THE ISTANBUL MASSAGE.
Most bromides 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 schmuck 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 they 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 crotch 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? 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…………..
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