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Source Two weeks ago I found myself completely naked lying on my back staring at the starry ceiling of an antiquated bathhouse deep in the heart of Istanbul thinking “what the hell did I get myself into? With the undivided attention of the entire male wait staff and couple of cats for company, I thought, yes, tomorrow I would wear a longer skirt, while shoveling hummus into my mouth, or maybe pants.” And no, I was not about to be ravished by some devilishly handsome Turkish man I met over champagne on my first class flight over. Flicking through my Lonely Planet looking for ideas for the rest of my first night in Istanbul, I decided to try out one of the infamous Turkish Hamam (baths). The Hagia Sofia Walking alone to one of the oldest baths in the city, I had no idea what to expect. As the sun was setting over the high mosque spires dotted around the Sultanhamet quarter of the old city, I tucked into a 5 course dinner of roasted lamb, savory bread dips and soft, flavorful veggies at a nice little back alley restaurant.

My back was killing me from the 3 long flights and my overweight backpack, a massage and bath experience seemed like the perfect way to end the day. In spite of being, what my friends consider, a “girly” girl, I have never actually experienced a spa or professional massage in my life.

Like I said before, I have some strange personality quirks, and paying to be touched by a complete stranger does not sound at all appealing to me, unless of course it is the dark-haired, tall Turkish man from my fantasies. The warm, fragrant lobby was packed with women of all ages, lounging about in slippers and fluffy green towels, chatting and drinking hot tea.

As I walked to my own little changing room, I ran into a young American girl I met earlier who had just finished her massage, raving about how wonderful it was and how she was planning to come back the next day for round two.

How lovely, I thought to myself, lulled into a false sense of security.

Lobby of the baths source Peppy American girl also told me that most people are naked, but I thought it would be ok if I kept my towel around me, having no idea what to expect.

The only image I had of massages was lying face down on a table with a towel over you.I changed out of my clothes, leaving my bathing suit in my bag, wrapped my tiny checkered linen towel about my person as tightly as possible, and pattered off to meet my masseuse, let’s call her Ayla.Rather rotund, exuding a matronly air of authority and knowing about 8 words in English, upon introduction she pinched both my cheeks and said, “You baby! ” And grabbed my hand and dragged me off to the steam room. Telling me to wait ten minutes, Ayla left me to the company of two older women in the enormous octagonal marble room I’d seen in travel brochures.With taps ringing the room, and beautiful star cut holes in the ceiling for light, the hot, steamy place smelled like fresh soap with a touch of fear. People are naked all the time, people are even born naked. Checking to make sure my own itty bitty towel was nice and secure, I found a little corner to sit down and wait, closing my eyes and letting the steam relax me and open my pores (that’s what saunas are for, right? I bought one of the same towels in the markets, they are so incredibly soft It kinda looked like this except the room was way bigger and nicer, and it was all woman.In the center of the room was a large octagonal marble platform about 3 feet high and 15 feet wide, and sprawled out on one side was a completely naked old lady. And they were stark naked source My heart sank as I watched the scene before me unfold from the corner of my eye.It’s like witnessing someone being executed knowing that you’re next. This lady was getting scrubbed, oiled and massaged from head to toe without a stitch of clothing or towel on IN FRONT OF OTHER LADIES. Eagerly, I hopped up to greet her, beginning to ask if I could go back to my little room and put on my bikini bottoms before our session.Maybe I’m just naïve, but I thought I would get massaged in a private room. Adjusting the straps of her own enormous bathing suit, she replied in gruff English, “no swimming suit” and pulled my towel right off of me. Left standing by the door without a shred of clothing or dignity, hopping from foot to foot, I emitted and odd sort of “EEP” sound before throwing up my hands to my face, trying not to have an anxiety attack. It literally took ALL my self control not to snatch my towel back and run the other way.Taking deep breaths I made eye contact with the other woman across the room, clearly she wasn’t expecting this either. Of course, like how things most often work out in my life, a group of about 8 Russian women came in next, along with a big group of middle aged German ladies, one of whom, lay her towel out on the platform and was wearing bathing suit bottoms. I’m the kind of girl who hyperventilates at my annual visit to the female fear factory (aka the gyn) and who changes in the bathroom stall at the gym. Ayla was of course oblivious to my inner freak-out and laid the towel out on the marble platform directly next to the door. But no, I promised myself several goals for 2013, including saying yes to everything and having a year of firsts.Fabulous, not only would I be naked in front of a large group of women, I would also be positioned directly in front of the door, greeting everyone who entered the room in all my shining glory. If anything this would make for a great blog post, right guys?Tip-toeing to my towel, I quickly laid on my stomach, hoping this would be over quickly.“No, on your back,” said Ayla, gesturing for me to turn over. With my hands clenched into fists and my body as tight as a bow, I rolled over, humiliation complete.

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