Soaking it up

Recently I had the privilege of going to a hamam, or Turkish bath, with some of my fellow Fulbrighters. There is a cafe in the Bachelievler neighborhood (where the hotel is) called Chadır Cafe, and some intrepid members of our band managed to befriend the owner through bumbling, pantomime, and trading a Turkish/English dictionary back and forth. After spending hours there and adding some people to the group including yours truly, we had formed a bond that led to him invite us back to the cafe to watch the big futbol game (Beşiktaş v. Fenerbache) that evening. We did, and after the game he had tea with lemon with us and chatted about America, English, and a tiny bit of politics. We somehow mentioned that we wanted to go to the hamam, and his eyes lit up and, knowing the best one of course, he offered to take us the next day at 6:30PM, after our classes.

So six thirty arrived and 9 of us (4 guys, 5 girls) headed over to the cafe. The owner decided to drive the ladies and make the guys follow us in a cab. On the way, we were treated to Turkish driving the likes of which I have yet to see (I love the way they drive here...), and eventually started spiraling down in a parking garage. One girl has studied Turkish extensively, so she functioned as our translator and ambassador, and I was able to understand bits of the conversation myself. This is relevant because as we entered the parking garage, he started to "joke" that he was kidnapping us, that we couldn't get cell phone reception underground, and have we ever seen movies like this? I eeked out a half-joking Turkish phrase, "My father doesn't have any money!" Luckily, it soon appeared, three stories underground- a real Turkish hamam.

After he fetched the boys from the surface world we each entered our respective gender's half of the bath. After gesticulating and translating, we were led to small changing rooms. For women, typically wearing your underwear (just bottoms) is de rigueur in hamams, although some women wear swimsuit bottoms- it's your preference (or whatever you have). After undressing, you wrap yourself in a thin towel and head to a large bath room with many spigots and basins. You douse yourself with water in this steamy, incredibly hot main room and more often than not socialize with the other women present (if you speak their language, of course). You may also find a future mother-in-law in this way, but that is less common these days.

After this, you move into a sauna to really open your pores. Once you cannot take the heat of the sauna any longer, you are led to a large marble slab and the best parts begin. A woman uses a kese to scrub you to the utmost, sloughing off more dead skin and grime than you thought your body could ever possibly contain. After your whole body is rigorously scrubbed, you rinse. At this point one can choose to have a massage or other services, or to to lather and leave. For us, we opted to have both a Turkish coffee massage AND a bubble massage, what with Fulbright moneys burning holes in all our pockets.

Coffee massage. Just think about this. I am in a country where people spend part of their lives more or less BATHING in coffee. The masseuse rubs a mixture of seltzer water and coffee grounds into your freshly exfoliated skin, including on your face and neck. If you know me, you also know that this is quite possibly my favorite experience ever. I think that this massage alone made me smarter, faster, better at sports, cured me of all known diseases, and cleansed my heart of all prejudices and anger. I only exaggerate slightly.

This is followed by the soapy massage which included some stretching the legs and wrist and arms, and a shampooing that made me think I was drowning, and then a rinse and ta-da, I had been to a hamam. At some point the woman doing all this to me introduced herself, and when I responded "I'm Emily, nice to meet you" in Turkish, she said "Ooooo!" and gave me a soapy kiss on both cheeks, as is customary between Turkish friends (minus the soap). The whole thing feels great, and your skin is the softest it could conceivably be afterward.

After all this pampering, we paid the ludicrously low price of 25 TL (30 with tip). The women masseuses donned their headscarves and trench coats, becoming very agitated that our wet hair would make us catch cold in the 80F Ankara evening. We left the hamam glowing and got back into the car that had brought us, the gentlemen having finished with their hamam experience as well. We headed back to the cafe, talked about American pop music a little, had another meal there and more tea, and after a few games of backgammon we eventually came back to the hotel with a good story and good feelings.