Most cliches are bullshit. They’re the phrases found on greeting cards or what people say in uncomfortable situations. ‘Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.’ Really? Is that what the poor guy who lost everything in the Depression thought as he leaped off a tall building on Wall Street? Or, ‘What you don’t know can’t hurt you.’ Wrong. It may not kill you but it sure as hell can make you miserable. 
One day in Istanbul a few years back, I had had a long day leading my group from one site to
another. I was hoarse and foot weary after the 7 or 8 hour trek. The mysteries of the Roman Cistern, the enormity of the Hagia Sophia Mosque, the beauty of the Blue Mosque, all had been explored and explained. Istanbul is an enormous city. Parts of it seem to be on different planets, not just on two continents. This makes it a place of endless fascination but can leave the tourist as well as the tour guide weeping for joy at the sight of a cold beer and an armchair at day’s end. My shoulders ached and my legs were crampy so when John, one of my travelers, suggested we go to a nearby massage parlor before dinner, I agreed. I imagined the soothing music, the gentle manipulation of muscles and the sheer relaxation, all pure pleasure.
The 2 story carved oak doors of the place creaked open into a skylighted courtyard with a reception desk. The space was an oasis of potted palms and soft carpets. I was distracted by a group of smiling and laughing women as t
hey left the lobby, so when the reception girl asked me something about my massage I said of course, yes, whatever. A massage is a massage, I thought. I didn’t know a Turkish massage was somewhat different than the ones I had had in the past and didn’t ask so I didn’t know.
The receptionist smiled and pointed to the changing room.
Wrapped in a large fluffy towel, I stepped into a sauna. The clouds of steam were bucolic and soft and I relaxed into semi consciousness. With a bang, the metal door swung open and a broad, squat man beckoned me.
Squatman took me into a large room, bare except for a raised dais in the middle, yanked off my towel, picked up a fireman’s hose and turned a large valve. Water exploded out of the thick nozzle and hit my chest like a Buick. Cold. Ice cold. It drove me back a foot or two, and it took me a second to catch my breath. I rubbed my hands over my eyes to clear them and saw him motion for me to turn around. The gusher hit my back, Niagara Falls of liquid ice. The spouting water moved from my shoulders to my 
buttocks and then my legs. At his shout I looked over my shoulder. He spun his hand. Fearing the next step, I covered my groin with both hands and turned around. The water hit right where I thought it would. I squeezed my eyes and hoped it would stop. This isn’t an enjoyable massage, this isn’t pleasurable, I thought. This is miserable! Why hadn’t I asked for a description when I paid? I should have listened to the receptionist. He motioned to the dais and, relieved, I figured I could finally rest.
I laid down face up on the stone slab and Squatman stood over me. His checkered shirt was too small and held together by one button. He had arms thick as a boa constrictor and a chest like a beer barrel. He picked up a wad of soapy steel wool and began to scrub me. After the heat of the sauna and the ice of the hose, I feared my flesh would peel away. It didn’t but it wasn’t for lack of effort.
He flipped me over and pounded my back with his fists. With each thud breath spurted out of me. He moved from my sore kidneys up my back to my shoulders then down to my buttocks. Squatty seemed unusually interested in this section of my body, not in a sexual way but more like he was a butcher sizing me up. An ancient memory floated into my head, jarred back by the butt whipping. It took a moment but then it came to me. I remembered what this beating reminded me of.
I was in 1st grade, a timid 6 year old who wanted to please more than anything else. A rule-follower. One fine spring afternoon after a rain, I was waiting for the bus to go home. I happened to step near a mud puddle on the playground and a two inch smear of dampness appeared on one toe of my thick red rubber boots. A minute or so later, a kid came up to me with a message. “Hey, Miss Roberts wants to see you. She’s really mad. Right now”, and he was off. Miss Roberts? My 1st grade teacher wanted to see me? Was she angry? Dread gripped me. Miss Roberts was a fearful and fearsome presence in my life and now I had to face her for some infraction. I wondered what it was and regretted not asking the kid. The wet boot. It must be the wet boot. How did she know? How had she seen this sin of a wet boot? I was almost too scared to move.
For little kids, Miss Roberts was ISIS and Al Qauida rolled into one. Her list of rules was endless and included such things as ‘never get your boots wet, never have a bowel movement without shame, never laugh. And never ever fart no matter how hard it hurts to hold it in. For a moment I stood stock still, afraid I might pee my pants. I inched my way back into the school building and stood before her. LOOK, she bellowed and pointed at the two inches of dampness on my rubber boot toe. WILLFUL DISOBEDIENCE!, WILLFUL CHILD!
She grabbed a ruler, took me into the hallway so my punishment and humiliation would be public, bent me over her lap and began to beat my ass. On the third SNAP I farted, a long, smelly wet one. When she caught the stench, she recoiled in horror and beat me harder. Others, attracted by the fuss, came out into the hall. They looked for a moment, then drifted away, silent. I wanted to get up and smack her face, make her feel like I felt, but 6 year olds back then didn’t do such things. I took the beating. Had I asked the kid why Roberts wanted to see me, I would have gotten on the bus and gone home, knowing it was better to face her the next day. But I didn’t know.
And now I was with a new Miss Roberts, with Squatman reenacting that whipping. I began to wonder why I was enduring this torture. Squatman lifted me off the table, stood me in the middle of the room and grabbed the fire hose again. The icy water spurted toward me but this time I stepped aside. He looked annoyed and directed it at me once more. And I snapped. I wasn’t 6 years old, I wasn’t helpless. I had had it. She had whipped me over nothing, a damp spot on a stupid single red rubber boot, but this time I wouldn’t take it.
STOP!! I yelled. STOP! In my head, I had blurred the line between memory and reality. The two perpetrators had become one and the same. I put my hands up, balled into fists, and advanced on him. I grabbed the nozzle out of his hand, leaned over and shut off the valve. I must have scowled something fierce because his hands went up to his face in defense. Then he was gone, sprinting toward the exit, leaving sloppy foot marks across the white floor. Miss Roberts had left the building.
I shuffled into the room marked RELAX, a bright white space with padded cushions. As I lowered myself gingerly onto a bench, I noticed John. He was across from me with a beverage of some sort and looked a bit scruffy. ‘So how was your massage?’, I asked him. He hesitated a moment then said, ‘A bit more aggressive than I anticipated. How was yours?’ I thought for a moment, mulled over what I had not asked, what I hadn’t known, and how much I hurt. ‘‘No pleasure. Some pain. But cathartic.’
