Dear Family and Friends,

Whenever, wherever possible, I find myself a public bath and now, whenever, wherever includes tonight, in Nicosia.

Early this morning, with the help of a lady at the Cypriot Tourist Information Office, I located and made an evening appointment at the local, traditional hamam (known everywhere except for Cyprus as a Turkish bath). Later, as the sunset prayer - Nicosia has a Muslim side (literally) - echoed over the roofs of my hotel’s neighborhood, I pulled on comfy drawstring pants and zipped into my polar fleece. Shop lights flicked to life and cars switched on their headlights as I wended downtown on old town lanes. It was actually dark by the time I tugged open double-doors and stepped into an open room. Tipping my head back, I noted four gothic arches, which ably supported a large, cut-stone dome. A tubular curtain blocked the dome’s oculus and flowed to the bottom tips of a lighted crystal chandelier. Twisting my head side to side, I decided that I quite liked the look of curtained lounges that lined the square room.

An attendant greeted me and gave me a basket of essentials: 2 XXL towels, black rubber sandals, a curved metal bowl, a bottle of drinking water, and a package of panties.

Inside my curtained lounge, I wiggled into pillows, opened the package and caught myself wanting to simultaneously laugh aloud and gasp in horror. In another life, I would’ve been horrified by what the undies portended (my body, nude in front of strangers). And I must confess that I was horrified this time as well: by the ill-fitting, hospital gown material, g-string panties that were dangling from my fingers. Indeed, I spent the entire evening digging uncomfortable wedgies out while blowing raspberries in petty revenge on the signs that read, “You may not remove your spa undergarments.” Anyway, shock and laughter aside, nonetheless, off came my clothes, I dragged on that bloody g-string, wrapped myself in a towel, and popped out of the curtains to ask, “Now what?”

Down a hall and past some showers was a serious wooden door. I slowly pulled it open and stepped into a moderate-sized hamam. Under another, albeit less open dome, rested a heated, many-sided pedestal that could hold 10 ladies, daisy-style (heads in a circular center, feet sticking out like petals). There were also perhaps 6 side rooms, each with horizontal mental pipes leading to spigots suspended over marble bowls. Rectangular marble stones, long-side up, served as chairs in front of the spigots while long marble benches rested in each room. A sign outside the hamam entrance admonished visitors to be quiet; however, the 4 ladies already occupying the pedestal chatted in more-than-moderate tones.

Inside the hamam, marble floors and pedestals were warmed, nearly to the point of being too hot for prolonged touch. The air was steamy but not the point of resting heavily in one’s chest. I spread my towel on a side room bench as far as possible from the ladies and assumed my favorite position: spine flattened against warmed marble, feet flexed but resting at 45 degreeish angles, palms turned up (Savasana). I lay still, at first feeling the steam rest on and cloud my skin – but as time passed, I felt my pores open to moisture. I moved to a spigot and used my curved metal bowl to cup water and sluice around and down my arched neck. Next I moved to the center pedestal, unfurled my towel, and pressed my chin on stacked hands while pressing folded elbows, hipbones, and insteps into warm marble. Heat coiled slowly into my abdomen. I closed my eyes and found myself deep in the memory of my first public bath in Korea, awkwardly clothed and slightly wet. Absently, I chuckled and startled the noisy hamam ladies.

In Korea, public bathes are called jjim-jil-pangs. Jjimjilbangs are a little different than tonight’s hamam: you do not wear any clothing, they are large, modern utilitarian with large soaking pools, and are as much about gathering community as they are about beauty. Mothers, grandmothers, children, friends, gather to catch the latest on dit while scrubbing each other’s skin with loofahs. Adjumas (“ladies of a certain age”) in large sets of dull underwear scrub layers of skin off paying customers and end their scrub by striking body pressure points, causing slapping sounds echo off ceilings and floors.

Raised in nudity-conscious western society, my bathtub-less Korean apartment quickly drove me to fantasizing about filling and climbing into my washing machine. Drawn by the allure of the word bath, one weekend I took myself to the rumored biggest jjimjilbang in Asia. Clueless of how to behave or where to go, I took off my top layer of clothing, rolled up my jeans and stepped into a three-story, ballroom-sized hall filled with pools and hundreds of naked women. My clothed-self was met with squeaks of horror. After a bit of exploration, I dutifully shed my clothing, although I couldn’t say whether that day I got more stares walking around clothed or nude. Despite the discomfort of being fully exposed to darker, thinner women and feeling like the Sesame Street song (“One of these things is NOT like the other, One of these things is not quite the same!”), I immediately adored pools of hot water and taught myself to ignore the stares.

During my 2 years in Korea, I often went to jjimjilbangs; however, no matter how many times I went, jjimjilbangs never became a comfortable experience. One time, at an out-of-the-way mountain jjimjilbangs, I plopped myself down on a scrub table. The adjuma scrubbed my back, turned me over, and took one round-eyed look at my pubic hair before calling another friend (or was it 2?) to come have a look at the crazy foreigner. It was glaringly obvious that these women were just then learning that head hair color is indicative of body hair color. After a silent sigh and a second or so, I lifted my eyebrows, dug out my elementary Korean and managed to scatter my audience, except for my scrubber, who proceeded to give me the most thorough scrub of my life and teach me the words for such useful body parts as boob and pussy. Jjimjilbangs were never comfortable – but they were always a good experience!

In Saudi Arabia, I’m back to fantasizing about filling my washing machine with warm water. I really would if I could! However, for sporadic bath substitution, I discovered a hamam in Amman. Last February, I dragged my aunt and a friend to the hamam: we soaked in a little pool, we got scrubbed and massaged with olive oil, and enjoyed the experience very much – aside from a teeny incident in the steam room, which caused second degree burns on my face which for a time made me look like the ugly cousin of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer… and still haven’t altogether faded, one year later. But no matter, in April, my friend and I were ready to try again. So we sampled a true hamam in Istanbul (designed by the architect that designed The Blue Mosque): with characteristic marble, warmed pedestal, domes, and scrub. I didn’t burn any part of my face that time and they allowed us to keep our undies - so we considered our genuine Turkish bath a rousing success.

Tonight was my first hamam by myself. I relaxed without sleep, letting the heat seep up and in. Eventually, an attendant arrived to scrub me. I climbed onto a table covered with a piece of spongy plastic and the lady began scrubbing at my left, back shoulder blade, and, using large circles, scrubbed me all the way down – yes, displacing the horrid g-string as she went along. She rinsed me by centering the pour of perfectly hot water in the small of my back. Eventually the lady asked me to turn over, and I lay, eyes closed as she crossed my collar bone, Xed across my chest and worked her way down. This time the rinse started at my belly button and spilled all the way to my tips of my shoulders. Next, the lady repeated the process using a brush and soap. As with getting a massage in the West, being scrubbed is both an impersonal and very personal experience. It feels healthy, gratifying… and good.

After my scrub, once more I lay on the marble pedestal. Alone. Relaxed into the marble. I adored jjimjilbangs and would be happy to go back at any time… but it is worth seeking, whenever, wherever possible, quiet sensuality and ease with one’s body at a hamam.

With a surprising amount of post-bath euphoria,

Love,

Laura

Yes. These are real.

And, yes, I wore them.

And, oh YES, I will bring my own non-wedgie-giving undies next time!!!!

(Sorry Buster).