Just hamam it!

You haven't lived until you've visited a hamam, otherwise known as a Turkish or Moroccan bath. If you are, as I am, a connoisseur of warm water, lots of soap and a good scrub, the steamier and bubblier the better, there is nothing quite like it in the world. It is also a good reminder that communal bathing is an ancient and perfectly respectable (not to mention relaxing and enjoyable) tradition still practiced in many parts of the world with nothing seedy or sexual about it. This North American former prude is a firm convert.

I was reminded this weekend just how wonderful a Turkish bath can be when I made an appointment for one at a local day spa. My only previous experience was a visit to a historic hamam in Istanbul, where I was shown the ropes by my friend who lives there. On that occasion, we entered a steamy domed room with a centuries-old octagonal marble slab in the center for lounging and washing. Surrounding the slab were fountains in niches along the wall that poured a steady stream of warm water. The dome was punctured with star-shaped apartures that admitted shafts of steamy light from above, completing the sublime, dreamy ambiance. I was sold from the moment I walked in wrapped in a thin red-checked towel and borrowed flip flops. (This is much like the bath looked, except without the random shirtless guys lounging around. Hamams are strictly segregated by gender in most cases.)

Needless to say, the bath in Abu Dhabi was much more prosaic (a small room in the day spa with a square, table-sized slab), but the routine was the same. I entered the steamy room where I sat and softened up for about 10 minutes. I was then scrubbed within an inch of my life by Halima, a very nice middle-aged woman in a bathing suit who took her job very seriously. Armed with a loofah and some olive oil soap, she stripped layer upon layer of dead skin from what I had thought was my perfectly clean, recently showered body. By the time she was done, soggy rolls of epidermis littered the counter, and I felt like a snake who'd shed her scales. That's what it's like in a Turkish bath. You go in thinking you're clean, and come out cleaner than you ever thought possible.

After the scrub down (which doesn't hurt; it's just very thorough), Halima hosed me off, washed my hair and finished with a soapy rub down. My skin was so new, the scrub stung like tiny pinpricks. In Turkey, they use this balloon-like cloth that puffs up into a blanket of bubbles, which is very gentle. At the spa in Abu Dhabi, Halima went more organic and mixed up the soap in a dish, kneeding in the water to make a rough paste. Since I couldn't have possibly been exfoliated any more than I already was, I think it was a skin softener. I emerged after a few more minutes in the steam bath buffed, polished and smooth as a newborn baby.

Now you might be reading this thinking there is no way you would ever consent to being hosed down and loofahed by a strange woman, to say nothing of someone else washing your hair. To which I say, why not? It's a tradition that has lasted hundreds of years, passed down from the Romans and, thankfully, continued in Turkey, the Levantine and North Africa while Europe wallowed in the muck of the Dark Ages. If you ever get a chance, keep an open mind. It's awesome. And, if not, it just leaves more soap for the rest of us...