Dripping (and slipping) in honey

I typically follow the when-in-Rome philosophy when traveling. In Italy, I took pills so I could eat pasta because I’m normally gluten free and I am cautiously eating gluten and a bit of dairy on this trip. In Ireland we drank fresh Guinness … you get the point. So, when in Turkey, take a bath, right?

My guesthouse recommended a nearby bath, which included pickup. I was wary and did my own research, setting on one built in 1584 because, after all, 180 lire ($33) for a sauna, scrub, massage and facial was way cheaper than home. The guy at reception said he would make an appointment for me, but it was rather expensive. I went anyway, zipping past some of Istanbul’s most historic sites and learning my way around. I arrived early, paused by the huge wall of celeb visitors, then entered. I was greeted and handed paperwork. They wanted to know of any health issues and an emergency contact. Then, they clarified that the price was 180 Euros. More like $205. That’s not a bad US price, but more than I thought I should fork out this early in the trip. They were gracious and I was not embarrassed. I really didn’t need nor want to bathe where Oprah, John Travolta or Omar Sharif have. I wanted authentic, everyday.

Walked back to my hotel, ambling down the tumbled brick pathways dodging cars to tell the receptionist he had been right and could he book me in at the recommended hamam. He reserved  a ride and slot for later evening. I re-read tips on Turkish baths and packed my swim suit just in case. There seemed to be disagreement on the amount of acceptable nudity. I wanted to be prepared. A few minutes before my departure time, packed and money secured, I wandered downstairs. The driver was pretty prompt and another couple was also on their way. In less than five minutes we were disembarking onto another crowded thoroughfare and ducking behind the unassuming wooden doors. I paid attention as the couple selected their package and ordered the same: bath, scrub and oil massage, 160 lira (about $29). There were separate sections for women and men. A noted example of Ottoman architecture, this bath was built in 1475.

A robed woman who spoke basic English whisked me into a changing room, directing me to strip, advising that no clothing was fine, then to wear the thin cotton-stripe towel. She showed me the key – room 13 – where to stow clothing and valuables and pointed to the bathing shoes. She said I must leave my glasses behind. Ok, this was scary, but I understood I’d see little in the bathhouse with them. I was led to the steam room, where I savored the heat, not anywhere near as hot as the Temescal (sweat lodge) I’d done in Mexico, but great for a jet-lagged body. Too soon, Sarah waved me to a large marble square in the middle of an ancient domed room and asked me to lay on my towel. She massaged me with a loofa, then poured a profusion of bubbles all over. It was wonderful. She continued to monitor and ask hard or soft (rubbing). I said hard. I am used to deep-tissue massage and needed to work the travel out. She asked me to get up, collected my hand and took me to a basin where she dipped warm water and rinsed me. Heaven. We returned to the slab and began the massage with this exchange:

Sarah: Oil or honey

Me: Which is better?

Sarah: Honey
Me: Yes, please.

Her hands knew my tight spots and I was finally getting comfortable enough to relax. I am not used to group massage. When she asked me to sit, something happened and, before I knew what, I had slid right off the slab onto the marble floor with a thud. OMG that hurt like hell. I’d landed on my right butt cheek. Thank God it wasn’t my head or a bone. Sarah and the other women were as shocked as I. She pulled me up, back onto the slap and re-worked where I had hit. I was led to the shower, then carefully climbed the scary steps to the cold-water pool. I knew my derriere needed ice or cold. My swim was cut short to return to the sauna, where I could not get comfortable. I didn’t stay long and had permission to get back in the pool, where I lingered.

Like a prisoner, I was led back to my private cell, dried and dressed. Normally, locals stay and socialize. I was in no mood. Still in shock, I realized I needed ice and to get back to the hotel soon to mitigate this fall. I had so much walking and seven more plane legs to sit through. I could not be laid up. I got ballsy and told the robbed woman I’d had a bad fall on the marble and needed ice … NOW. She took me to someone who spoke better English and he said they had none and that there was a reason to wear the slippers. “I wasn’t walking,” I replied with cheek. “I was laying on the marble massage table, was asked to sit and slid off … in the honey.” With that they conjured up a frozen water bottle and packed me off to the hotel.

I was grateful that the female of the couple returning in the van asked how I was. “That thud was hard to hear.”

At the hotel, I told the night receptionist what happened so I had a record in case things turned nasty. This time, I took the elevator up five flights, scurried into my room foraging for whatever I had that would nip this in the bud. Living with fibromyalgia 20 years, I have learned the smallest accidents can set off a chain reaction. I also told myself this would NOT be the case. I took 3 ibuprofen, hemp oil, poured a glass of wine, settled myself on extra pillows and the iced bottle and watched Netflix.

I slept. And awoke with tolerable stiffness, so headed toward a pharmacy for Arnica as soon as I could. However, it was about seven hours – that’s another story – before I could apply it.

Now that I am pretty much ok, this is a GREAT story. I am grateful for this ending and glad to have ventured into authenticity. I am considering another bath, elsewhere.