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.
No comments:
Post a Comment