Wide Lanes

WHOOSH. Out of nowhere, a tub of lukewarm water is dumped over my lying body, lurching me out of my dreamlike state. WHOOSH. Another. A naked middle-aged woman begins scrubbing, wringing out towels of soapy suds over me. I had to make a conscious effort to keep my nostrils clear. WHOOSH. Each dumping is unexpected. I'm flipped over, barely able to stay on the slick marble slab as I slide in the soapy water. No limb is overlooked in the scrubbing.

A Turkish bath – the idea conjures words like “romantic,” “intimate,” “exotic,” with lavish cotton fabrics and beauties lounging in the steam of ancient times. One word that I never conjured was “ridiculous.:

I'd left the crowded city streets for an archaic building. Built in 1584, this hamam is one of Istanbul's oldest. A woman took me from my husband and escorted me to a second-level changing room, handing me an ivory red-striped pestemal, a traditional flat-woven towel used in the baths. I put on the ill-fitting black velvet underwear I was given and, feeling a bit silly, I traipsed downstairs.

The attendant did not speak English. I was unsure of where to go. Comically, she steered me into a room and another wooden door is in front of me. I pulled it open and my senses were immediately, preposterously, struck.

My face was hit with a blast of steam and hot air, stealing my breath. I smelled perfumed soap and I saw... What I saw made me laugh uncomfortably. A heavyset woman, pouring out of a black bra and with a large stomach that barely revealed her black underwear, was violently washing another middle-aged woman whose skin was red from the vigorous scrubbing. Another topless woman, face-up on her pestemal, relaxes on the same huge circular slab of gray marble in the middle of the room. I immediately wished I could share the ludicrous moment with my absent husband.

I commit to the absurdity. Lying face-down after a few minutes my body surprisingly begins to melt into the marble. I turn my head to the side. Sunlight streams through the small star-shapes cut out throughout the large domed ceiling, cutting through the dark, foggy, humid air. For a moment, it's mesmerizing.

WHOOSH. This is where the soapy assault begins. After several minutes of being squashed to the marble, the woman motions me to an alcove where I sit on a small stool under a faucet. She washes my hair in the most non-sensuous of ways, then ushers me out of the chamber. I'm uncertain if I'm rejuvenated or if I've just paid to be beaten up.