Where the Real Turks Go
Where the Real Turks Go For InStyle Magazine CZ (Wellness Column) June 2009 By Laura Baranik I’m not exactly a regular spa-goer; I lack the time, money, and patience to sit in hot rooms for hours on end in service of my own stress relief. But I’ve been to enough pamper palaces to know that most spas come with a certain atmosphere: dimmed lights, a soothing soundtrack of birds and pan-flutes, fluffy robes and cozy slippers. It was clear from my introduction to Sultanahmet Hamami’s receptionist that my visit to one of the oldest spas in Istanbul was going to be a little different. He was a toothless Turkish man, seated on the street outside the hamami on a plastic chair. "You go hot room, you wash," he explained, gesticulating with a hand-rolled cigarette. "You lie hot stone, scrub skin. Very nice, you forget all problem. You take massage, very nice, forget all problem. In end, you very relax. We give special Turkish apple tea. You drink –" and here he rolled his eyes up to the back of his head and grabbed the top of the chair as if for support "— you very relax. Forget all problem." He didn't need to work so hard to convince us. My friend Mark and I had been looking for the Sultanahmet Hamami for forty-five minutes up and down the hot streets of Istanbul's Old Town. Nobody seemed to know where this particular Turkish bath was; everyone pointed us towards Cagaloglu, the most famous of the old baths – and also the most touristy, according to our Turkish friend, Ali. "Go where real Turkish people go," he had told us. We paid the 60 TL (700 CZK) each for the Royal Treatment – bath/scrub/massage – and our host ushered us into the common area, a large room with marble floors, dingy furniture, and an upper-level balcony that ran around the room's perimeter. Both levels had rows of closely-set doors inlaid with patterned glass. Behind those doors were our changing cabins, narrow little rooms containing a bare bed, a mirror, and several pairs of fluorescent plastic slippers. I took off all my clothes and wrapped myself in the pestemal I'd been given – a thin, red gingham cotton
towel with a fringe on either end. When I left, I locked the door behind me and slid the frayed rubber band with the key attached onto my wrist. I was back in the common area, and Mark was nowhere to be seen. A couple of men were relaxing on chairs post-bath, their bare bellies seeping over the little towels that covered their nether regions. They looked me up and down as they sipped their tea. My pestemal suddenly felt very short. Then I was approached by a skinny young woman in a tracksuit with deep rings around her eyes. "Come," she said. Perhaps because of the way she was dressed, or because she was so young and small, or because she was carrying a mop, I realized only later that she was going to be my tellak (masseuse). I'd been expecting a woman the size of a house, with a rough demeanor and bushels of hair sprouting from under her arms. After a quick trip to the toilet (Turkish-style, of course, but at least the pestemal made it easy to squat over the hole), the mop lady led me through a tiny door, down a couple of hallways, and into a hot, wet room lined with stone sinks. She turned on one of the faucets, then motioned for me to take a seat next to the sink on top of my towel. "Sit." She grabbed a little plastic basin and pressed it into my hand. "Wash, wash, wash." She left the room. I took the basin and dipped it into the sink, which was quickly filling up with hot water. I poured the hot water over my legs, torso, arms, and head, then did it again. This is nice, I thought. I was sitting in a bath that had been there since the 18th century, staring up at a cupola pierced with glass squares to let the daylight shine through. Pretty mosaic tiles decorated the wall above the sink. In the old days, this room would probably have been full of chattering women. Now I was here alone, with nothing but the echo of dripping water and the sound of my tellak singing to herself as she worked with her mop outside. I was indeed becoming very relaxed. But after I'd been there for what felt like an hour, I started to feel anxious again. I had washed until my fingertips were wrinkled. How long was I supposed to hang out here for? Should I go get somebody? And what was all that mold doing on the walls? Now, I'm not too much of a germophobe, but something about the proximity of my intimate areas to the wet marble step was making me a little nervous. Wouldn't this be a ripe place for bacteria to grow? What about foot funguses or, God forbid, STIs?
Before I could worry any more about hamami hygiene, the mop lady reappeared. I hadn't heard her coming, so she terrified me, and I jumped straight off my pestemal. She was now naked except for a baggy pair of white cotton underwear. I hoped she didn’t think I was afraid of her nipples. We went to another room, where my tellak instructed me to spread myself on a slab of marble. She pulled on a rough sort of mitten and proceeded to scrub my entire body with it – a therapeutic procedure best described as a cross between an invigorating massage and a close encounter with sandpaper. As she attacked my left arm, I looked down at myself. I was covered in gray clumps: dead skin cells? Dirt? Whatever it was, it was gross, and it was leaving my body. Woo-hoo! Once my skin was as fresh and pink as a newborn piglet’s, I was ready for the best part. The tellak dipped a tube-shaped piece of fabric into a sink full of soapy water, shook it around a few times, and squeezed a huge cloud of foam on top of me. Ahhh… this was like a bubble bath, but better. It was like being consumed by a bubble bath. After she had used the lather to wash my body up and down and given me a quick, soapy massage, my tellak sat me up and washed my hair. The sting of the shampoo running over my eyes reminded me of my mother giving me baths when I was little. I felt even more childlike when, having led me back to the steam room to rinse myself off, she wrapped my hair and body in two dry pestemels and rubbed me down to make sure I was dry. Back in the common area, I sat down next to Mark, who looked as serene as I felt. We sipped our hot apple tea in silence, and I thought about how clean I was now, and how soft my skin must be, and the Turkish soap opera playing on the tiny black-andwhite TV in the room next door. It was only later on, as were winding back home through the crowds of tourists, that I realized. That day, for just a little while, I really had forgotten all of my problems.
towel with a fringe on either end. When I left, I locked the door behind me and slid the frayed rubber band with the key attached onto my wrist. I was back in the common area, and Mark was nowhere to be seen. A couple of men were relaxing on chairs post-bath, their bare bellies seeping over the little towels that covered their nether regions. They looked me up and down as they sipped their tea. My pestemal suddenly felt very short. Then I was approached by a skinny young woman in a tracksuit with deep rings around her eyes. "Come," she said. Perhaps because of the way she was dressed, or because she was so young and small, or because she was carrying a mop, I realized only later that she was going to be my tellak (masseuse). I'd been expecting a woman the size of a house, with a rough demeanor and bushels of hair sprouting from under her arms. After a quick trip to the toilet (Turkish-style, of course, but at least the pestemal made it easy to squat over the hole), the mop lady led me through a tiny door, down a couple of hallways, and into a hot, wet room lined with stone sinks. She turned on one of the faucets, then motioned for me to take a seat next to the sink on top of my towel. "Sit." She grabbed a little plastic basin and pressed it into my hand. "Wash, wash, wash." She left the room. I took the basin and dipped it into the sink, which was quickly filling up with hot water. I poured the hot water over my legs, torso, arms, and head, then did it again. This is nice, I thought. I was sitting in a bath that had been there since the 18th century, staring up at a cupola pierced with glass squares to let the daylight shine through. Pretty mosaic tiles decorated the wall above the sink. In the old days, this room would probably have been full of chattering women. Now I was here alone, with nothing but the echo of dripping water and the sound of my tellak singing to herself as she worked with her mop outside. I was indeed becoming very relaxed. But after I'd been there for what felt like an hour, I started to feel anxious again. I had washed until my fingertips were wrinkled. How long was I supposed to hang out here for? Should I go get somebody? And what was all that mold doing on the walls? Now, I'm not too much of a germophobe, but something about the proximity of my intimate areas to the wet marble step was making me a little nervous. Wouldn't this be a ripe place for bacteria to grow? What about foot funguses or, God forbid, STIs?
Before I could worry any more about hamami hygiene, the mop lady reappeared. I hadn't heard her coming, so she terrified me, and I jumped straight off my pestemal. She was now naked except for a baggy pair of white cotton underwear. I hoped she didn’t think I was afraid of her nipples. We went to another room, where my tellak instructed me to spread myself on a slab of marble. She pulled on a rough sort of mitten and proceeded to scrub my entire body with it – a therapeutic procedure best described as a cross between an invigorating massage and a close encounter with sandpaper. As she attacked my left arm, I looked down at myself. I was covered in gray clumps: dead skin cells? Dirt? Whatever it was, it was gross, and it was leaving my body. Woo-hoo! Once my skin was as fresh and pink as a newborn piglet’s, I was ready for the best part. The tellak dipped a tube-shaped piece of fabric into a sink full of soapy water, shook it around a few times, and squeezed a huge cloud of foam on top of me. Ahhh… this was like a bubble bath, but better. It was like being consumed by a bubble bath. After she had used the lather to wash my body up and down and given me a quick, soapy massage, my tellak sat me up and washed my hair. The sting of the shampoo running over my eyes reminded me of my mother giving me baths when I was little. I felt even more childlike when, having led me back to the steam room to rinse myself off, she wrapped my hair and body in two dry pestemels and rubbed me down to make sure I was dry. Back in the common area, I sat down next to Mark, who looked as serene as I felt. We sipped our hot apple tea in silence, and I thought about how clean I was now, and how soft my skin must be, and the Turkish soap opera playing on the tiny black-andwhite TV in the room next door. It was only later on, as were winding back home through the crowds of tourists, that I realized. That day, for just a little while, I really had forgotten all of my problems.
