A session at Istanbul’s oldest Hamam
You might be entertained to hear that I went to my first hamam today in Istanbul. I decided to make it count, so I chose to go to the oldest hamam in the city, built in 1454. It’s now recessed deep within the modern central area of town, but at the time it was constructed, these were hunting hills for the Sultan and his sons.
This is a co-ed hamam, which is unusual for starters but the women are offered a bit of privacy when being scrubbed. Let me share with you how it all transpired — and believe me I transpired.
It was a hot 37 degrees celsius today and I made sure to shower before walking 15 minutes to the hamam from my apartment. I wanted to be presentable in the same way we clean our house before the cleaning lady shows up, or brush our teeth before going to the dentist.
Not 90 seconds out the door and I could feel the sweat cascading down my elbows and back. Just as a new rivulet began carving its path down my chest, I located the unsuspecting hamam. It was in an old building on a noisy narrow street and had about 10 steps that went down from the sidewalk to its basement-like entrance.
The door read “Aga Hamam 1454”.
I opened the door gingerly and was welcomed by a tall Turkish man and a grand marble fountain gurgling away. Above it was an even grander chandelier. I looked up. It was as if I was in an internal courtyard of a 4 story building whose rooms wrapped around the outer perimeter allowing for a tall vaulted ceiling. The man greeted me,
“Lady, hello. You have appointment?”
“Yes, I do”
“What’s your name?”
“Antonia, 7 pm”. I added the time to show the universe that I had shown up 23 minutes early for my appointment — not characteristic behaviour for me as my norm is to arrive right on time or 2 minutes past the time. I was feeling proud of myself.
“You signed up for Full Ottoman Package, yes?”
“Yes, the works!”
“We don’t do that anymore. No head massage”
Oh darn, I was really looking forward to the head massage.
“Too bad, why not?”
“Because it is not traditional”.
Hm. I looked around and saw many non-traditional things: Credit card machines, office chairs, new construction, a hot water dispenser — oh I don’t know… the fact that this was a co-ed hamam. I decided to keep my mouth shut.
“Ok — sign me up for whatever other full package you have.”
I looked to my right, and draped over a velvet chaise was a dreaming cat. It was twitching and running in its sleep. A good dream I hope.
“Who’s that?”
“Nus nus. She is sleeping every time.” I wondered how this cat (of millions of street cats) had made it into the hamam. Lucky cat.
I pre-paid, and was handed a checkered turkish towel that had the texture of a well used dish rag (I mean that in a good way), some slippers and a key. Another person motioned me upstairs.
“You wear towel. Bathing suit, no bathing suit, it’s ok”.
I got the idea but wasn’t sure which option was more appropriate.
Up the winding stairs were a series of private change rooms. I picked the one that corresponded with my key and slipped out of my freshly sweaty dress into the thin towel. I tucked it in at my chest and used my hair clip to confirm the tuck.
Back downstairs I went to acquire more directions.
The tall turkish man came to me and motioned me to a door.
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“Lady, you go in 30 minutes and we call you for scrub.”
Alright, simple enough. I went through one door, and felt immediately warmer, and then another door, and was blasted in the face with heat and steam. I gasped, taking in more steam than air, I think.
Once my eyeballs adjusted to the humidity, I could see a big white and light grey marble room with a dome ceiling that had swiss cheese holes in it to let the outside light in. I immediately slipped, but caught myself. Two young couples who had been sloshing each other with water on either side of the entrance, snapped their heads up to acknowledge my graceful arrival.
I shuffled in the slippers, to a spot where there was a pretty faucet coming out of the wall with a marble bowl underneath, equidistant from the couples as if we were 3 sets of magnets trying to be as far away from each other as possible, in this very bright — white room.
I sat down in my thin green towel with a wet squelch that sounded kinda like a wet fart. I kept my gaze down. Out of my peripherals I could see that the couples were taking a beautiful copper looking dish, dipping it in their respective marble bowls and sluicing water all over themselves. Monkey see, Monkey do. After a bit of splashing about I figured out that there was a cold water tap. Just in time too, as the veins in my neck, arms and feet were starting to throb in the heat. I poured some water over my head. Relief. And so it went, for what felt like an eternity: Overheat, sploosh the cold water, inhale, exhale. Inhale again because not enough oxygen was making its way to my lungs, big exhale. Sit. Sploosh. Breathe. Meditate. Repeat. Seconds before I started growing gills, the door opened and I was summoned to another room by the tall man. Thank god. I’d survived part 1. I was feeling equal parts relaxed and anxious.
A small round woman in a bath gown followed me into the little room and motioned me to lift up my arms. She ripped off my towel and slapped it on a marble table. And there I was 1/2 bathing suited. I’d been unable to decide which was more appropriate so I went with no top, and swimsuit bottoms for a cultural compromise of sorts. The lady chuckled a dry raspy chuckle. Much too dry for the environment, I thought. The humid air smelled a bit like a wet ashtray.
She pointed to the marble table and smiled with big black teeth. More ashtray vibes. I lay face down. She removed her own robe and was wearing a two piece bathing suit that covered essential bits as the rest folded freely upon itself. She slipped a scrubby glove on one hand and mercilessly started scrubbing my legs, my butt, my back, and my arms. She attempted the bottoms of my feet but I almost donkey kicked her so she decided to skip them for her safety, I presume.
As she scrubbed, she leaned onto the table and I was immediately enveloped into her belly folds. This was more intimate than I’d anticipated. Her breasts sat like two water balloons upon my back. I imagined that being eaten by an amoeba might start out feeling something like this.
She disconnected, splooshed me with water and instructed me to flip around with her husky tobacco laugh. I complied.
She scrubbed the front as she had done the back. Only this time I could see what was happening and I was immediately appalled with myself. There were caterpillar sized noodles of grossness coming off me. I pointed at them realizing that this must be dead skin. She laughed. I pointed at myself. She nodded. I made a grimacing face and placed my hand to my heart in an attempt to apologize for my filth. She laughed and shrugged. So much for my preparatory shower.
After much scrubbing, I was doused with a lot of water and I felt a little bit like a stray cat having a bath for the first time. And then something magical and marvelous happened. The round lady with the Janis Joplin voice had me flip back over on my belly. She then took what looked like a cheese-cloth pillowcase and swirled it around in some soapy water. Then she stretched it out and made an air balloon with it and proceeded to squeeze said balloon. Millions of suds came pouring out onto my back. She repeated the process a few more times until I was under a big frothy mountain of bubbles. A new level of bliss unlocked — bubbles will never not be gleeful. Somehow she located my body under the mountain and with a soap bar, lathered me up even more, with smaller, soft velvety bubbles. Heaven on earth. It came time to rinse and repeat on the front. Many frothings, 2 bars of soap and a shampoo and rinse later it was time for a break. Part 2, complete.
Here, I am reminded of an Italian seismic drill mechanic who was teaching my ex boyfriend how to use a new drill. A heavy piece of expensive machinery. He had said to my ex: “You need to clean the valvola” (the valve), “If you do not-a-cleaning the valvola, is like-a-having a shower and not-a-cleaning your ass-a-hole” I never needed to know how to operate a seismic drill made in Italy, but I never forgot this advice for some reason. I paused on this thought as I considered all the scrubbing and two omissions: the bottoms of my feet and… well you can connect the dots.
The lady wrapped me up in 3 new towels (tube dress, shawl and headscarf), and sent me upstairs to have tea and lokum (Turkish Delights). This was all a delight.
Moments later I was ushered up another staircase to the massage room. Another, slightly rounder woman greeted me, disrobed me and slapped me onto the massage table with my face in the face hole thing, which, by the way, is probably the most uncomfortable part of any massage. If anyone knows how to get comfy in the face hole, please do share your tips, because as far as i’m concerned, it feels like my face is being pulled through a vacuum.
The air smelled sweet and heavy and there was string folk music playing. This vibe was right. And then came the oil. The woman was generous — Costco style generous with her oil portioning. She poured and poured and poured. I was worried about where all the oil would go and imagined it dripping to the floor and through the floor boards to the levels below. I imagined the entire place flooded with oil and suds and wondered how the building had managed to stay intact for the better part of 500 years. Not my problem, I guess, and I allowed my thoughts to go a more peaceful place.
The massage woman was sliding around and made her way to my head that was still lodged in the face hole. She leaned over to massage my back and I kid you not, my entire head disappeared into her belly. I gasped for air. Distancing myself from the reality of what was happening, it was sort of comfortable, warm and squishy. Not an unpleasant feeling. Definitely a unique one though.
At the end of my massage I was glistening with oil from head to toe as if I’d just been pulled out of a deep fryer. If anyone would try to grab me, I’d slip from their grasp like a bar of soap. I sat up feeling floppy, contemplating whether I still had bones in my body while the woman painted some clay goop on my face, wrapped me in a fresh towel and sent me on my way. Part 3 complete!
I slithered back to the lounge area to the faint sound of string instruments and had more tea and lokum while I waited for my clay face to dry. All in all, I was feeling quite heavenly and equal parts anxious — I just wondered what the next step was because surely I’d have the opportunity to rinse everything off. Wait, was this all a vicious cycle of steaming and splooshing and scrubbing, bubbling and oiling? Wondering if i’d be trapped here for all eternity I ferreted away to a toilet and did my best to wash off the clay mask and wipe down some of the oil. I got back into my dryish sweaty dress and went downstairs to the main level that was actually the basement.
Nus nus was still splayed on the velvet couch, deep in cat dreams. What a life.
“How did you enjoy, my Queen?” Asked the tall Turkish man. Wow, apparently I was royalty now. I sure felt like it.
“Wonderful, thank you” and then I mumbled my best attempt at “thank you” in Turkish — which has way too many syllables for a word that must be so frequently used. “Teş-e-kkür Ed-er-im”.
“See you soon” He replied.
I opened the door and walked up to the street and immediately started sweating through my dress as I walked back to my apartment.
