The Turkish Bath

My four adventurous American comrades and I made haste to keep up with the brisk Turkish gentlemen. When the idea surfaced in the hotel lobby over tea, these two natives took it upon themselves to lead us naive foreigners to the nearest Hamam. The usually spacious streets of Kars slowly accumulated bodies in search for an eventful Saturday night. A biting Fall breeze swept through the streets forcing me to button my warm flannel to the very top. With each stride, unsettling thoughts of the possibilities in store hung in a damp weight above our heads. Would we make fools of ourselves here? Do foreigners visit Turkish Baths? Will I contract some grizzly fungus due to unsanitary conditions? These collective thoughts bounced around as we continued to follow the Turks around each corner toward our possible demise.

The younger gentleman turned and gave a lopsided smile. He motioned toward a door and we entered an oddly florescent establishment. Two older men, one dressed in a kind cardigan and the other entirely naked save for the small towel wrapped about his midriff and groin, welcomed us enthusiastically. The men we came with negotiated a reasonable price of 100 TL for the five of us. They wished us luck and we quickly thanked them, our eyes revealing our blatant insecurity. The nearly naked man took our valuables, deposited them in a small drawer and gave the key to one of us. The other man beckoned us to the undressing rooms and we swiftly removed our armor. With but a small sequined cloth as protection, we made our way downstairs.

Immediately the air became humid as gentle slips of steam emerged from beneath the door. I pushed it open and we made our way into a large, steamy room plated in tile and dampness. Three impossibly hairy men gawked at us then snickered to themselves. Apparently our awkwardly draped cloths and incredulous expressions were a sight to behold. A gangly, mustachioed man lying on the center tile-spread had so much hair on his shoulders that I literally thought he was wearing shoulder pads. We made our way to our individual bathing rooms and hung our towels. Now entirely naked, I stared down at two metal sprockets and a small plastic cup. With no other option, I filled the cup with warm water and repeatedly drenched myself. After about 15 cup loads, I felt refreshed. I turned off the water and made my way back out to the main room to rendezvous at the center tile with the other Americans. An overly affable man took advantage of the opportunity to chat with some foreigners and the six of us made our way to the sauna. My skin's residual wetness quickly disappeared in this dimly lit heater- filled room. As we deployed our horrendous Turkish in an attempt to chat with the local, we laughed together. With the cleansing heat and fresh rinse, we finally started to feel comfortable.

Our new acquaintance told us the best was yet to come. Sure enough, we made our way from the sauna and beheld the Turkish massage. We sat on the center tile column engrossed at the sight of a man karate chopping the bejesus out of another soul. As we stared, another hairier-than-humanly-possible man emerged from the steam to offer us each a lemon zesty beverage. We thanked him and quenched our thirst. Finally the masseur beckoned his first American victim over. We jeered at Drew and he commenced his massage.

When it was my turn, I enthusiastically jumped on to the tile centerpiece and lay prostrate, completely vulnerable. Apparently my genitals slipped from the towel because the masseur laughed and tugged my soaking cloth farther down. He began the massage with a sandpaper-esque scrubber that removed all my dead skin. This being my first massage of this sort, I had quite a bit of flesh to part with. He then massaged out my kinks, cracking parts of my spine simply by pinching them. He repeatedly left his massage post to grab particular props, my favorite being the sack of soap that he shot all over my body, immersing me in a cloud of bubbles that got all up in my grill and nasal cavity. He sat me up and ran his  muscular fingers through my soaking locks with his less than satisfactory shampoo product. My eyes sealed shut at this point due to the excessive soap pervading my being, the man left me again. I heard his footsteps returning and my friends warned, "Brace yourself!" a tad too late. A wall of the coldest water imaginable struck my soapy face. I screamed like a little girl and every man in the Hamam squealed with laughter. I jokingly scolded the masseur and he made it up to me with a gentle splash of warm water. He inspected his handiwork and with a little smirk, remarked, "Bootiful!"

I rinsed myself, waited for the others to have their massage and we headed back upstairs. The nearly naked ned from the entrance greeted us with towels and wrapped us up like a pack of Sultans. We felt like new men. We had conquered the Turkish bath and lived to tell the tale. An air of accomplishment now embracing us, we offered the a rarely expected tip and made our way back into the cool night.