Sweat shop memories
He just wasn't my sort of guy, sitting there with hair covering most of his body, wrapped in a flimsy towel and sporting a look which suggested he was out on parole for crimes against humanity.
In one of Istanbul's working- class streets in the Fatih district, my wife Leonie and I were beckoned by a young tout to enter the hamam, or bath house, through a passageway which opened into an open square where sat the intimidating masseur with a murderous look.
There was no way.
So we did a little more research on the 60 operating Turkish baths in Istanbul, which remain one of the city's great tourist attractions.
The Ayasofya Hurrem Sultan Hamam is the most famous of the hamams in the city but with fame comes the fortune lost. It is expensive, up to $100 for the total package, including two sorts of massage.
It would be a hit with real estate agents because it's in the prime location between the Blue Mosque and Hagia Sophia, and no more than 200m from the gates of Topkapi Palace.
We settled on one in the back streets, opposite the picture- framers, around the corner from the hardware and shoe shops, and alongside a small delicatessen, called Gedikpasa. At $50 a head, Leonie's session included both a foam and honey massage while I had the foam and oil treatment, along with the use of the sauna and cave plunge pool.
Built in 1475, the main foyer is lined with individual wooden change rooms where you undress _and try to be as dignified as you can in ill-fitting sandals and a lightweight towel, known as a pestamal. _
_I was ushered through two sets of doors, shuffling along the marble with small steps, which opened to a square room (tepidarium) dominated by a big raised marble stage, with four taps and basins around the walls. _
_After 10 minutes in a clove-scented sauna (calidarium), the sweat started to drip as quickly as the curiosity started to rise. _
_A few local fellows came in and sat on the marble benches in a room about 3m square but there was no time for small talk because my efforts were concentrated entirely on each breath. _
_The door opened after 10 minutes and in popped the masseur, or keseci. The anxiety levels lifted a notch: he had a face only his mother would love, with an eyebrow missing and both eyes seemingly fascinated by the bridge of his nose. _
_After he washed me down with buckets of water in the tepidarium I was scrubbed from head to toe with an abrasive glove which was less painful than I'd first imagined. I was getting ahead of myself. _
_Next, I was centre stage, lying belly up on the marble with the soaked towel struggling to do its job, my head resting on a hot water bottle, only a metre or so from the two locals who had emerged from the tepidarium. _
_The keseci, whose grasp of English was far inferior to the impact his short stumpy fingers made on my body, placed my right hand under my left armpit and my left arm under my right. Then, totally unexpectedly, the room echoed with the cracks of my vertebrae as he pushed down on my chest, as though he was trying to revive a dying man. He almost produced one. _
_Then it was foam time. My man produced a plastic bag full of foam and lathered me all over and started his massage which I feared would probably break something. But the only real pain came when he clawed at my calf muscles like somebody trying to get the last drop from a tube of toothpaste. _
_I was washed down again, then taken to an anteroom for the oil massage - which probably was overkill; the overall price would have been closer to $35 without it - before enduring another 10 minutes in the sauna and a dip in the plunge pool. _
_Leonie thoroughly enjoyed her time - they are women-only and men-only affairs - and the whole exercise will remain one of the cherished memories of our two weeks in Istanbul. _
