1986-1987 Rothberg Yearbook

I must adm it th at I held a somewhat romantic view of Turkish baths.
Well, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. A fter all, there is so much mystery
surrounding it. One only has to let his im agination wander to transport
oneself back to the times of powerful sultans, rich pashas, and scheming
viziers. Thus, when I was in Istanbul in October w ith Marc M adans and
Eric Esses, we jumped at the opportunity to experience a real Turkish
bath dating back 300 years.
For $5, we were entitled to a sauna, bath and massage. Upstairs we
were given private changing compartments, a sparse towel, some wooden
clogs and told to change. Scantily clad as we were, we all felt somewhat
vulnerable and quite silly as we were ushered into a intermediate
chamber, hot and humid. In front of us lay one closed door. W hat
Oriental delights lay ahead? Naked, nubile girls w aiting to feed us
grapes?
Hardly. Upon entering the closed chamber, we were immediately
felled by a sudden rush of hot air that seemed to envelope us in a thick
fog. A big Turk led us to the sauna where we were to w ait for the
massages. Eric and I ordered beers and we all felt like kings.
Eric was first to receive his massage. We wished him good-luck. 10
minutes later, he limped back to the sauna, looking very much worse for
the wear. Too late to turn back now. I was next! I finished off the beer in
a last dram atic gulp, and then followed the attendant to the main room.
In the middle lay a huge, circular slab of marble. He intoduced himself as
Sali, told me to lie on my back, and then went to work.
(Sfll
TURKISH BATH n I
‏\־N C
by Michael Cytrin
ג י ר n י
‏.י־
.
I 8
, ‏.‏f״־‎5‎
I have never felt that much pain in my
entire life. Sali started w ith the toes, breaking
each one in turn. He then took my ankle,
shoved it down hard on the marble, and
twisted it at an impossibly torturous angle.
My face was contorted w ith pain. I prayed for
him to finish, thinking, “I can’t believe I paid for
this!" He worked his way up my body, injuring
each muscle in turn. He finished the front and
told me to turn over, whereupon he began the
process again. W hile he was torturing me, he
asked me questions, but I was too busy
gritting my teeth to answer. Soon, my prayers
were answered. He told me to sit up, and then
he began to massage my temple and neck.
Suddenly, without warning, he gave a quick,
sideways thrust. Before I knew what had hit
me, he had cracked my neck. I was in shock.
He could have broken the damn thing. This, he
informed me, ended the massage.
If I would have been Sultan, I would have
had his hands cut off.
w