Turkish Bath

Baths

Do you like massages?

Umm... sorry, I don't. But I couldn't pass up a hamam experience.

That was what a Turkish bath was called.  

A water immersion that was a hybrid of a sauna and a Roman bath with exfoliation and massage. 

In the Turkish resort city of Antalya, no less. I figured I'd never pass that way again, so why not?

I wanted to.

Me, please.

Spoiler alert: I had to be completely naked. Yikes! (Aside: Good for me, this happened when the last two of my three-digit weight hadn't jumped up to the teens and gravity hadn't taken that much of a toll yet on my twin hanging appendages.) 

As I sheepishly pushed open the door to the cooling down room, the first thing that hit me was the massive, circular marble room. I was briefly unbalanced and had to take a theatrical step backward. 

But not only that. 

There was a multitude of bare breasts. 

Like naiads from Greek mythology, women of all shapes and sizes were already leisurely dousing their naked body with water from numerous small alcoves around the perimeter of the room. 

Embarrassment crawled all over me like a rash.

Hoping that motionlessness was the first cousin to invisibility, I made myself as still as possible. I tried to concentrate. I felt simultaneously distant from everything around me, and acutely aware of the smallest thing.

Momentarily, a hooded person like an Old Testament prophet led me to a room completely covered in marble featuring a big dome, several basins and an impressive göbektaşı - the central, raised platform above the heating source.

The searing wave of heat and humidity made it hard to catch my breath. 

I ambled towards the marble slab, my feet shuffling like I were heading off to a sacrificial altar. I felt warmth rising in my face.

It was presided over by a sweaty, overweight woman wearing only a loose upper garment that wasn't quite a bra and a white loin cloth. She had big ears and a fat red face, jowls sagging like a dejected bulldog. She did, indeed, appear to have a flair for taking charge.

I sat pale and motionless as a statue in a British museum. She stared at me like she was trying to memorize my body. 

Our eyes locked. 

She took a couple of steps towards me, her hands on her hips, her expression all concerned like a teacher who was about to tell me how disappointed she was with my attitude in class.

Looking away first and gulping, I lay down prone and relinquished control. I let her scrub my body and lather me with a sudsy swab from head to toe.

As I got all slippery and wet, she hammered her fist in rhythm. The words, No pain, no gain flashed through my mind. Probably the reason why most masseurs were persons of few words but many pounds, as Michael Palin had put it nicely.

Surprisingly, her hand touching my arms, back, legs and all of me was so soft and floating she might as well have been a yellow monarch butterfly.

After fifteen or so minutes, her cheerful if distorted smile and air of self-satisfaction told me that I was done.

I received another soapy wash followed by a rinsing session with … cold water. I was out of breath.

I  headed for the showers in the intermediate room. 

Finally, in the relaxation room, I donned a white robe and combed my hair into obedience. An attendant carried over a long-billed brass kettle and poured a graceful arc of apple tea into my cup.

I took a tentative sip in sober solemnity. It washed down my dry throat. Its sweetish-tart taste was like the warmth of home. 

The easy chatter of rosy-cheeked women swelled and dipped gently like a benign sea around me. It was all so absurdly comfortable.

Like an afternoon with nothing to do but be idle.