I Survived An Authentic Turkish Bath. Here's What Happened.

A tad wee bit nervous about what, just what, was about to happen here.

I had read a review of Turkish Baths from some schmo online, who kept harping on about the pain. He had me freaking out a bit about getting exfoliated down to my bones with 100-grit sandpaper attached to a Dremel tool. “And did I mention about the pain”, he asked?

Of course the review was written on line so it must be the truth, well the gospel itself, right?

Anyway, as you might guess I was a little nervous going into it all. But here's what actually happened, in case you find yourself in Istanbul, conflicted as to whether you will enter the Hamam with your skin and leave without it, or just go have a falafel and call it a day.

Here’s the first bit of weirdness of the hamam. We stepped off the busy street of vendors and trams and the nearby Hagia Sophia into some nondescript doorway with their hamam sign over the top of the door. That’s all you got. The local coffee shop had more advertising bling. In fact we totally missed it the first time and walked right past it without noticing.

I say this because, as plain as the entry was, the inside was a teleporter back 500 years in the past. This Hamam, behind its plain Jane doorway, has functioned as a hamam for just over half a millennium! Let's call this a stable business model. It was historic, artistic, theraputic, and should have warranted more than the ho-hum “yeah whatever”. But I think maybe they’re so used to being around items and buildings and practices steeped deep in time that for them it’s just another link to antiquity. [yawn].

So after entering, you go upstairs to a small room with a small bed, bedside table, and lamp where you disrobe and drape on a towel to cover your hoo-ha. Sandals are placed out for you as well. Now you’re good, and on to the bath area, where the air in there is heavy and warm like a drowsy afternoon nap that pulls tension from your very skin before you even get to the main show of the hamam.

The central room has a high domed ceiling constructed by ancient hearts and hands that lived and loved and laughed over FIVE HUNDRED years ago. Did they know it would last? When they went home to their wives and their children, did they know it would stand and serve for half a millennium only to be commonplace for locals and provide awe for the Americans that they didn’t even know existed at the time?

The architects in the time of Ruben Rembrandt and Newton installed concentric openings in the ceiling above to create ambient light for 16th century visitors, Ottoman princes, astronomers … and me.

Below the enormous round marble slab centered beneath the well lit dome percolated the heated water that steamed the entire place. Marble should be cool to the touch, but this was so graciously warm to the back when you lay down upon it.

It was a siphon for stress, my eyes eased closed, the world went away.

After 15 minutes of this ambient peace, an older gentleman adorned with only a towel came out. He was thin, but the dude had some definition in his arms. I can only guess all that rippling came from doing this sort of thing probably since he was twelve.

Okay, so the layout of the room lets you know the workspace. The round marble slab of wonderfulness had a 3 foot wide surround of marble outside it, with a small gully for water to drain into, and then against the wall between ancient pillars were basins with water warmed by the temperature of the steamy room around us.

My person didn't speak English, so we had meaningful grunts and pantomimes to communicate. He waved for me to flip onto my stomach, then splashed me down, and took what amounts to a mitt made of a washcloth, and proceeded to rub my arms, my torso, my neck, my legs. #Note to self: there was no sandpaper, no Dremel tool, and no agonizing wails.

Afterwards, he gave me some handwaving and grunting to say [yo, flip over], followed by more of this rubbing on the other side. Long, even, patient, strokes, not too much pressure, but just enough to peal off thin rolls of dead skin from my limbs. He intoned some satisfied syllable and pointed at the rolls of epidermal fluff he’d liberated from my skins as if to say, look at this!

He walked over to the basin to get a pail of water, and with nary a grunt or even hand gestures to let me know it was coming, he doused me. I was drenched. I put my hand to my eyes to clear the water so I could at least see, opened my eyes, and there he was AGAIN, pail in hand, booosh. Doused again.

Then, out came the bubbles. Handwaving in earnest like I should have known this already, [hey yo, sit up].

Upright now on the warm marble slab, he started in on my head. This man washed my hair. No one has washed my hair since I was two. But once you relax into it, it was really nice. Weird, but okay! So he washed my hair, doused me again — which I was prepared for this time as I figured out that random dousings were just a thing here. He ran his hands through my hair to make sure it was all clean, then mimed for me to lay back down.

You feel completely taken care of. When does that happen?

With his soapy bubbly wash cloth, I got the bubbles but this time he added massage. With each stroke he buried his passing thumbs into the knotted up muscles of my lower back, my calves, my forearms, and my shoulders. I’m normally very much not a massage guy, but this sent me into some kind of spa coma, like some kitty sitting blinking the sunlight while getting rubbed by hands that made all their muscles go slack. If I hadn't been in a massage coma I would have seen the bucket o' water coming again. Booosh.

Me in my room for the “after” picture, having somehow survived a Turkish Bath Hamam.

At this point it didn't even matter. My towel was drenched. The marble slab was all wet. But I was the one who was a total puddle.

Escorted out into the next room, my person sat me on a marble seat and let me know to remove my shoes so he could scrub my feet. Yes, the dude scrubbed my feet, rinsed me, stood up and thanked ME. Seriously? I wanted to give him a hug right on the spot. He scrubbed my feet!

Then someone came with fresh towels for the shower that was next in this pleasure parade. Post-shower, I tried to leave, but they told me I had to sit. What, there’s more? They pulled out a pre-warmed dry towel and wrapped it tightly up and around my head. Then put another one around my shoulders and tucked it all in in some way that was completely magic and I cannot fathom. All I know was it was neat and tidy, and clearly some kind of towel origami.

Released back to my room, I was told to lie on the bed, lights off, and to do this until I wss ready to leave. I laid down, closed my eyes, and am honestly shocked that I'm not still there.

Re-clothed, washed, scrubbed, dried and newly shiny, I went down to meet Dottie and my host, but was told that I need some fresh squeezed pomegranate juice. And well, yeah, who the heck doesn't need a glass of pomegranate juice squeezed fresh right in front of them as an exclamation point to the most amazing experience ever?

So. Bottom line. The hamam is its own thing, and extends its weathered hardened hands across five centuries to sooth your thirsty skin. There was never any pain, 1lonly the feeling of being taken care of in a way I had not experience before.