Hamamamamma!

As a lazy woman, I have no choice but to be an aficionado of all hamam type activities. Anything that involves someone else pampering your body to bits can only be for the greater goodness of mankind. This I devoutly believe. Hardly surprising therefore my insistence that a trip to Istanbul would be grossly incomplete without a visit to a hamam. A perfectly legitimate demand one would think, given that hamam is loosely translated into Turkish Bath, and as they say, when in Rome..... so the Hungarian reluctantly agrees to indulge me, on the strict proviso that no hairy Turkish man will be allowed to massage her breasts, or indeed come within 7 feet of them (perhaps the brochures should have waited for the soap suds to have subsided so she could see it was a man under all those bubbles and those hairy hands...!). Our nocturnal meanderings bring us to a fortuitous discovery - there's one just a scant few meters from our hotel, and it's open till midnight! The perfect way to cleanse oneself of an arduous day of sightseeing, haggling over apple tea while sat on a shop floor its owner unwilling and unable to let us leave, and ridiculous donation of funds towards turquoise rings.

The big Russian lady who encouraged our visit is missing as we enter, but the warmth takes the chill off our bones, and renders us carelessly brazen and we commit to the works that include a massage, despite the Hungarians panicked hiss of 'they're naked!'. Our money is swiftly pocketed and our wrists tagged in receipt as we're handed the red checked cloth towels (my grandma would have peed herself at the sight of the gamchhas that were to be our only accouterments) and led upstairs to a room and told to strip off. The Hungarian is asking all sorts of dubious questions about underwear and I leave her to demand an explanation even as I concur on the limited coverage offered by the gamchha, especially when you walk down the stairs in over sized rubber chappals. Tripping would be just too Benny Hill to be tolerated, even given my proclivity to embarrass myself endlessly. We're led off to the hamam to join a collection of other naked women. I barely have time to let the heat caress me before the big Russian comes muttering something before leaning over to inspect my tag and issuing a stern 'You come!'.

Oook. I go. Surprisingly gently hands for a woman that size, as she leads me into the next room (think guide dog, not lesbian). My gamchha is laid on a slab, and I face down on top of it. The first splash of water drives a squeal out of me.... and then suddenly, I can feel bubbles.. millions of bubbles all over my back. I stifle the urge to giggle, but the vision of the hairy man and all those bubbles refuses to go away. A quick no nonsense scrub and she tells me to turn over. That can't be it surely? While I ponder that, more bubbles find their way across my abdomen, distracting me.. I rather like this bubble business! But hold on - some very brief scrubbing, and I'm apparently done. Er no! I'm a very dirty girl, requiring much scrubbing! But me - naked, slight and myopic against she - formidable, sighted and bikinied was never going to be a fair contest and I find myself grumpily bidding farewell to my Hungarian even as she demands to know why I was squealing.

Hmmmmm. I am not pleased. This is not my memory of any hamam I've been too. Perhaps there will be more scrubbing and body pampering..... Another Russian materialises and this time I'm laid on a massage table and oiled like meat about to be thrown on the grill. Her hands are rough. Like a man. I revise my first thought. None of the men I know have hands like that. Hands of a labourer. But they're good - strong, unhesitating, but before I can even begin to enjoy them, she brings my foot to my butt and I'm made to flip over. Dammit!!! Rumour has it that men fantasies about being massaged by big breasted women... definitely a man thing. I cannot say I enjoy the sensation of being smothered, even if it is by 38DD's! Shunted back the hamam, I'm soon joined by the Hungarian who is not impressed by her Eastern neighbours, followed by a Moroccan, and along with the Spanish, we exchange languages, gestures and miffed looks. No, this is definitely NOT how they do it in Morocco (I bore Csikos yet again with my piteous rendition of the best scrub I ever had in Essaouira, where we were left stroking our skin for hours after, for the pure sensual pleasure of silky smooth, soft skin!), and we debate how one is meant to wash the generous lashing of oil of our bodies. Great if you're going into a wrestling ring, a tad more challenging when you have to pull on close fitting jeans and socks! The Hungarian's whining is getting strident and she's getting overheated. We carry the dry towels with us looking for showers or instructions. Neither materialise, but as we find the door to our freedom, we're sent back with the admonishment to trade the wet gamchhas for the dry towels. Chastened, and still shiny, we head back. The new towels cover even less than the gamchhas, but the Hungarian is past caring as we undoubtedly flash our way back up the stairs. Dodgy. Very dodgy.

We've been gazumped. By a Russian mafia operation from the looks of it. The desire to register a complaint is strong, but the Hungarian does not believe it would be prudent.. perhaps not. Moral of the story, do NOT step into any hamams if there is a Russian in sight. It cannot bode well.....and I'm still wallowing in the memory of my serendipitous scrub (ok, so we were scrubbed down like race fillies before being made to stand and assaulted by buckets of water.. but man oh man!! were we primed and ready to go!), and I live in hope, dodgy Russians in Constantinople not withstanding.....