Take a Clean Break in Istanbul

On the hunt for an authentic (but not agonizing) Turkish-bath experience in the country’s capital

Andres Gonzalez for The Wall Street Journal

HAMMAMARAMA | The opulent hammam, now an event space, at Çiragan Palace Kempinski

ISTANBUL AWAKENS the senses like few places on earth, with its centuries-old minarets, fragrant bazaars, clanging trolleys, all the ships and ferries chugging up and down the mighty Bosporus.

For a long time, Istanbul has also offered a distinctive type of sanctuary from all that overstimulation: the Turkish bathhouse, or hammam. When much of Europe was still emerging from the Dark Ages, the sophisticated Ottomans were transforming the ablution centers of their Greek, Roman and Byzantine predecessors into salon-like relaxation palaces.

During a weeklong trip to Istanbul this year, I had the chance to immerse myself in this ancient tradition, visiting haute spots and local haunts in search of the city’s most satisfying Turkish bath.

I knew that the authentic hammam experience involves a big dose of tough love. You sweat it out in an overheated room or two, then allow a man to attempt to dislocate various body parts before he forcefully removes your skin, all in the name of well-being. (Women, I’m told, receive gentler treatment.)

Let’s just say I preferred to ease my way into it. Day one found me at Espa, in the chic new Istanbul Edition hotel, steaming in an ultramodern, stove-heated chamber complete with mood lighting. A polite little man wearing a pestemal (loincloth) came to fetch me, gave me an unhurried scraping with the abrasive mitt the Turkish call a kese, and then, laying me on a marble slab, executed a practiced massage using (as tradition demands) an olive soap lather. So far, so good.

Next, though, came the memorable part: the foam. I found myself enveloped in suds so light and delicate that I barely noticed until my caretaker, or keseci, had me roll over onto my back. I watched with childlike delight as he took a soapy cloth and squeezed huge gobs of bubbles onto my chest like a pastry chef working on an oversize dessert. To finish, he washed my hair and doused me in a moisturizing mask of milk and honey.

Examining the results of the hourlong treatment later, I could hardly believe my eyes. My veins seemed raised, my arms buffed and sculpted. Each pore shone on my newly supple skin. And not for a moment had it felt like punishment.

Then again, as I discovered on my tour, that seems to be the trend. Upwardly mobile Turks are opting for nouveau pampering of the Espa variety in lieu of old-fashioned soaping and pummeling. And now that Turks tend to take morning showers like the rest of us, visits to public bathhouses—where men and women once went to kick back and socialize, their entry fees often helping fund a nearby mosque—have gone from a weekly ritual to a special-occasion sort of thing.

Today, a handful of the city’s monumental bathhouses—Çemberlitas and Cagaloglu being two of the most famous—are sustained almost entirely by tourists. Meanwhile, many others have become relics.

The day after my Espa treatment, I paid a visit to the five-star Çiragan Palace Kempinski. A hotel rep walked me through the opulent 19th-century residence from which the property takes its name, and which is now a handsome VIP and events annex. Behind giant wooden doors lay a chamber made entirely of white marble. Geometric patterns of breathtaking detail adorned the walls and balustrades. Surely, I thought, this is the finest hammam in Istanbul. But it has been years since water flowed through its pipes. The hotel now rents the space out for cocktail parties.

“Ayasofya was high-ceilinged, flooded with light and alive with the sounds of chirping birds. ”

Later that day, after an hour or so of walking in circles and querying baffled-looking shopkeepers, I found the once-famous bathhouse in the old bazaar surrounding the 16th-century Rüstem Pasha mosque. The glorious Tahtakale Hamami sat empty, except for some cardboard boxes and a couple of slapdash cosmetics shops. The cafe I’d read about had closed months ago.

Luckily, on my next day’s itinerary was Ayasofya Hürrem Sultan Hamami, which is very much open for business. High-ceilinged, flooded with sunlight and alive with the sounds of chirping birds and a burbling fountain, the Ayasofya could hardly be more different than the haute-design bunker at the Edition. It also smells pleasantly of cedar, new woodwork being part of the $10 million renovation this 456-year-old bathhouse underwent last summer.

The only other guest there around midday was a middle-aged Australian, and as we marinated in a steamy side room he marveled aloud at how much Turkey had changed since he’d backpacked through in the ’70s. As if on cue, a young therapist appeared, and tended to me as gently as a sparrow; after the scrubbing and soaping routine, he led me upstairs to a partitioned cabin for an oil massage. I walked out smelling like a bouquet of lavender.

Don’t get me wrong—I like being taken care of. At the same time, part of me wished the whole experience hadn’t been so sanitized and softened. At Ayasofya, I’d gotten a pleasant rubdown and a sense of what Ottoman-era Istanbul might have looked and felt like. But I wanted to feel both those things in my bones.

Two days later, I was at the Tarihi Galatasaray Hamami, a 15th-century bathhouse located a short walk up the hill from my hotel in Beyoglu. I’d be lying if I said it was a local secret. But there were no tour buses in sight and no pretension in the décor or anywhere else: The changing rooms resembled barracks. The pestemal felt like a waxed tablecloth. My keseci had a thick mustache, an enormous belly and a dark scowl on his face.

He waddled wordlessly into the baths, and I followed as confidently as I could manage in wooden platform sandals. (At fancier joints, the footwear has been updated to comfy gel.) The keseci gestured at the central marble platform and then left the room. As I lay there on my back, stewing and watching droplets of condensation fall from the domed ceiling, I thought about a lot of things—including, eventually, the possibility that my handler had left for the day. I was pacing impatiently by the time he entered, which only seemed to make him angrier.

He attacked my muscles with a brute force I hadn’t felt since playing full-contact sports in high school, seemingly determined to ram my knees and chest through the stone. The key to survival, I decided, was to exhale right at the moment the keseci put all his weight on me. I was wheezing like a bellows, but it worked. Even better, my refusal to wince or complain seemed to lighten his mood. “Very good,” he said.

We moved over to the wall, where my caretaker more or less flung aside the modesty-preserving pestemal his counterparts at the previous two bathhouses had treated with such assiduous respect. The moment he ran the kese down my arm, his scowl returned. “New skin,” he muttered.

With exfoliation reduced to a mere formality, the treatment was not the magical (if brutal) renewal it might have been. My skin didn’t feel dewy afterward—actually, it felt a bit dried out. But I liked the oily, organic smell of the pumpkin-fiber soaping bags. I didn’t mind having stray suds flung carelessly in my face. I couldn’t remember the last time my muscles had felt so relaxed. Most bracingly exotic of all had been the utter lack of fuss or ceremony.

To a coddled neophyte like me, the whole thing was a shock—but an experience I’d gladly submit to again.

Next time, of course, I’ll bring dead skin.

The Lowdown: Istanbul

Getting There: Daily flights to Istanbul Atatürk Airport depart from New York, Chicago, Washington, and Los Angeles.

Staying There: Housed in a converted turn-of-the-century convent, stylish and well-situated Tomtom Suites offers 20 upscale-bohemian rooms (from about $270 per night, tomtomsuites.com. Çiragan Palace Kempinski has a commanding location on the Bosporus and the bustling, extravagant feel of a grand, old-world hotel (from about $500 per night, kempinski.com).

Eating There: Tasty and unpretentious tavern food (smoked fish, stuffed grape leaves, thyme-spiced grilled lamb) is the signature fare at Sarniç, housed in a thousand-year-old Roman cistern at end of a narrow street (Sogukçesme Sokagi 38, Sultanahmet, sarnicrestaurant.com). Newcomer Lokanta Maya serves fresh Aegean cuisine (caramelized sea bass, zucchini fritters) in an airy, vaguely rustic dining room (Kemankes Caddesi 35-A, Karaköy, lokantamaya.com).

Getting the Treatment: The ultramodern Edition Istanbul Espa’s 60-minute Signature Hammam treatment includes a hearty scrub and foam bath, plus a moisturizing milk-and-honey body mask, administered in a chic private room (about $135, editionhotels.com). Traditional services at the Ayasofya Hürrem Sultan Hamami start around $85 (ayasofyahamami.com); services at Tarihi Galatasaray Hamami cost about $30 and up (galatasarayhamami.com).

Bathing Tips: You may not need or want to wear a swimsuit, but bring one to the baths just in case. Norms and policies regarding clothing vary, depending on the degree to which men and women are separated. Some bathers do seek out an atmosphere of sexual adventurism; if you’re not one of them, it’s probably better to stick to recommended hammams.

https://www.wsj.com/articles/SB10000872396390444358404577609552606740044

 

 

 

Peter Calder succumbs to the magic of Istanbul’s famous bath houses.

I’ve always regretted that New Zealand has few, if any, public saunas or bathhouses that are not either meeting places for gay men or associated with gymnasiums. That’s why one of the first things I wanted to do in Istanbul was discover the delights of the Turkish bath.

The opportunity came sooner than I thought. Our companion for a couple of days was an effervescent local called Ilginay, who had been deputised by the Tourist Ministry to take us under her wing for the day and, from the first moment, she had bath time in her sights.

This was good for me because she impressed upon the owner of her favourite hamam – bath house – that he should waive the charge for her companions.

“Pay the man who washes you a 10 lira (NZ$6.50) tip,” she told me as she handed me two domino-like blocks entitling me to the services awaiting me. “And the man who massages you, tip him 15 lira ($10).”

It was an obscure system, the difficulty of which presented itself to me as soon as I had disrobed in my (private, lockable) dressing room. I was to wrap myself in nothing other than a thin towel the size of a small sarong, and present myself at the door.

The 25 lira I had carefully extracted from my wallet I had no idea what to do with. Iliginay and my wife had disappeared into the woman’s section with a cheery promise to see me in two hours, so I stuck the money back in my wallet and sallied forth.

The man who almost immediately took my hand, looked like Gene Hackman with a hangover. Since he was about to lay hands on me in a rather intimate fashion, I was rather hoping for a smile, but he was having none of it. He led me into the baths’ main chamber, a steam-filled, high-domed room in which a dozen men reclined wetly and at ease on a large, circular marble slab.

“Lie down, efendi,” he said, using the Turkish form of address that means something like “lord and master”. I was starting to like the look of this.

He took one of my tokens and the small disposable loofah sponge I had been given on entry, and slid a small aluminium bowl towards me to use as a headrest.

What happened next is something of a blur, but I do remember that it was a very sodden blur. Water cascaded in panfuls and foam bloomed in sudsy piles. In between times, I was scrubbed until I felt like a prawn being peeled.

“Change!” he bellowed when he wanted me to turn over and “Sit down!” when he wanted me to sit up, but I thought it best not to offer him a free English lesson while he was armed with a loofah and needed only step up the tempo a bit to drown me.

After a few minutes I found myself being led blindly – my spectacles had disappeared in the melee – into the next room where I sat on a stool while he repeated the procedure from another angle. Then “shower”, he said, pointing in one direction and, “next, massage”, pointing in another.

As if sensing my embarrassment at my cashless nakedness, he rubbed forefinger and thumb together meaningfully and said “Later”.

In the massage room, a man who looked like Antonio Banderas, only more handsome, worked over every square inch of my body with scented oils and sensitive fingers.

The wonderful experience was only slightly spoiled by the fact that I shared the massage room with two Kiwi blokes who, plainly embarrassed by physical contact, were constantly wondering aloud whether the men attending to them were going to “go too far” and saying “Maaaaaaaaaaate, I’ve never had anything like this before!”

Out in the foyer, I sipped on a glass of deliciously tart pomegranate juice (the recommended drink for the occasion) and watched the bathrobed locals chatting. I decided it was a very civilised way to spend the afternoon.

It was another hour or more before the women emerged, giggling. My heart sank as they explained why they’d taken so long.

Jacuzzis were mentioned and pedicures and plunge pools. I couldn’t help thinking it was just another case of the terrible gender inequality that afflicts this part of the world.

CHECKLIST

Getting there: Cathay Pacific has connections to Turkey.

Where to get scrubbed: Istanbul Hamam Is on Cemberlitas Square, only a few minutes’ walk from the Blue Mosque and the centre of Sultanahmet. Admission, including a scrub bath, is about $50 and a 30-minute massage an extra $35. The pomegranate juice is priceless.

Peter Calder explored Istanbul with the assistance of the Ministry of Culture and Tourism of Turkey and Cathay Pacific Airways.

By Peter Calder | Email Peter

via Istanbul: Hours of Turkish bath house bliss – Travel – NZ Herald News.