the Turkish Bath

An important part of every visit to Turkey is at least one trip to a public bath, or hamam. Hamams are everywhere in Turkey. There is at least one if not more in every city or small town, and you can usually spot them by their multi-domed bulbous exteriors. The tradition of the public bath was introduced here nearly two millenniums ago when the Roman Empire took control of the region. The Turks took such an affinity to the concept, that over time it has become an important and permanent fixture in their culture.

I chose to have my first hamam experience in the town of Selchuk after a long, dusty day exploring the ancient ruins of Ephesus. It was around 9pm on a Saturday night when I wandered in and made my way up the front desk.

The proprietor, a tall, salt and pepper haired man with a bulbous red nose helped my lock my valuables in a drawer and handed me a red checkered towel and a pair of sandals.

“Changing area.” he said to me, and pointed at a closet-sized room.

Closing the curtain I removed my clothes, wrapped the towel around my waist and slipped on the sandals. More than a little self-conscious, I exited the room and headed into the bathing area.

The domed interior of the room I entered was incredibly high and every surface was constructed of smooth marble that rippled around the place in great grey and white streaks. Directly underneath the dome was a smooth octagonal bench where people could sit or lay down to enjoy the great amounts of steam that filled the interior, and the walls were lined with a series of private wash stations.

It took me a moment to adjust to the heat and the humidity. There was only one other patron, an older man with grey hair and what would have been a long, proud mustache if it weren't dangling limply below his chin from over-exposure to great amounts of steam. He smiled kindly at me as I lumbered over to the bathing area and began to clean myself off.

After washing I sat on the marble slab beneath the dome and closed my eyes, breathing deeply and absorbing the steam. Before long I began to sweat profusely. The old man had vacated the room while I was washing, and since I had been left alone I tested the acoustics of the interior with a satisfyingly resonant hum.

It was around twenty minutes later that a tall, fat man lumbered slowly into the room, his eyes resting on me as he paused in the doorway. His large round belly hung out over the red and white checkered towel that was tied around his waist, and a shock of black hair grew straight up from his potato shaped head reaching a height that seemed to defy the laws of gravity.

A man of few words he pointed to a slab of marble to the right of the room's entrance and growled at me through a thick eastern accent, “Lay down.”

At this point in my story, I suppose I should lend some context to what was about to happen. Contrary to what you may be thinking this was not one of “those kinds” of bath houses. Shame on you for even thinking it. In Turkish baths after one has properly pressure cooked by steam, they receive what is called a soap massage from one of the attendants. During this process one lays down on a stone slab while a they are lathered up, massaged, and then scrubbed down with a kese, a cloth glove that looks vaguely like a kitchen mitt and feels roughly like a loofah sponge.

“Where you from?” asked the attended as he covered my skin with thick, foamy suds. Before I could reply he popped my spine three times with his great ham-like hands.

“...America.” I responded weakly.

He grunted at me and proceeded to massage my arms and legs with soap, finally rubbing the lather into my hair and scalp, effectively making me feel like a toddler getting a bath from my parents.

Once he had completed lathering me, he next put on his kese and began to scrub my body. Though the texture of the cloth is quite rough, it is not a painful or unpleasant experience. In fact, I found it to be quite relaxing.

“You are dirty. Very dirty,” the attendant grumbled.

I wondered momentarily if this was his idea of pillow talk until I saw the skin he was rubbing from me coming off in thick, grey clumps. I was indeed dirty. Very dirty.

After he had finished with me, the attendant pointed towards a shower at the corner of the room. “Cold shower,” he ordered me.

The ice cold water was for a moment like razors on my skin, but once I had adjusted to it the temperature felt quite pleasant, and when I was finished rinsing off my body radiated intensely against the heat of the room.

“You want oil massage?” the attendant asked, the tone he took made it seem less like an offer and more like a threat, and the idea of being further manhandled by his tree trunk arms was a bit more than I could bear.

“No, thank you.” I replied, and forced a weak smile.

Once outside the steam room, the proprietor of the hamam wrapped my head and body in soft green towels and sat me in front of a television with a cup of hot tea where I endured watching part of a surreal Turkish film about a farmer who had no arms.

Though the entire experience was a little disconcerting at the time, for the next two days I must admit to feeling unbelievably fresh. My skin was clean in a way that no amount of simple showering and washing could ever hope to achieve, and I began to understand why the hamam is such a popular phenomenon within Turkish culture. I might not recommend the experience to everyone, but it is certainly not one I will soon forget.