L

et’s say my idea of Istanbul was rather a simple one. You know, a bustling old town with grand mosques and a few grander minarets thrown in to please visitors in search of the exotic.

The bustling part was correct, but there’s more to good ol’ Istanbul than meets the eye.

I was staying only two subway stops from Taksim, whose status of the “classical” city center accorded by visitors is vehemently disputed by locals.

“No, no! Istanbul has many centers, we can’t have just one, there are 15 million of us,” said Kaya, a 23-year-old student who likes to converse in English with travelers.

“One or two hours on the road to travel is normal for us,” added the Istanbulite.

In Istanbul, traffic congestion is as common as kebab shops. But if the idea of huddling together with the crowd or dodging car-honking locals doesn’t rock your boat, you need to know where to be during rush hour.

So a few days later Kaya and I caught up again, at Ortaköy, away from the city’s grip and incessant traffic. Surprisingly, Ortaköy , with its sidewalk cafes and art galleries, still retains a feeling of an urban village.

It is also home to Büyük Mecidiye, an imperial mosque designed in Neo-Baroque style in the mid-19th century. Without the presence of its sky-piercing minarets, this grand mosque probably would look more a European museum. I couldn’t stop adoring it – grand, gracious and majestic.

But I needed to focus on the serious business of backgammon. I confess that I decided to learn this ancient board game only after I spotted it played all over the city, where it is considered cool.

“It’s a game for all ages. A friend taught me. So the idea is to move your checkers from your opponent’s side and across,” explained Kaya.

I continued exploring the world’s only metropolis that straddles two continents. But seeking nontouristic Istanbul was not easy, with development and growth all the rage now.

First, the gritty reality. Istanbul is a melting pot, rich but also poor. Just find a busy intersection and you can spot hawkers selling anything from fresh clams with lemon, socks and pants, bootleg DVDs or a loner shoeshiner earning US$2 a pop. There are also course ubiquitious makeshift florists run by Kurdish ladies; all around me, people were doing their utmost to make a living.

And visiting the touristy part of Istanbul can be done quicker than saying, “Sultan Suleyman”. Just spend two or three days in the historic quarters – Galata, Eminönü, Sultanahment and Fatih – and you’ll bag yourself a heap of Byzantian-Ottoman monuments.

But what I had in mind was something deeper; you could say it went beyond skin-deep.

Washing line

Determined to try a hammam (Turkish bath), I made my way to one at Silivri, housed in a nondescript edifice in the suburb, away from the lavish establishments in the Old Town that cater mostly to tourists.

“Can I use my own flip-flops?” I asked warily.

“You can, though they normally provide sandals,” replied Ahmet, a friend who had come to the rescue to help me grasp the intricacies of bath-house ritual. You know, you don’t want to arrive naked and look like a (naked) fool.

Our yanasma (room keeper) was friendly but tight-lipped. He swiftly provided me with soap, a crisp linen towel, a pair of pestemal (loincloth) and a key to the cabin.

Pestemal-clad, I entered the steam chamber. My eyes took a while to get used to the invisibile sift of vapor. It was the beginning of men-only admittance hours so it was still quiet, although Friday was normally a bathing day, I’d been told. One man was having a scrub in a corner while another splashed himself with a plastic bucket from a small marble basin.

“And now what?”

“We lie down on the gobektasi.”

That is the giant slab of marble always featured in any movie with a Turkish bath set. It’s where hammam-goers socialized in the past, discussing politics and sports matches, although it’s a practice fast disappearing in today’s time-poor society.

I was told to lie down for 20 minutes, to allow time to open the pores before the scrub and massage.

Then along came the attendant, in his early 40s, heavily built, reminding me of those documentary shows about wrestlers from “stan” countries. His name was Șoban. In his right hand was a sac filled with soap, while in his left was a scrub glove, soft yet firm.

There was a quick splash of water before he got down to business. Swiftly, he grabbed my arms and scrubbed them down, then went over my back and my legs. The last time I’d been manhandled – I mean, bathed – was longer than I could remember, and it was by my own mother. Here I was letting complete stranger pluck me like a turkey on Thanksgiving eve.

Now he went into a full assault, massaging my neck. And twisting it. I heard a crack and I felt joints had been moved. What was the likelihood he held a certificate to do that? Somehow I felt reassured, believing that it was something he had done a thousand times before.

In less than 15 minutes, I was squeaky clean. But there was a horrific sight right before me. Dead skin. Mine. Everywhere. It felt uncomfortable but having it removed does good for your skin. Why do you think those Romans, Greeks and later Ottomans loved their bath ritual?

A final move saw Șoban covering me in a mountain of bubbles. I now had to wait and let my skin enjoy its blissful state. But I was curious to know more about my bather.

Șoban has done this work for 25 years, hailing from the quaint village of Kaș in southeast Turkey, famous for its watersports and unspoiled beach.

“Everyone in my hometown learns this trade, then leaves to work elsewhere. The same happened to me,” he said, his tone calm although I sensed a hint of nostalgia.

He keeps long hours, working from 7 a.m. to 11 p.m., except on Sunday, receiving 6 liras (just over US$3) plus tips for his day’s toil, with up to 10 customers a day.

“Now you need to lie down 20 minutes, so your body temperature normalizes,” ordered Ahmet.

I did as I was told, gazing at the bare ceiling. It was hard to stay still though. They say your body is a temple; well, I had just worshipped mine.

And then I had to brace to hit the dusty roads of Istanbul again. I could only hope the zen state I had acquired would not be quickly washed away by the outside world.