If there was one thing I had to do while in Turkey, it was to take a bath. I was raised under a 'cleanliness is next to godliness' regime and in the ablutionary world there is no higher state of absolution than the full Turkish experience.
Just alongside an entrance to the Grand Bazaar on my way towards the Blue Mosque, I spied a sign engraved in marble, 'Enter Istanbul's Oldest Hamam, 1584'. It sounded like an imperial proclamation that was impossible to ignore, let alone refuse.
The receptionist was dressed in a tightly fitting, shiny olive coloured suit complete with waistcoat and fob chain. His front of house manner was such that he could just as easily have been running a pre-war provincial cinema or a betting shop close to a major racecourse. He explained the tariff structure to me in careful, practised English. I opted for the DIY wash out of a slight cautiousness. With a snap of his fingers he summoned one of his underlings to escort me to a first floor locker room up a twisted flight of wooden steps. 'Undress,' was the curt, unambiguous command from the disappearing minion.
I looked around guardedly. On the bench in my private, caged locker room was small gingham tea towel presumably designed to afford me some modesty in my journey towards the steam, heat and thudding sounds that emanated from the floor above me. I stripped off, slipped on a pair of blue plastic bath thongs and tried with limited success to use the tea towel for its fit and proper purpose.
I stepped out of my locker cage and turned to head upstairs. A large hand clamped itself on my shoulder and propelled me slightly faster in the direction I was already going. My borrowed thongs slid unsteadily across the uneven dark grey marble slabs underfoot. I was ushered into the magnificent central arched vault of the hamam still driven firmly from behind by my attendant. 'DIY,' he spat out the term like a curse. Then all of a sudden I was alone in an echoing chamber of smoke.
Looking up I could see the sunlight streaming in through half the tiny windows circling the inner rim of the dome. The central section of the dome itself had been punctured like a pepper pot with more vents creating brilliant shafts angling through the steam. Rising a foot above the floor of the bath vault was the huge circular 'belly stone' platform in a lighter shade of grey marble. I went to sit on its nearest edge and immediately leapt up scalded. From one of the private alcove wash stations set around the outer circumference of the room, I heard a throaty chuckle. As I became accustomed to the steamy haze, I realised that I was in fact not alone at all and that several fellow bathers were attending to their rituals sluicing themselves down using the fawcets set above marble basins in each of the surrounding alcoves.
One of these fellows emerged carrying a shallow metal tin plate full of water and splashed it hissing over the belly stone before flipping his tin over and settling it as a pillow under his head as he stretched out on the gleaming slab like a cat rolling on its back in the sun. I made my way to an alcove to begin some private and tentative ablutionary experiments of my own. My small roughly chopped cake of soap smelt of freshly cut lemons.
Step by step I began to get the hang of the DIY version of the splash, soap, lather and scrub routine that I saw being carried out by attendants on the more adventurous or accustomed bathers. My tea towel soon became a sodden scrap but still useful for insulating my buttocks from the sharp marble sting of the furniture. Slowly everything softened, relaxed, sweated and plumped up like a prune in hot water. It was easy to imagine the grittiness and stress of days of travelling washing away down the elaborate system of drains and gunnels criss-crossing the floor.
Super-saturated I dragged myself away from the quiet hiss and splash of the bath house and back in the direction from which I remembered entering. Not so fast. I was immediately apprehended by an attendant who looked as if he might well have done much of his earliest and best work in a high security penal establishment. Certainly his service philosophy seemed more shaped by Midnight Express than the Orient Express. This heavily moustachioed officer unceremoniously re-directed me towards the shower area, slapped open a tap and shoved me under the cold jet that emerged directly from a gouge in the tiles at head height. Gasping and clutching for my towel, I spluttered my thanks and stumbled towards the stair well.
As I approached the sanctuary of my locker, an unseen hand thrust a fresh white towel in front of me. It was soft, sweetly scented with lavender and with a deep, thickly luxurious pile that scoured my back and shoulders with the gentlest of rough caresses. I got dressed in a dream and headed out, cleansed, to face the purity of the Blue Mosque.
First,
talk to the receptionist (most of them speak English) and decide on the
level of treatment you want. DIY wash? Wash with attendant? Oil massage
with that? You’ll pay the receptionist and they’ll take you to a change
area, usually your own lockable room, where you’ll undress and leave
your things.
Read more:
http://www.lonelyplanet.com/turkey/travel-tips-and-articles/8585#ixzz2DiFoKN8C
First,
talk to the receptionist (most of them speak English) and decide on the
level of treatment you want. DIY wash? Wash with attendant? Oil massage
with that? You’ll pay the receptionist and they’ll take you to a change
area, usually your own lockable room, where you’ll undress and leave
your things.
Read more:
http://www.lonelyplanet.com/turkey/travel-tips-and-articles/8585#ixzz2DiFoKN8C
First,
talk to the receptionist (most of them speak English) and decide on the
level of treatment you want. DIY wash? Wash with attendant? Oil massage
with that? You’ll pay the receptionist and they’ll take you to a change
area, usually your own lockable room, where you’ll undress and leave
your things.
‘Undress’ means pretty much what you want it to mean. Most hamams
have separate steam rooms for men and women. In this situation, men are
expected to maintain a certain loin-clothy level of coverage, but women
can throw caution, as it were, to the winds. Most Turkish women subtly
drape themselves with their cloth when they’re not actually bathing, but
if you prefer to bask nude no-one will bat much of an eyelid. If you’re
feeling shy, part or all of a swimsuit is acceptable; if you find
yourself in the kind of hamam that has mixed-sex steam rooms and male
attendants, it’s usual to keep on at least the bottom half of a
swimsuit.
The attendants will give you a cloth (resembling, in most
establishments, an over-sized red gingham tea towel). You’ll keep this
on to travel from the change rooms to the hamam.
You’ll be given some shoes by your attendant – either traditional
wooden clogs or fluorescent flip-flops. Stick with ‘em. As a surface for
pratfalls, only banana skins beat out wet marble.
Once you’ve been shepherded into the hamam you’ll be left to lounge on the heated marble. In most cases, there’ll be a göbektaşı
(belly stone), a round central platform where you can loll around like a
sunning python. If not, take a seat and lean against the walls. The
idea is to sweat, loosening dirt and toxins in preparation for your
wash.
If you’re going self-service, follow this up with a loofah-and-soap
rub-down and douse yourself with water from the marble basins. If you’ve
forked out for an attendant, they’ll catch up with you after you’ve had
a good, 15-minute sweat. You’ll be laid down on the edge of the göbektaşı and sluiced with tepid water, then your attendant will take you in hand.
First up is a dry massage with a kese (rough mitt).
Depending on your attendant, this experience can be delicious (a little
like being washed by a giant cat) or tumultuous (picture a tornado made
of sandpaper). If you get to feeling like a flayed deer, use the
international language of charade to bring it down a notch or two.
Next will be the soap. The attendant will work up an almighty lather
with an enormous sponge and squeeze it all over you: it’s a bit like
taking a bubble bath without the bath. The foam (attar of roses? Asses’
milk? Sorry, it’s most likely good ole Head ‘n’ Shoulders) will be
worked into every inch of you. Next, more sluicing, followed by a
shampoo, and voila, you’re clean as a whistle. The shiny kind.
If you’ve ordered an oil massage, you’ll be ushered into another
room for it. Unless you’re particularly flush, it’s probably best to
skip this bit: the massages are brief and often lack finesse, and the
oils are hardly deluxe.
After the massage, either soap or oil, you’re on your own. Many
tourists splash-and-dash their way through the hamam experience, leaving
immediately after their treatment. Don’t be one of them. Hang around.
Overheat, cool down with a dousing, and repeat to fade. Let your muscles
turn to toffee and your mind go pleasantly elastic. This is what the
hamam is really all about.
Read more:
http://www.lonelyplanet.com/turkey/travel-tips-and-articles/8585#ixzz2DiFMlRQw
First,
talk to the receptionist (most of them speak English) and decide on the
level of treatment you want. DIY wash? Wash with attendant? Oil massage
with that? You’ll pay the receptionist and they’ll take you to a change
area, usually your own lockable room, where you’ll undress and leave
your things.
‘Undress’ means pretty much what you want it to mean. Most hamams
have separate steam rooms for men and women. In this situation, men are
expected to maintain a certain loin-clothy level of coverage, but women
can throw caution, as it were, to the winds. Most Turkish women subtly
drape themselves with their cloth when they’re not actually bathing, but
if you prefer to bask nude no-one will bat much of an eyelid. If you’re
feeling shy, part or all of a swimsuit is acceptable; if you find
yourself in the kind of hamam that has mixed-sex steam rooms and male
attendants, it’s usual to keep on at least the bottom half of a
swimsuit.
The attendants will give you a cloth (resembling, in most
establishments, an over-sized red gingham tea towel). You’ll keep this
on to travel from the change rooms to the hamam.
You’ll be given some shoes by your attendant – either traditional
wooden clogs or fluorescent flip-flops. Stick with ‘em. As a surface for
pratfalls, only banana skins beat out wet marble.
Once you’ve been shepherded into the hamam you’ll be left to lounge on the heated marble. In most cases, there’ll be a göbektaşı
(belly stone), a round central platform where you can loll around like a
sunning python. If not, take a seat and lean against the walls. The
idea is to sweat, loosening dirt and toxins in preparation for your
wash.
If you’re going self-service, follow this up with a loofah-and-soap
rub-down and douse yourself with water from the marble basins. If you’ve
forked out for an attendant, they’ll catch up with you after you’ve had
a good, 15-minute sweat. You’ll be laid down on the edge of the göbektaşı and sluiced with tepid water, then your attendant will take you in hand.
First up is a dry massage with a kese (rough mitt).
Depending on your attendant, this experience can be delicious (a little
like being washed by a giant cat) or tumultuous (picture a tornado made
of sandpaper). If you get to feeling like a flayed deer, use the
international language of charade to bring it down a notch or two.
Next will be the soap. The attendant will work up an almighty lather
with an enormous sponge and squeeze it all over you: it’s a bit like
taking a bubble bath without the bath. The foam (attar of roses? Asses’
milk? Sorry, it’s most likely good ole Head ‘n’ Shoulders) will be
worked into every inch of you. Next, more sluicing, followed by a
shampoo, and voila, you’re clean as a whistle. The shiny kind.
If you’ve ordered an oil massage, you’ll be ushered into another
room for it. Unless you’re particularly flush, it’s probably best to
skip this bit: the massages are brief and often lack finesse, and the
oils are hardly deluxe.
After the massage, either soap or oil, you’re on your own. Many
tourists splash-and-dash their way through the hamam experience, leaving
immediately after their treatment. Don’t be one of them. Hang around.
Overheat, cool down with a dousing, and repeat to fade. Let your muscles
turn to toffee and your mind go pleasantly elastic. This is what the
hamam is really all about.
Read more:
http://www.lonelyplanet.com/turkey/travel-tips-and-articles/8585#ixzz2DiFMlRQw
First,
talk to the receptionist (most of them speak English) and decide on the
level of treatment you want. DIY wash? Wash with attendant? Oil massage
with that? You’ll pay the receptionist and they’ll take you to a change
area, usually your own lockable room, where you’ll undress and leave
your things.
‘Undress’ means pretty much what you want it to mean. Most hamams
have separate steam rooms for men and women. In this situation, men are
expected to maintain a certain loin-clothy level of coverage, but women
can throw caution, as it were, to the winds. Most Turkish women subtly
drape themselves with their cloth when they’re not actually bathing, but
if you prefer to bask nude no-one will bat much of an eyelid. If you’re
feeling shy, part or all of a swimsuit is acceptable; if you find
yourself in the kind of hamam that has mixed-sex steam rooms and male
attendants, it’s usual to keep on at least the bottom half of a
swimsuit.
The attendants will give you a cloth (resembling, in most
establishments, an over-sized red gingham tea towel). You’ll keep this
on to travel from the change rooms to the hamam.
You’ll be given some shoes by your attendant – either traditional
wooden clogs or fluorescent flip-flops. Stick with ‘em. As a surface for
pratfalls, only banana skins beat out wet marble.
Once you’ve been shepherded into the hamam you’ll be left to lounge on the heated marble. In most cases, there’ll be a göbektaşı
(belly stone), a round central platform where you can loll around like a
sunning python. If not, take a seat and lean against the walls. The
idea is to sweat, loosening dirt and toxins in preparation for your
wash.
If you’re going self-service, follow this up with a loofah-and-soap
rub-down and douse yourself with water from the marble basins. If you’ve
forked out for an attendant, they’ll catch up with you after you’ve had
a good, 15-minute sweat. You’ll be laid down on the edge of the göbektaşı and sluiced with tepid water, then your attendant will take you in hand.
First up is a dry massage with a kese (rough mitt).
Depending on your attendant, this experience can be delicious (a little
like being washed by a giant cat) or tumultuous (picture a tornado made
of sandpaper). If you get to feeling like a flayed deer, use the
international language of charade to bring it down a notch or two.
Next will be the soap. The attendant will work up an almighty lather
with an enormous sponge and squeeze it all over you: it’s a bit like
taking a bubble bath without the bath. The foam (attar of roses? Asses’
milk? Sorry, it’s most likely good ole Head ‘n’ Shoulders) will be
worked into every inch of you. Next, more sluicing, followed by a
shampoo, and voila, you’re clean as a whistle. The shiny kind.
If you’ve ordered an oil massage, you’ll be ushered into another
room for it. Unless you’re particularly flush, it’s probably best to
skip this bit: the massages are brief and often lack finesse, and the
oils are hardly deluxe.
After the massage, either soap or oil, you’re on your own. Many
tourists splash-and-dash their way through the hamam experience, leaving
immediately after their treatment. Don’t be one of them. Hang around.
Overheat, cool down with a dousing, and repeat to fade. Let your muscles
turn to toffee and your mind go pleasantly elastic. This is what the
hamam is really all about.
Read more:
http://www.lonelyplanet.com/turkey/travel-tips-and-articles/8585#ixzz2DiFMlRQw
First,
talk to the receptionist (most of them speak English) and decide on the
level of treatment you want. DIY wash? Wash with attendant? Oil massage
with that? You’ll pay the receptionist and they’ll take you to a change
area, usually your own lockable room, where you’ll undress and leave
your things.
‘Undress’ means pretty much what you want it to mean. Most hamams
have separate steam rooms for men and women. In this situation, men are
expected to maintain a certain loin-clothy level of coverage, but women
can throw caution, as it were, to the winds. Most Turkish women subtly
drape themselves with their cloth when they’re not actually bathing, but
if you prefer to bask nude no-one will bat much of an eyelid. If you’re
feeling shy, part or all of a swimsuit is acceptable; if you find
yourself in the kind of hamam that has mixed-sex steam rooms and male
attendants, it’s usual to keep on at least the bottom half of a
swimsuit.
The attendants will give you a cloth (resembling, in most
establishments, an over-sized red gingham tea towel). You’ll keep this
on to travel from the change rooms to the hamam.
You’ll be given some shoes by your attendant – either traditional
wooden clogs or fluorescent flip-flops. Stick with ‘em. As a surface for
pratfalls, only banana skins beat out wet marble.
Once you’ve been shepherded into the hamam you’ll be left to lounge on the heated marble. In most cases, there’ll be a göbektaşı
(belly stone), a round central platform where you can loll around like a
sunning python. If not, take a seat and lean against the walls. The
idea is to sweat, loosening dirt and toxins in preparation for your
wash.
If you’re going self-service, follow this up with a loofah-and-soap
rub-down and douse yourself with water from the marble basins. If you’ve
forked out for an attendant, they’ll catch up with you after you’ve had
a good, 15-minute sweat. You’ll be laid down on the edge of the göbektaşı and sluiced with tepid water, then your attendant will take you in hand.
First up is a dry massage with a kese (rough mitt).
Depending on your attendant, this experience can be delicious (a little
like being washed by a giant cat) or tumultuous (picture a tornado made
of sandpaper). If you get to feeling like a flayed deer, use the
international language of charade to bring it down a notch or two.
Next will be the soap. The attendant will work up an almighty lather
with an enormous sponge and squeeze it all over you: it’s a bit like
taking a bubble bath without the bath. The foam (attar of roses? Asses’
milk? Sorry, it’s most likely good ole Head ‘n’ Shoulders) will be
worked into every inch of you. Next, more sluicing, followed by a
shampoo, and voila, you’re clean as a whistle. The shiny kind.
If you’ve ordered an oil massage, you’ll be ushered into another
room for it. Unless you’re particularly flush, it’s probably best to
skip this bit: the massages are brief and often lack finesse, and the
oils are hardly deluxe.
After the massage, either soap or oil, you’re on your own. Many
tourists splash-and-dash their way through the hamam experience, leaving
immediately after their treatment. Don’t be one of them. Hang around.
Overheat, cool down with a dousing, and repeat to fade. Let your muscles
turn to toffee and your mind go pleasantly elastic. This is what the
hamam is really all about.
Read more:
http://www.lonelyplanet.com/turkey/travel-tips-and-articles/8585#ixzz2DiFMlRQw
