Victorious return to Istanbul, sex education by the pool, running in airports

I awoke at the crack of dawn and jubilantly packed my bags as this was the morning we were at long last leaving Club Marmara and returning to the Four Seasons in Istanbul. We passed the hoards of Nescafé drinkers smoking their morning cigarettes as we ascended the road to reception where our escape vehicle was awaiting. We caught our flight and were met at baggage claim by our very handsome and slate grey suited Greeter from the hotel. I’d made it! Safely tucked into our private shuttle bus, a cold bottle of spring water in hand, I exhaled and smiled as I patted the clean fabric of the bus seat beneath me.

In no time, we were back in the exact same luxurious hotel rooms we had occupied the week prior, but this time with new baseball caps and Harry Potter bedding for Livvy, remarkably appropriate as the new Harry Potter film had just opened in cinemas that weekend. After the Club Marmara ordeal, this attention to detail made me weak in the knees. We lounged by the outdoor pool, where Justin and Livvy soon began cracking up and Livvy insisted I come look at the “old man and young girlfriend dry humping on the lounge chair by the deep end”. On the flight over the Atlantic they had watched the film "He's Just Not That Into You", and picked up the term "dry humping" which they now employed entirely appropriately, as in fact he was old, she was not, and they were dry humping in broad daylight. Justin rolled his eyes and said, “I mean come on, get a room.” Indeed.

Unable to resist the temptation to inspect the scene more closely, Justin swam ever nearer and soon returned to me aghast. “They speak English Mom, English, how can that be?!!” Apparently Justin believed that only non-English speakers could engage in such lewd behavior. We explained that poor taste in matters of a sexual nature was by no means limited to non-English speakers. To substantiate our claim, a short explanation of how English girls were reputed to be the “easiest” during David’s backpacking days ensued, as well as a brief discussion of the relatively more chaste nature of the girls from predominantly Catholic countries. The impact of religion on morality for young women seemed to make sense to Justin and he nodded in understanding.

We swam until our fingers were pruny and wrinkled and then headed out to House Café for a lovely dinner overlooking the water. (see pics)

The next morning we were treated to the sumptuous hotel breakfast, which included real brewed coffee, juice made from actual oranges, linen napkins and no smoking permitted. I thought I might cry. Then it was off to the Dolmabace Palace for a quick tour of the impressive former home of the latter day Sultans. The grand reception hall was quite literally as big as our home. Of course we did not agree with all the décor choices and felt the 24 tons of gold that had been used in the construction was a bit excessive. We did however spy numerous gold swan faucet handles which was a relief as we can now trace the provenance of the now dismantled and decapitated faucet handles the previous owner of our home had such a penchant for. Only Livvy retains two gold plated duck faucet handles at home, and after the palace visit, is insisting that as soon as we return stateside we replace hers as well. It would be a grand place for a party, although they do not rent it out, I asked.

Dinner that night was atop a tall building at Vogue Restaurant. We very nearly missed the breathtaking views as David had come in his Lululemon shorts and there is a strict (or as we learned not so strict) dress code for men. We sweet talked our way onto the elevator inadvertently fooling the hostess into believing that David had a change of clothes in his plastic bag. Once atop the building and in the restaurant, the hostess realized the bag contained nothing but our camera, and reluctantly allowed us to be seated in a table on the terrace but hidden in a corner away from the sophisticated patrons wearing full length trousers. The food was delicious and we all reminisced about our time in Istanbul, vowing to return. Chloe alone reminisced about Club Maramara, and we listened patiently as she spoke more or less incessantly about the Frenchies. We listened to her recounting of every nanosecond at that place whose very name I cannot bear to mention, and her repeating the names of the Frenchies over and over again. She had now friended the majority of them on Facebook and so we were treated to a description of their various wall photos and Babblefish translated exchanges. Knowing I would be sleeping in 800 threadcount Egyptian cotton that night made me a very very patient listener.
In the morning we enjoyed one last smoked salmon and housemade brioche-filled breakfast before the teary farewell. Oh Four Seasons Bosphorus Istanbul, how I will miss you.

We caught our flight to Athens and had only 45 minutes to catch our connecting flight to Mykonos. We were in trouble as we had to collect our baggage and then re-check it at the Check-in counter upstairs. I went ahead with Livvy while David, my mom and the other kids waited for the bags. I cozied up to the robust Check-in agent, who had bleached blond hair with plenty of charcoal black roots and a pronounced distaste for Turkey. I laughed at her every joke about the incompetence of the Turks and explained our predicament, taking care to blame it on the Turks. She assured me there was nothing to worry about. Some 20 minutes later, David arrived running wildly and wielding his overloaded baggage cart with Justin and my mother right behind him at a jogging pace, while Chloe sauntered not the least bit flustered by the threat of missing our connecting plane. Our Check-in agent placed a phone call and smiled at us, no problem. She tagged the bags and as she handed me the boarding passes, smiled and said, “Now you run, don’t tzop. Run tzrough tzecurity tzek to tze gate. Goo luck!”.

And so we ran, we ran like the wind. Sweat beads dripping down our brow, we ran and ran until we reached the tzecurity tzek. We threw our bags on the conveyer belts and dashed through the xray machines in one fail swoop. Only my mother was tzopped as she had forgotten to remove a bottle of water from her carry on. When the security guard asked her to discard the bottle, she merely smiled, twisted the cap open with one hand and chug-a-lugged its contents like a football player in a Gatorade commercial. Water dripped down her chin and onto her shirt but still she drank until the bottle was drained of all liquid. Satisfied, she smiled and tossed the empty bottle over her shoulder into the garbage, lifted her carry-on bag and continued her race to the gate.

We arrived at the gate with 10 minutes to take off, and nervously asked the gate agent if we had missed the flight. She smiled and told us that they had held the plane for us and that as soon as our bags were safely aboard, we would be taken to the aircraft. We’d made it!! High fives all around and a well deserved napkin for my mother to wipe her slightly soaked shirt. David sprinted to the kiosk to purchase some Gatorade like beverages for the electrolyte-depleted team. This would be one for the record books. The airline we were flying was aptly called Olympic Airlines, and that day my friends, that day we were all Olympians.

Club Marmara, the adventure continues...

The next morning word had spread throughout the Club Marmara that Californians were present. Like newly arrived exotic pets in a zoo, staff members sought us out eager to have a look at the American guests. Each staff member we saw smiled brightly as they passed and many called out “Hello California!” We had become the state.

Thanks to David’s early morning handy work, we had secured 4 stained foam loungers in a shady spot near the tattoo artist and the dilapidated ping pong table. Although this was a slightly out of the way area, it did not deter the jubilant staff members from approaching to bid us their most sincere wishes of, “Good Morning California,” or to invite us to “Come joue Volleyball California.” Fortunately my mother is slightly deaf in one ear and was spared the persistent onslaught of curious well wishers.

The tattoo artist whose sign advertised “Henna and Permanent Tattoos” and did not insist on any minimum age, was actively hustling for business and approached me no less than twice insisting a butterfly at the base of Livvy or Chloe’s bikini bottom backside would be a wise choice. It was only by sitting near the tattoo artist that I began to appreciate the amount of gold and silver teeth present in the mouths of the guests at Club Marmara. You see the tattoo artist was quite the joker and spoke French well, and so he would entreat the guests with his humor in exchange for which he was shown bright smiles exposing abundant gold and silver caps. I suppose French dental practice favors the capping of nicotine rotted teeth in these metals. Thankfully I have excellent lenses in my sunglasses so that the glare was not the least bit troublesome, although the sight itself is a different matter altogether.

Once again Chloe was basking in the glow of the Frenchies, doing flips, hanging in the hammock with her entourage, downing iced café and coca, giggling and having a marvelous time. It was only the sight of her joy that gave me the strength to carry on. (see sneaky pics i took from a safe distance of her in hammock and pool with Frenchies) Livvy and I stayed hung out with my mom and spent a fair amount of the day in the absolutely disgusting swimming pool, brimming with bikini bottomed boys and girls, and whose water was a pronounced puce color.

David and Justin went on a full day scuba diving excursion and a triumphant Justin returned beaming at having seen a Nudabranch in the wild. Neither David nor I had a clue as to what a Nudabranch was but were overjoyed as well. Apparently until this dive Justin believed they were only native to New Zealand. Folks, that is what Justin does on the web, surfs exotic sea animals. Clearly no need to check his computer cache.

After showering with my flip flops on, we left Chloe with her posse and escaped Club Marmara for dinner in town by the marina. Although I was not at all interested in acquiring a fake Prada wallet or imitation Gucci belt, the notion of returning to Club Marmara was so depressing, that I insisted on looking in every shop desperately trying to extend the time away. In the end I bought some wildly overpriced suntan lotion and finally David insisted we hail a cab and return. Reluctantly I acquiesced, thankful that we are headed back to Istanbul in the morning.

Club Marmara, the untold story...

We awoke the next morning and shook off our Sezen nightmare with some freshly baked mini chocolate croissants on the breakfast terrace. Then we caught the shuttle back to the “Beach” which is called Tex Mex because they serve burritos and fajitas albeit an hour and a half after you order. Chloe spent the day swimming over to another “Beach” with Club Marmara emblazoned on the many flags on its docks. She returned with tales of pool bars and volleyball, her eyes wide with excitement and longing to join her posse of French friends whom I dubbed “the Frenchies” at Club Marmara where her new found friends were all staying and it was per Chloe, “Way better than our hotel, dude”.

Loving parents that we are, we agreed to investigate the Club Marmara and switch hotels if it seemed okay. After David visited the reception of the Club briefly, he booked us in for the remaining 3 nights. David asked me to keep an open mind and prepare myself for a slightly different experience, and I assured him that all would be well. We checked out of the swank Frette linen filled Hotel Marmara and into Club Marmara the next morning. Everything seemed normal at check in and it was only as we descended the hill and were shown to our rooms that I began to notice some subtle differences. The rooms themselves were small, white stucco or rather had once been white and were now more ecru from decades of use without repainting. The room contained a not insignificantly stained mattress, made up in polyester sheets with a terrycloth-feeling coverlet of a tea stained color. There were two built-in night tables, a built-in desk with a mini-fridge covered by a broken door. The mini-fridge door was literally off its hinges but the chamber maids had kindly propped the door up against the fridge to provide the illusion of an operational door so that when I tried to open it the door crashed upon my flipflop-clad feet. The double door terrace was all windows and faced out toward the al fresco dining courtyard. The curtains were of a thin white sheer fabric which enabled us, even while the curtains were drawn shut, to enjoy the view of the masses enjoying breakfast, lunch and dinner from the privacy of our room, and for the masses to view us as they ate. The piece de resistance though was the bathroom. A sign above the corroded sink stated that drinking the tap water was not recommended. This was expressed as merely a subtle suggestion but the wise traveler knows to respect such instructions as one would the gospel. The faucet handle itself was pitted with corrosion so that the only safe method of turning the faucet was with the careful placement of thumb, middle and forefinger around the corroded handle, in a sort of contorted finger version of Twister. The once presumably white basin stained and cracked. The shower/bath faucet had rusted and was difficult to shift into the correct position thereby providing an alternating freezing and then scalding shower experience with each adjustment and at times without any adjustment at all, so I thought of it as “la douche surprise”. The tub had rust stains that could be avoided by positioning one’s feet at twelve o’clock and three o’clock respectively, so that showering doubled conveniently as wind surfing practice; a perk they had not advertised. Let us not even discuss the condition of the towels nor the Club Marmara brand bath products which I dared not use given that the little plastic shampoo and body lotion bottles were not hermetically sealed and had been obviously refilled between guests.

The guests at Club Marmara were, with the exception of our family, all French nationals, who from their accents we could detect were mainly from the rural central and Southern parts. The food, wine, beer and soda were all you can eat/drink, which judging by the crowd was quite ample. I did not see signs confirming that cigarettes were also free but must assume this to be the case and a main attraction. The beach and pool chairs were tattered and well stained fabric covered folding foam chaises which one needed to nab early in the morning and mark with towels, flip flops, books and whatever other items one did not fear might be stolen. As long as you covered your chaise in your own towel (my mom generously bought 6 at the gift shop for us all to use) and separated your body from the soiled chaise by your towel then you could lounge in relative comfort, rising only occasionally to reposition the towel barrier. As you can imagine this set up was aimed at bargain-hunting French tourists who seemed perfectly content to dispense their own Nescafe, cheap Rose wine, and juice-like drinks as they chain smoked and applied Bain de Soleil oil to their naked breasts.

Chloe, however, was in heaven. I haven’t seen her smile so much nor swim so much, she was even performing flips off the dock into the sea to the delight of the Frenchies. Chloe spoke to me more in those 3 days than in the entire year prior, although this was mainly to seek my translator services and provide her with the correct word for everything from “drink” to “see you later dude”. When we did see her for more than a few seconds we were treated to numerous long stories about the Frenchies escapades. Here is an excerpt from one such story, typical of the 15-20 Chloe shared per day, “Oh my God, it was so hilarious, first Francois and Leo tried to dunk me but I got away and then Alexandre grabbed my ankles so I sat down, and then Constance was laughing so hard she was shaking, but then Jules joined in and then we stopped for a drink, it was like my 10th coke but I asked for it in French and said “un coca s’il vous plait”, and then we all swam to the raft ……..” The Frenchies which included Constance, Francois, Leo, Mathieu, Alexandre, Jules, Juline, and a few other more minor characters, were clearly taken by our California girl, and Chloe rose to the occasion providing them with hours of smiles and giggles.

Justin and Livvy spent the days complaining about how no one spoke English and fumed ever so slightly with jealousy at their sister’s joy. As for me, I kept my mouth shut and tried to focus on the positives: my eldest daughter was deliriously happy; I was working up a nice tan and losing weight as the food was inedible; and my skin had never felt softer thanks to the towels and sheets whose loofah like texture provided near constant exfoliation. Ah Club Marmara Bodrum……

Bodrum Beaches, Sezen Aksu concert and the Place

We awoke early and caught our flight from Istabul to Bodrum, a beach town on the Asian coast of the Bosphorus. We were met by our minivan driver upon landing and 30 minutes later arrived at our hotel. The view of the sea from our cliff top hotel was stunning, the ancient castle of Bodrum surrounded by gullets on the water looked majestic. In the lobby we met the greeter (must be a Turkish thing) who was the spitting image of Robin Williams in the remake of “La Cage aux Folles/The Birdcage” with Nathan Lane. The greeter was Italian but spoke at least 7 languages fluently and had a penchant for Bono-style sunglasses and white linen. He implored us to come to the pool tomorrow evening from 9 to midnight as that is when he sings for the guests. We assured him we wouldn’t miss it.

We were shown to our rooms, unpacked, grabbed a bite of lunch on the outside terrace above the main pool, and spent the afternoon lounging by the pool as the pool DJ spun tunes on his turntables. This was the first daytime poolside DJ I had encountered and I must say he took his work as seriously as any nightclub DJ. At 8pm we were picked up by a driver who took us to downtown Bodrum where we had dinner on the water near the marina at a place called “The Place.” This gave Justin hours of fun as he kept asking “Where are we going for dinner?”, to which I replied, “The Place,” and he continued “Mom, where are we going for dinner?”, to which I replied, “The Place,” and he would then ask, “What place?”After 6 or 7 of these interchanges I finally had to sick him onto my mother who kept answering him earnestly, “The Place is the name of the restaurant Justin,” as he cackled wildly. After dinner we explored the market area which is teeming with knock off handbag and watch shops. David summed it up best, “It’s like a poor man’s St. Tropez.”

The next day we boarded the hotel shuttle and headed to the private beach. Beach in Bodrum means large floating dock area with loungers, umbrellas and restaurant with pleasant waiters but no actual sand. Beach apparently also means “place where Queen Latifah-sized women wear itsy bitsy bikinis and slather on tanning oil between their flabby folds.” I have taken a decided dislike to women who are deeply bronzed all over but miss the area where their legs meet their buttocks. This particular area, let us call it the “rear butt-thigh hollow”, is forced to form a fold when one with any amount of excess chub lies flat on their stomach and leg thus pushes against round buttocks burying that area of skin beneath the layers above. So many of these was I faced with that I felt compelled to devise a strategy to rid the beaches of Turkey of this problem. By simply propping a towel or small pillow under the pubis one could easily raise the buttocks outward away from the lounger, ever so slightly bending the knees, and thus expose this area for tanning. Of course this would present other unsightly but easily foreseeable problems and a smartly placed umbrella could shield innocent passersby from the view. Suffice it to say, I have seen more than my fair share of mahogany colored women with snowy white patches of exposed rear butt-thigh hollow. Quite disturbing really.

Anyhow, we swam, read and ate while Chloe made friends with a group of French teenagers staying at a nearby hotel. Given that Chloe speaks about 5 words of French and all five are from nursery rhymes I used singing to her as a baby, it was impressive to see how well she got on with the group.

That evening we had dinner at another restaurant near the marina (excellent fresh grouper) and then headed to the ancient amphitheatre to see a concert my mother had seen advertised. Sezen Aksu is described as the “biggest” pop star in Turkey and as we found out this referred as much to her physical largesse as to her popularity. We arrived at the amphitheatre around 9pm and waited patiently as we shuffled passed security along with throngs of Turks, and then made or way to our seats, which as in all ancient amphitheatres are carved marble slab steps. Fortunately TurkCell had the presence of mind to sponsor the event and provide a branded seat cushion for every derriere in the amphitheatre. The crowd began rhythmic clapping and whistling, so eager were they to see their beloved Sezen. I had told the kids that Sezen was like the Britney Spears or Madonna of Turkey and we were all excited. Suddenly the band appeared holding all sorts of flutes, lutes, odd shaped string instruments, and a few tambourines; not a positive omen. Then from behind the stage curtain appeared a diaphanous white bulbous figure, as it approached the front of the stage it became clear that it was human and likely female, and was being assisted by two large security guards to descend the steps to the stage with a rocking motion like a Weeble.

The spotlight then shone brightly on what can only be described as the human personification of Ursula the Sea Witch from Disney’s “The Little Mermaid.” Weighing in at no less than 250 lbs, she stood smiling, with short platinum bleach blond hair teased to the heavens and sprayed with industrial strength hair spray that rendered the hair immobile in spite of a mighty wind created by the numerous powerful fans at her feet intended to no doubt cool down her body temperature. Sezen resembled an obese Joan Rivers dressed in an enormous white wedding gown adorned with Swarovski crystals and constructed within from an obviously Kevlar reinforced corset. The folds of her back fat hung over the top of her sleeveless gown like thick frosting dripping down a wedding cake. She had clearly undergone numerous plastic surgeries, the last of which had left her large red-painted mouth affixed in an eerie Joker-like smile. She wore 4-inch white stilettos which presented a significant balance challenge and so rather than move about the stage, she chose (and I think wisely given the circumstances) to stand in one spot teetering on her heels and wave periodically to the adoring crowd like a parade queen.

She opened up with a folk song both dull and uninspiring, yet the crowd went wild. She invited the over 4,000 enraptured fans to sing along at every chorus; this was a clever though ill-fated attempt on her part to catch her breath from the exertion of singing and standing. Two more painful folk songs later she called for the security guard and was brought a large, high stool which she employed fully. When she broke into a most painful and not entirely on-key ballad we decided to make a run for it. For anyone who has yet to try and flee an ancient amphitheatre please be advised that if seated in the center of the bottom section the only way out is to descend the stairs and walk around the front of the stage past the headline act to the side stage exit. More than one irate fan shouted Turkish obscenities at us as we made our escape. I hoped they mistook us for English tourists.

We flagged down a taxi bus and returned to our hotel where our Italian Robin Williams lookalike greeter was still singing his little linen-wearing heart out. We stopped for a song or two, and though his career will never take him beyond the confines of the Hotel Marmara in Bodrum, we all agreed he was infinitely more talented than Sezen.

Topkapi, Blue Mosque, Harem education, and Hammam annointment

After a blissful night sleep in our 700 threadcount sheets we enjoyed a magnificent buffet breakfast and then met our guide for the day, Zerrin. Zerrin was very friendly although remarkably soft spoken for a tour guide. Her English was rather difficult to comprehend so my mother and I alternated translating Zerrin’s commentary for the kids and David which slowed the pace of the tour down somewhat.

We visited Topkapi Palace, former seat of the Sultan and saw his Harem, pronounced Ha-Rem with a hard “R” on the Rem bit sounding like one is clearing their throat of phlegm. Justin did not enjoy the explanation of who the Eunichs were in the Harem nor how they came to be so; “Gross mom, totally gross.” Justin, however, quickly figured things out, “So concubines were basically hookers whose families gave them to the palace hoping to eventually be picked to marry the Sultan.” Yes. As for the Queen Mother actually interviewing and selecting the concubines for her son, the Sultan’s, Harem, Justin summed it up as follows:“She had way too much power, no offense Mom.” None taken.

We saw the re-enacted military parade at Topkapi which was full of fake-mustachioed men in bright garb carrying large knives, and then stopped off at a hotel-approved carpet shop for the mandatory Turkish Carpet explanation. The big joke is to say that they sell flying carpets and then toss a small one in the air, how drole. We also went to the Grand Bazar in search of Justin’s crystal collection. This time we were extremely lucky and Justin found an excellent addition at the right budget price within 30 minutes. We then returned to the hotel for a late lunch and spent the afternoon swimming, and making full use of the health club and spa. Livvy returned to the room from the spa with 4 disposable razors, 3 combs and 2 shoe shine kits.

We went on a death defying cab ride to dinner at a fabulous place called Mikla atop the Pera Palace hotel. The same house music as was playing at the House Café the night before was playing here and the restaurant had 360 views of Istanbul which is spectacular at night. After dinner we ascended to the rooftop lounge where more house music and lounging on large couches was de rigeur. The city certainly has a pronounced bohemian feel that is easy to enjoy.

The next morning we indulged in another magnificent buffet breakfast and were met by our new guide Chartgai who is married to a woman from Windsor, Ontario and who spoke perfect English that required no translation. We went to the Blue Mosque, then to Hagay Sophia and finally to the Spice Market for saffron, Turkish delight and a beach cover up for Livvy. After lunch I headed down to the spa for my Hammam treatment which was a new experience I was keen to try.

First let me say, that I am no stranger to the art of Spa and have been scrubbed, wrapped, detoxified, Rolfed, massaged, hydromassaged and oiled often, in various languages, and on several continents. I’ve had Ayurvedic treatments, Chinese Medicine therapies including acupuncture, Reflexology and Chi Nei Sang (a delightful internal organ massage), Greek Thallasotherapies, Thai massages by small but remarkably powerful women, Swedish massages in Morocco and France (my least favorite) and Deep Tissue Massage from Bali to Boston. But the Hammam (pronounced ham-ahm) can only be entertained in Turkey and should NOT be entered into lightly, but rather reverently, soberly and advisedly.

I was welcomed at the spa reception by a smiling woman who greeted me by name and presented me with a cup of pomegranate herbal tea. She then helped me change into my fluffly warm robe and slippers, and walked me to the steam room which she advised me to stay in for five minutes in order to “re-eelax befor-a Ham-am.” I had removed my watch and so had no idea how to keep track of time but before I could explain my predicament the smiling woman said to me, as if reading my mind, “I come git yu-ew feh-wive mee-nee-utes mizzuz boranshte-eyn.” Feh-wive mee-nee-utes later I was summoned from the steam and walked down the heated marble hallway into the anti-chamber to the Hammam. The room was octagonal and tiled in marble with the floor again heated, and the only furniture being a coat rack. “Pleee-eeze to re-emove rob,” she said smilingly and waited. I recall one prior treatment in Morocco where the massage therapist insisted on helping me disrobe, but even she had turned her head away to afford me at least the illusion of privacy. My smiling friend neither budged nor averted her eyes, and so I removed the robe as boldly as I could and she then opened the interior door which led into a magnificent chamber tiled in snowy white marble and smoky blue stained glass that was warm and steamy. In the center of the room was a 7 ft long by 6 ft wide by 2 ft high heated marble octagon upon which lay a towel and headrest. Four separate oversized silver faucets were placed in the marble sink niches of the walls around the room and beside each faucet were two large silver buckets that resembled ancient hammered chalices. I honestly cannot recall whether music was playing but wish to remember it as having some soft foreign tongued chanting music piped in through invisible speakers.

Before I had a chance to take in much else, a tall, buff, bald and smiling Turkish man wearing a sarong entered the Hammam from a secret door and faced me. He motioned with his head for me to lay down on the marble slab. My smiling female friend retreated from the Hammam, and there I stood au naturel facing my Hammam therapist, grateful for the overpriced waxing I had paid for in Eilat two days before. I had what can only be described as the single most awkward spa moment of my life, yet sensed not even a twinge of weirdness from my new bald friend who stood still, eyes fixed on my person. It was an odd game of chicken we were playing, will I lay on the slab first or will he look away so that I could then move to the slab. His bald head did not move at all, and so, I decided to make the best of it, sucked in my tummy as best I could, abandoned all modesty, climbed up on the marble stone slab and lay face up. The marble was very warm, hot even and I had to arch my back slightly in order to provide some relief for my slightly singed tush. My bald friend then spoke the only words he would, “fw-erty –feh-wive meeh-enuut traha-ditchonal Twer-kish Ham-am, re-elax.” I tried my best to re-elax but couldn’t help wondering how long I could suck my tummy in for while arching my back and whether I would be asked to turn over at some point and if so how I would be able to suck in my tummy as I turned over, and whether I would need to hunch my back once face down, in which case all tummy sucking would become impossible without years of Cirque de Soleil training.

Suddenly my legs were doused with very warm water from toes to knees, and unendingly on upward until my head was gently lifted and my hair expertly rinsed with not a drop touching my eyes. I tried to refrain but simply could not help but picture myself like Meryl Streep in the “Out of Africa” hair washing scene with Robert Redford. I then snuck a peek at my bald Turkish therapist and in the face of this reality could not sustain the movie image. Next came a remarkably thorough loofa glove exfoliation from toes, to knees unendingly on upward. I could feel years of dead skin cells melting away with each stroke and was hopeful that the scrubbing would have some cellulite reducing benefits as well. After the scrubbing came another toe to head rinsing with water so warm and soothing that I felt slightly dizzy and in danger of slipping into a Hammam-enduced coma. Before I could doze off I felt a strange, warm, airy and lovely smelling substance being poured on my toes and feet, and it wasn’t until the pouring reached my hands that I was able to decipher the touch of bubbles; I was being blanketed in luscious fragrant soapy bubbles as light as air. It was at this point that I realized that the Hammam was essentially a naked human carwash, a la Turq. First the rinse cycle then the scrubbing/powerwash, then another rinse cycle, then the shampooing/rainbow suds optional, another rinse cycle and the towel drying. That was it, and it explained why my sarong wearing bald Hammam therapist did not even notice my state of undress, I was merely a car to him and he was akin to the smiling undocumented Mexican worker at the Pacific Car Wash who sprays tire cleaner on at the end of the car wash and then raises his hand to indicate for the owner to claim her vehicle. I immediately relaxed and exhaled, setting my tummy free which allowed me to enjoy the remainder of my Hammam much more. After I was thoroughly and most squeaky clean from toe to neck, my Hammam therapist motioned for me to get up and come sit by one of the sinks. I did, and as any woman will tell you, sitting upright is the single most difficult position to hold one’s tummy in, but I gave it the old college try and gripped tightly to the marble bench beneath me as my head was rinsed and hair was washed with a vigor I had yet to experience at any salon. The smell of Occitane Verveine shampoo brought me back to reality as did the consecutive buckets of hot, warm, lukewarm, cool and eventually cold water that marked the end of my hair wash and sadly the end of my Hammam. I can safely say that I have never been cleaner in my life. I stood up and my body was wrapped in a large bath sheet, while my head was masterfully wrapped in another towel. I was then shown the way out of the Hammam to the Relaxation Room to recover from my soapy hot haze. A glass of mango juice was handed to me which I dutifully drank and then lay back on the chaise and drifted into blissful sleep. While I must say that the Hammam is not for the overly shy or spa newbie, I will say that it is a unique experience that I highly recommend, albeit after a bikini wax.