signature move of digging his elbows into Scott's sides.
All in all, it was a bizarre and surreal experience. In hindsight, we should perhaps have chosen the slightly more expensive option. However, Scott got what he wanted for his birthday and we now have some funny stories to tell. All in all, I'm glad we had this experience. But, for the record, I chose a very nice Turkish-made bag for my birthday, which did not require me to lose my clothes nor have my feet touched. I'm perfectly content with my birthday gift, too, thankyouverymuch.
No comments:
Post a Comment