It’s not often in life that one would describe having a half-naked, hairy and hefty man scrubbing ones armpits as a beautiful experience.

Last week, though, my fellow travelers and I shucked our clothing and tried out one of Turkey’s many specialties: the Turkish bath, or hamam.

The hamam dates back to the beginning of the Ottoman Empire. Although public baths were a staple of earlier Greek and Roman culture, the Muslim Ottomans especially valued washing as an essential part of Islam. Today, Turkish baths lure in tourists, but the Turks regularly hit up a hamam as well for a good scrub-down and a spot to meet with friends.

Last week, we were spending the night in Karacasu on our way to visit Turkey’s capital, Ankara, and our hotel had a hamam that was fueled by thermal springs, open from 9 p.m. until midnight. Bathing suit, robe, bath slippers. Let’s do this.

The main room was all marble, with one large pool of chest-deep hot water being pumped in through a spout. There were two much smaller rooms off the side, both slightly hotter, with room in each pool for about four.

At first, our group was all chatter, moving back and forth in the water and taking frequent dips in the hottest pool. An hour and a half in, energy levels were severely reduced, with people posed poolside like reclining Roman statues. Every so often we’d have to duck out into the hallway, gulping cool air and probably not as much water as we should have. You can’t drink Turkish tap water, and there are only so many two-lira bottles of water that a girl’s willing to buy.

Naturally, I had forgotten to remove my eye makeup, and it wasn’t long before the sweat and steam started to melt black streaks onto my cheeks. At that point, I sprawled limply on the marble by the edge of the water and struggled to muster up the energy to wipe my raccoon eyes away.

There was only one masseur, so I had to wait almost two hours until it was my turn for a scrub and massage. Although I had seen the masseur briefly as he flitted in and out of the massage area to summon his next client, it wasn’t until I had joined him in the small room that I was able to fully take in his glory.

Curling hair spilled over his massive chest and his hands were enormous. He indicated that I should lie on my stomach, and then scrubbing commenced. Imagine getting rubbed with a pumice stone, but all over your entire body.

Thwack.

I was stunned out of my scrub-induced dream state by a vigorous slap across the back. Two more — thwack, ouch, thwack, ouch — and then it was apparently time to be soaped up.

When visiting a hamam, it’s best to let go of all normal ideas about personal space. Everywhere that your bathing suit isn’t covering, you will be rubbed. The masseur was thorough and strong; rarely have the back of my neck or my knees received such individualized cleansing, and I could feel the tension easing out of my back under his huge hands.

To my freshly scoured skin, the oily soap felt like the elixir of rejuvenation. To get all of the extra soap off, the masseur kept filling up a bucket of cool water and dumping it all over my head and body in a way that felt oddly reminiscent of a youth softball league’s carwash.

Throughout the entire process, he and I probably exchanged about 15 words, most of those to indicate the different times when I was supposed to roll from stomach to back. But by the end of it, I felt like I wanted him to be my best friend.

I can’t wait for round two.

Jillian D’Onfro is a senior magazine journalism and information management and technology dual major. Her column appears every Tuesday. She can be reached at [email protected].

Published on September 25, 2012 at 1:07 am