What Happened in the Hamam

And as the years have passed, the time has grown longer. The sad truth is that what I could recall in five seconds all too needed ten, then thirty, then a full minute—like shadows lengthening at dusk. Someday, I suppose, the shadows will be swallowed up in darkness. (“Norwegian Wood,” Haruki Murakami)

Sitting here now, Istanbul seems like such a distant dream. It feels like another lifetime that we set out on a journey to a city so different from what we were used to. Did we really haggle in spice markets, visit grand mosques, sip apple tea, and smoke shishah? Did we really find our way home using the Galata Tower, hunt for rainbow stairs, Gangnam-Styled with a Sultan, and sail across the Marmara Sea to dine in Asia? If not for the hundreds of photographs that testified of our travels, I would have thought it all a dream. A foreign, and most exotic one.

In retrospective, I can attest that it is true, what they say. About Istanbul being a journey for the senses. I can still picture it in my mind. The beautifully crafted lamps that glistened under the sunlight. The cheerful ringing of bells that signaled the proximity of dondurma (Turkish ice cream) carts. The softness of colorful scarves that were sold in front of Hagia Sophia. The bitter anise-flavored aftertaste of Raki that burned down my throat. The insistent pull of fish market promoters that tried to lure us into their respective restaurant. Even the harshness of the angry calls from our AirBnB landlord that rained on our parade. But best of all, I remember a certain trip to the hamam that turned out to be a highlight of my travels.

Previously, seeing jjimjilbangs on Korean television was the closest experience I had to public bathhouses. The concept was just so alien that of course when I heard about some people heading over, I said, “Why not?”

I admit that I had some reservations when we swapped out our sweaters and jeans for a peştemal, a thin cotton towel. An unease that only grew stronger as we were led to the sıcaklık (hot room), and were told to sit by our own kurna (a small marble basin). But as my body grew accustomed to the elevated temperature and soaked in the heat, it was as if all the tension, all the tiredness that built up over the past days began to flow out of my pores.

“Hi.”

I reluctantly opened my eyes, in search of the ones who dared to break the meditative silence. It was a group of college students, just like us, lounging on the göbektaşı (central marble slab). The sight of them in bathing suits, in a bathhouse, in Istanbul was just so jarring that I didn’t know whether to laugh or what. So, I just noncommittally smiled back.

I then looked over to Nick who started to pour water over himself; and I too picked up my tas (a small container) and began to do the same. Scoop. Pour. Scoop. Pour. How familiar the gesture was. Didn’t I use to “shower” like this at my great-uncle’s in the countryside?

After what seemed like ages of splashing ourselves, and one another, us girls were led to a more private room, where two natirs (female attendants) greeted us in only their undergarments. Off with our towels, it was. Before I even had a chance to get embarrassed, I found myself, naked, lying down on a bed of marble, and enjoying a thorough body scrubbing with a kese (handwoven washcloth), a foam wash, and a massage. For a precious moment, there was only me, and my masseuse. And wondrous trails of soapy bubbles and happy feels. I may have even fallen asleep for a second or two!

Alas, too soon I was brought out of my reverie, wrapped back into my towel, and led into the hot room again. Its previous tenants had already gone, granting us the liberty to leisurely sprawl out on the gloriously heated slab of marble. I closed my eyes.

Was it the steam that blurred together my senses? Or was it the otherworldly lights descending from the tall central dome that played tricks with my brain? Anyhow, I am certain that time froze in that moment, as we lay on the göbektaşı in the hamam. Hundreds of Turks roamed outside, strolling along the bustling Istiklal Street, but inside, there was a stillness that pervaded every inch of the room. A stillness that was only occasionally interrupted by the fall of water drops. Drip. Drip.

Silence. Heat. Relaxation. For me those were the most vivid memories of Byzantium.

Although few words were exchanged in the hamam, I left aware of a new solidarity that linked us. Because only we understood. The magic that had transpired in between those walls of steam…

My new friends and I, cooling off after the hamam. Drinking tea like true locals.

Human memory is such a fickle thing. While I was busy looking ahead towards my professional future, some time, somehow, a veil of forgetfulness had fallen upon my past. Most days, I feel like the scenes that I used to paint out in all their glorious details have lost their brilliance; their colors, washed out by the ruthless passage of time. Precious moments that I had sworn I would never forget have started to fade; the sweet murmurs, turned to silence. But there were also rare occasions, such as this, that would give me a clear look into the past—with all its sights, smells, touches, feelings suddenly rushing back, filling the voids that they once had left behind.

Perhaps that is why I write, so that I, who am limited, would not forget the beautiful things, big and small, that have been given to me from the One who is limitless.