Bath Time

The other night the three of us went to the hamam, or Turkish bath. The order can vary, but generally this involves a long relaxing stretch on a slab of hot marble, a tub of hot water being splashed all over you, a scrub with a scratchy mitten, a sudsy massage, followed by a cleanoff, change to a clean towel, an optional oil massage for an extra 15 lira, and some hot tea in front of an iron stove in the waiting area while cooling down.

The ladies, Melinda and Patricia, were deeply enthusiastic. ‘This is much better than an American massage, where they won’t touch your breasts,’ Patricia said. Apparently their breasts got touched, a lot. They started out in bathing suits, but were topless ere long.

They opted for the optional oil massage, which I did not. Pat got straddled by her masseur, and she thought, ‘Now is when the buggery begins,’ but no buggery ensued. Instead a deep, very thorough massage.

I have to say that the quality of the experience was somewhat different for me. Perhaps because I’ve never had a secret fantasy of being straddled by a powerful Turkish man wearing only in a towel.

‘I’ve hardly been more naked in my life than in Turkey,’ Pat reported. ‘Here I am in a Muslim country, tits to the wind!’

‘Tits to the wind!’ is our new battle cry. Tits to the wind, we advance!