From the crappy hammam to the crappier hotel-with a palace in between

The last thing I remember of Tim on Saturday morning was a kiss on top of the head and a pat on the butt. Having been asleep only 2.5 hours, I was basically paralyzed and unable to give him the send-off I would have liked… so when I woke (shamefully at my normal 10 a.m.), he was nearly in Munich.
Igot myself together, packed my stuff, and dropped it at the front desk to take a few hours in town before heading out to the airport for my 7:30 flight. I intended to tour Topkapi Palace-where the Sultans had lived-and then visit Cemberlitas hammam-built in the 1600s by a very famous architect, can’t remember who right now though.
The palace is –what can I say-palatial.
You enter through a public gate and progress through more-private gates, until you reach the Sultan’s family quarters, with his library – a lovely latticework octagonal pavilion near a flagstone pool- and the circumcision room, where the babies let it all hang out, momentarily at least. I enjoyed it but honestly it was a bit sterile-with all the silk draperies gone, the plush ottomans and cushions turned to dust, the gardens sadly planted with a few struggling begonias (or just grass and weeds), it didn’t give me any chills of the past.
The rooms containing the imperial jewels were a highlight- do you think that any one diamond- and

ruby-encrusted trinket could be special to a person who has hundreds and hundreds of them? Or how about that huge glass bowl full of glossy tumbled emeralds, big as walnuts? Just something for the kids to run their fingers though?
Some of the huge poplars in the last courtyard might have been old enough to tell a story or two of moonlight assignations and plots for royal assassinations, but on the whole, Topkapi reminded me of a hollow old mansion whose heart was burned away.
Despite this complaining, I did end up staying a long time and when I got out I wandered kind of aimlessly trying to decide if I had time for the hammam (Turkish bath). I must have been looking confused because a guy touring his “special handicraft shop” and tried to corral me. I told him I was looking for Cemberlitas hammam and he snorted “You don’t want. Too touristy. Let me take you to authentic Turkish bath right here in Old Town.”
So of course being the worldly-wise traveler that I am-I followed him to Sultanhamet Turkish Bath. Well… it was no classic architectural wonder.
But neither was it touristy, as a large, hairy male Turk wrapped in a peshtemal (cotton bath sheet) shot me a curious look as he padded across the tile floor in rubber flip flops. Alarmed, I asked if it was the women’s bathing hours and the attendant assured me it was OK, with separate sections for men and women. She gave me a key, led me to a wooden cubby with a frosted glass window pane, and a battered wooden bench inside. And instructions to strip and wrap up in my peshtemal. I did so and stepped out.
Another no-nonsense, but kind, lady about my age – in an orange bikini- took over from there, leading me into the caldarium (hot room). Here there are marble basins around an octagonal room-each with a blue plastic bowl sitting on the taps. I’m not gonna lie.
It wasn’t chic. Maybe a long time ago when they first installed the gray and white marble tiles, or maybe when the cut-out star shapes in the central dome were still all filled with blue and yellow glass, or maybe when the caulk was all new and white…. But I’m guessing that was a while ago. Still, it was clean and warm and I didn’t worry about sitting on the stone bench with my plastic dipper. You mix hot and cold til it’s to your liking (preferably realllllly hot) and spend about 10 minutes pouring water over your nekkid self to prepare your skin for ….. THE SCRUBBING!!!!!!!!!!
After the required minutes, the lady stepped in a pulled me out by the arm. She laid me out on a cool marble slab in a warm room and got THE IMPLEMENT. The keseh is a rough mitten made of raw silk-not the kind like Barry White’s sheets but the kind that comes out of a silkworm’s butt.
Perhaps it’s not something you want a bikini-clad 50-some-year-old scrubbing all over your skin. But there are pluses. Number one, it feels A-MA-ZING (if a little rough). Number 2-you shed like an 800-year-old python. I must have shed like a 1,000-year-old python because the lady kept saying “Look Madame!”, “Look!”, “Look Madame!!,” pulling me out of my scrubby-induced coma. I opened one eye and saw it-a shaggy landscape of hundreds of little rolls of dead gray skin all over my tummy, chest and legs. “YUCK” I yelped and she smiled smugly, hearing me admit the truth: “Yes mistress, I am a dirty farangi.”
After the scrubbing came the bubbles, the massaging, the shampooing, and the rinsing with a bucket of hot water. Then it was back to the caldarium for more water-this time as cold as you can stand it. While I was pouring cool water over my new skin, the bath lady broke out into a haunting Middle-Eastern sounding tune. She had a nice voice, and the acoustics were great, especially for a minor key. I had one foot up on the bench and poured the basin down my back-listening to the echoing song, I stepped into the Time Machine-back 500 years, waiting for the Sultan to drop by with some Turkish delight and a bowlful of emeralds.
Was she singing about a harem girl separated from her handsome, but impoverished lover? Or was it more like “Ooooooohh..lalalalala…… With one hand I scrub on the tourist – with the other I take all her coins. But she will always think me the purest, as long as I polish her loins.”
The rest of the day is unimportant. I got to the airport, where I purchased an aptly named “Mixed Delay” sandwich for dinner, flew to my overnight connection in Doha, and took the airport bus to the Doha Seef.
It’s kind of like a bad business hotel in Cleveland. Chipped paint, thin walls, dirty carpet. The hotel was free, part of my ticket, as was the meal I was supposed to get. I had eaten on the plane so I wanted only something light, and, thinking not to be greedy, asked room service for a salad and shrimp cocktail.
“You are Qatar Air transfer passenger?”
“Yes” “
You may have only one sandwich and soft drink”
“Oh… um….” “What, why you no like sandwich?”
“Ummm, how about just a fruit salad”
“Welll…… OK, fruit salad. Only”
It was kind of rancid and cut with an onion-smelling knife, but I wasn’t that hungry anyway.
The bed was soft and cozy though, and the last thing I remember is the guy in the next room banging the toilet seat up and taking a huuuuuge long pee, then slamming the bathroom door. The call to prayer woke me just in time to catch the airport shuttle that would lead me off to Bangkok.