stubborn burn
marks. She pointed down at my legs. Little black balls of dirt gathered like a strange rash. She nodded approvingly, wanting
me to acknowledge the efficacy of her treatment or just how dirty I had been. I bowed my bead appreciatively and said a tea-sugar
thank-you. (Kemal told me that if you say 'tea-sugar' really fast, it comes out sounding like Turkish for 'thank you': tesekk ü r.) My amateur effort produced an amused look of comprehension.
It's a strange relationship between hamam lady and her client. I was not a regular and I didn't speak her language, so we
couldn't swap baklava recipes or beauty secrets. Her large, deep-set eyes reminded me of green olives. The stretch marks on
her stomach told the story of a large family. The scouring continued up my body. She took my right hand, and in order to stretch
out my arm for easier scrubbing, she placed my hand on the top of her left breast with as little ceremony as if handing me
a towel. What if I squeezed her breast by accident? How embarrassing.
She marched over to the kurna and refilled her bowl, returning to soap me with long, deep strokes of the washcloth. It no longer seemed strange that she
scrubbed and massaged me under my armpits, behind my ears, between my breasts, and everywhere you'd think only to wash yourself
in a windowless room. Turkish women, I'd heard from other travelers, think nothing of performing the most intimate ablutions
in public, whereas Turkish men never even remove their pestamals inside the stcakhk. Nermin tapped me twice on the hip - hamam sign language for turn over - and she scrubbed my backside with similar devotion.
'Marina, this is all clean, right?' I asked, lifting my head off the marble. 'They change washcloths after every person?'
'You can't think about that,' said Marina. 'When you eat at a restaurant, do you think about what's going on back in the kitchen?'
Actually, I did.
I kept my eyes shut and gave myself over to the sensation of being soapy and slippery on warm marble. This is how pastry dough
must feel as the rolling pin stretches it out on the baker's marble surface.
Nermin took my hand and guided me over to a kurna. She desudsed me with bucket after bucket of water. Then she shampooed my hair. She massaged my scalp, she pressed on my temples.
I was melting. When she finally succeeded in removing all of the soap from my hair, she put her fingers on my eyes and pushed
away the water so I could see. 'Rest now,' she said, and left me to find her next client.
'Tesekk ü r ederim/ I yelled weakly and gratefully after her. The göbektasi was too crowded to take up our own post, so Marina and I returned to the kurna and leaned our rosy, scoured bodies against the wall.
'How long did that last?' I wondered.
'I don't know, maybe ten minutes, maybe half an hour. I feel rubbery and relaxed.'
'It's so different from an American spa, where something happens to you for a prescribed amount of time. That kese scrub and being in this dreamy, surreal room feels like . . . an unfolding process . . . like an experience that gets richer
the longer you let it work on you. Not to mention the theatrics,' I said, thinking of the ongoing yells between the hamam
ladies and the aggressive apple tea lady pushing her wares.
'I love the theatrics,' agreed Marina. 'Our hamam should be like a Fellini movie, a constantly changing cast of characters;
show up on any given day and you might find a cellist playing Stravinsky in the steamroom or someone pushing through a tray
of raspberry sherbet.'
'That's a brilliant idea. We could play silent movies along the walls one day, offer henna treatments the next. No two days
at our hamam will ever be the same,' I said with a sudden burst of optimism that faded instantly. One minute the world seemed
like our own tray of oysters on the half-shell, and the next moment our dreams seemed fenced off by insurmountable boundaries
called money, connections,
marks. She pointed down at my legs. Little black balls of dirt gathered like a strange rash. She nodded approvingly, wanting
me to acknowledge the efficacy of her treatment or just how dirty I had been. I bowed my bead appreciatively and said a tea-sugar
thank-you. (Kemal told me that if you say 'tea-sugar' really fast, it comes out sounding like Turkish for 'thank you': tesekk ü r.) My amateur effort produced an amused look of comprehension.
It's a strange relationship between hamam lady and her client. I was not a regular and I didn't speak her language, so we
couldn't swap baklava recipes or beauty secrets. Her large, deep-set eyes reminded me of green olives. The stretch marks on
her stomach told the story of a large family. The scouring continued up my body. She took my right hand, and in order to stretch
out my arm for easier scrubbing, she placed my hand on the top of her left breast with as little ceremony as if handing me
a towel. What if I squeezed her breast by accident? How embarrassing.
She marched over to the kurna and refilled her bowl, returning to soap me with long, deep strokes of the washcloth. It no longer seemed strange that she
scrubbed and massaged me under my armpits, behind my ears, between my breasts, and everywhere you'd think only to wash yourself
in a windowless room. Turkish women, I'd heard from other travelers, think nothing of performing the most intimate ablutions
in public, whereas Turkish men never even remove their pestamals inside the stcakhk. Nermin tapped me twice on the hip - hamam sign language for turn over - and she scrubbed my backside with similar devotion.
'Marina, this is all clean, right?' I asked, lifting my head off the marble. 'They change washcloths after every person?'
'You can't think about that,' said Marina. 'When you eat at a restaurant, do you think about what's going on back in the kitchen?'
Actually, I did.
I kept my eyes shut and gave myself over to the sensation of being soapy and slippery on warm marble. This is how pastry dough
must feel as the rolling pin stretches it out on the baker's marble surface.
Nermin took my hand and guided me over to a kurna. She desudsed me with bucket after bucket of water. Then she shampooed my hair. She massaged my scalp, she pressed on my temples.
I was melting. When she finally succeeded in removing all of the soap from my hair, she put her fingers on my eyes and pushed
away the water so I could see. 'Rest now,' she said, and left me to find her next client.
'Tesekk ü r ederim/ I yelled weakly and gratefully after her. The göbektasi was too crowded to take up our own post, so Marina and I returned to the kurna and leaned our rosy, scoured bodies against the wall.
'How long did that last?' I wondered.
'I don't know, maybe ten minutes, maybe half an hour. I feel rubbery and relaxed.'
'It's so different from an American spa, where something happens to you for a prescribed amount of time. That kese scrub and being in this dreamy, surreal room feels like . . . an unfolding process . . . like an experience that gets richer
the longer you let it work on you. Not to mention the theatrics,' I said, thinking of the ongoing yells between the hamam
ladies and the aggressive apple tea lady pushing her wares.
'I love the theatrics,' agreed Marina. 'Our hamam should be like a Fellini movie, a constantly changing cast of characters;
show up on any given day and you might find a cellist playing Stravinsky in the steamroom or someone pushing through a tray
of raspberry sherbet.'
'That's a brilliant idea. We could play silent movies along the walls one day, offer henna treatments the next. No two days
at our hamam will ever be the same,' I said with a sudden burst of optimism that faded instantly. One minute the world seemed
like our own tray of oysters on the half-shell, and the next moment our dreams seemed fenced off by insurmountable boundaries
called money, connections,
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