Deep Cleansing

Travelling to a foreign country often involves some form of cultural immersion that forces you outside of your comfort zone and into an awkward situation.  This sometimes results in eating bizarre and disgusting foods, attempting/failing to communicate with simple hand gestures, taking public transportation while utterly lost, or participating in local customs.  And one such custom that every novice initiate to Turkey should experience is a traditional Turkish bath.

I started out my evening by choosing to visit one of the oldest and most prestigious Turkish baths located in Istanbul -- the Cemberlitas Hammam which was built in 1584 by the sultan's wife for the upper class to enjoy. Upon checking in at the front desk and paying for the services, I was then shown to my small changing room to prepare for the rejuvenating experience. After I completely undressed and then wrapped the equivalent of a small handtowel around my waist, I left all my worldly possessions (including my pride) securely stored within this room. Praying the towel didn't slip off while exiting the room and traversing the busy lobby, I proceeded to the men's showers to rinse off the daily grime from this industrialized city.

After the brief cold shower, I hastily wrapped a new, dry waistcloth around myself, and humbly stepped into the grand entrance of the main wash hall. The first thing I noticed upon entering this spectacular domed room was how it sparkled with filtered daylight from overhead skylights, reflecting off the damp marble walls and exuding an aura of mystery and intrigue through the heavy mist.  In the center of the room stood a very large octagonal platform upon which the bathing ceremony was to be performed.  The second thing I abruptly noticed upon entering the room was the overwhelming explosion of warm humidity against my nearly-naked body that immediately caused every last pore to begin profusely sweating, either from the muggy heat or from nervous anticipation, I will never know. After having caught my breath while gradually growing accustomed to the thickly vapored air which threatened to drown my lungs, I was next beckoned over to the massive platform and instructed to lie down on it, fully extended and in complete contact with the warm marble. The stone was starkly similar to a hot iron, as it pressed all the wrinkles from my scorched body and caused me to go limp.

Now is the point when I fully comprehended that because this hot, humid hammam was over 400 years old, an equivalent 400 years of bacterial propagation had festered and proliferated on these ancient walls. Upon which I was laid prone. Practically naked. And with my last window of escape quickly departing, the hammam attendant approached and blocked all hope of egress. He doused me with warm, soapy water, grabbed a disposable scrub mitt, and began my ritualistic cleansing. Now don't be fooled -- this wasn't the typical spa experience where one is gently massaged and treated like sultan royalty. This hardcore cleansing relied instead on brute force, with every square inch of my exposed body (as well as certain unexposed but apparently still accessible parts) scrubbed clean with the equivalent of a sandpaper mitt. I'm all for good hygiene, but when my exfoliation involves removing most layers of my outer skin, it might be a *tad* excessive.

So there I was, after 10 minutes of determined polishing and buffing of my supple skin, I was left with scratch marks all over my body, which I interpreted as a sign of victory that I survived this brutal process. Next came one last rinsing off with cold water before heading to the next room in this cycle of Turkish torture -- the oil massage.

Still clad in my threadbare waistcloth, I laid facedown upon the massage table, and was ready to have all my cares and worries gingerly massaged away with expert hands.  Instead, what I encountered was a vicelike grip that was so forceful, I gasped at the initial pain as he lathered oil onto my bruised body.  The masseur proceeded to slowly work his hands from my head to my feet, taking care not to miss any muscles that were trying to hide from this sadistic monster. His oil massage made Helga's Swedish deep tissue massage feel like butterfly kisses, and I nearly shed a few painful tears while praying for death or an end to the massage, whichever came first. Once my last toe was free from his violent grip, I silently rejoiced that I had survived this experience and attempted my departure.  I lumbered off the table and meekly limped back to the shower to rinse off the last of the oil before heading back to the coveted semi-privacy of my changing room to retrieve my clothed dignity and hide my war-battered scars.

I was so exhausted from that mentally and physically draining experience that I headed straight back to my hotel room, forgoing dinner and even bypassing every last enticing store selling gluttonous bites of Turkish delight in every flavor you could imagine.  I somehow made it up the winding stairs to my shoebox of a room, laid down on the unyieldingly hard mattress, and let me tell you -- with every last muscle in complete surrender, that was the absolute best night of sleep I have ever had in my entire life!

The wristkey to my changing room

As no photos are allowed, here is a rendition of the bath