Sunday in Instanbul

On Sunday, we had planned to take our Turkish baths. First, we had to make our travel arrangements though. Rob was headed back to Sofia and I needed to go to Selcuk. We got directions to the bus station to buy tickets. On our way there, we saw a group of youths and young men carrying huge Turkish flags and chanting. I jokingly said, "I wholly endorse whatever they’re protesting". Rob said "what if they’re protesting about bringing back the burka for Turkish women?" "Oh, never thought of that". Almost all the people in the crowd were wearing red shirts. I also was wearing a red tshirt, so I did sort of blend in. Following them were police officers in riot gear.

(I found out later the reason for the protest. Apparently, two young Kurdish boys were playing with a Turkish flag and accidentally set it on fire. These people were protesting how Kurdish people were degrading the Turkish flag, even though those involved were children under the age of six years old.)

Coming back to the hotel, we had just enough time to grab our bags and head to the bath. I was uncomfortable at paying 53 lira for a bath ($50 CAD) but it was one of the few co-ed baths in Istanbul. It was also a historical building and was used as the personal hammam of the sultan Sulieyaman. Well, you can’t beat that, can you? So I handed over my money and was led with Rob upstairs to the changing room.

Apparently, Turkish baths are sacred and the sexes are never mixed. I’m sure the staff thought of me as the whore of Babylon. Not only was I taking a bath with Rob but we were using the same changing room! (insert gasps of horror). The attendant handed us towels and wooden flip flops and led us into the bath.

Having never been to a Turkish bath, I had no idea what to expect. Imagine a large room made completely out of marble. In each of the corners were smaller, personal rooms with masseuses (1-2 per room). In the middle was a large marble slab with people "baking" themselves (who reminded me of lizards in a pet store aquarium). Each of the walls had a basin filled with water with taps for warm and cool water and a bowl.

Rob was wearing bathing suit trunks (bought on location at the market) while I was wearing a bikini. We each had our towels wrapped around our torsos. As the centre slab was full, we sat again the wall. The marble was warm. Rob got a bowlful of water and dumped it on himself. When two of the people in the middle were called in the rooms for the private baths, we grabbed their spots.

The rock was warm but not hot. I thought the room would have been hotter. It was pleasant but not like a sauna. I was sweating a little but was soon soaked from the water I dumped on myself.
Finally, it was our turn for a massage. I thought we would be together but we were ordered into different rooms. I was disappointed, until I realised that I would be in Sulieyaman’s private massage room. Happy Karla.

The room was a good size, with two stone massage tables, a faucet and a bathtub-like object that I didn’t get close enough to investigate. My masseuse was a small, sinewy guy with bad teeth and a goatee who spoke almost no English. He ordered me to sit down while he scrubbed my entire body with a loofah. I heard that no matter how clean you think you are, you can never believe the amount of dirt that comes off of you. I was no exception. Soon, I was covered in bits of rolled up, grey dead skin. I probably lost a couple of pounds right there. My masseuse told me to bend over while he unclasped by bikini top. I was so not expecting that, and I hurriedly grabbed my towel for some chest modesty. I know he sees girls’ chests every hour, but I’m prudish. He laughed at my modesty, but I wouldn’t budge and release the towel. He ordered me to the table to finish scrubbing my back and give me my massage.

I’ve never had a proper massage before so I didn’t know what to expect. Friends’ backrubs don’t count. Oh, and have I mentioned I’m extremely ticklish? Because I am. It’s almost a medical condition, one my friends (and non-friends) enjoy exploiting. He starts working on my back, which causes me to jump. He laughs. He massages my sides, which makes me start giggling like a maniac. He thinks this is hilarious and goes to town, meanwhile I’m begging him to stop. My laughter is echoing off the walls and I’m sure the other customers think I’m being violated.

He pulls out a gigantic cloth bag filled with…soapsuds? He plops it on my back and it’s one of the most delicious sensations in the world. He soaps me up and starts massaging me again. Only problem is that the soapsuds are slick and soon I’m sliding back and forth across the table. I narrowly miss smashing my face into the marble wall. Meanwhile, my masseuse is cackling like a maniac. I’m begging him to stop, so he starts to wash my feet.

I hate people touching my feet and I don’t understand why anyone would want to touch someone else’s feet. My feet are also very ticklish. He’s washing between my toes and I’m trying not to laugh when I can’t help it: I start to giggle. He pins me down and starts tickling my feet in earnest. I’m shrieking and once again begging him to stop. While I’m enjoying this experience for comic relief, I can’t relax enough to enjoy the massage.

Finally, he washes my hair, dumps bowl after bowl of frigid water on me, and then sends me to the "recovery room" where Rob is waiting. Turns out I got the deluxe edition, as he only got soaped up. No massage for him. I can’t decide who got the better deal. An attendant in traditional Turkish dress handed us clean dry towels and wrapped towels around our heads. We went to the cooling room where we sat and chatted with a couple from Spain.

When we got back to the hotel, we only had time for a quick bite to eat before Rob had to get his cab to the bus station. I watched him leave with tears in my eyes. Then, I went to a proper restaurant for yet another meal of durum, ayran and lentil soup. As I was finishing up, an older Turkish man started chatting with him. His English was very good. He used to work at the YMCA hostel in the 60s and had lots of great stories. I was sorry I couldn’t stay to hear more, but I also had a bus to catch. I bade him farewell and went back to the hotel to get my own taxi.
We had to get a minibus to the real bus station. Of course, it was late. I sat in the waiting room reading. Another passenger alerted me to the bus’ arrival. At the station, our bus to Izmir was late, but he kept me informed as to what was going on. When the bus arrived, I climbed on and promptly fell asleep.

When we arrived in Izmir, he helped me find the minibus to Selcuk and even gave special instructions to the driver for me. I don’t know who you are, but thank you! I went to the bathroom to clean up and then went back to the bus for the one-hour trip to the town of Selcuk (pop. 22,000).