“Istanbul not Constantinople”

Scanning across the divide of Europe and Asia along the Bosporus Strait, I recognized the beauty and significance of Istanbul, Turkey. Standing as an epicenter of religious culture and history, I was awed by the gracious people, delicious kebabs, and mosaic detailing inside every architectural wonder. While my time was far too brief, I know that this visit was the first of many, and only a mere introduction to the Eurasian world I had heard so much about.

No one flatters a young American woman, like myself, more than a Turkish man. My traveling companions and I braved the streets of the Grand Bazaar only to hear catcalls referencing “Charlie’s Angels” and the “Spice Girls”. One man even asked for medical aid, for we were “so beautiful, we were breaking his heart.” Amidst the unusual flattery was a certain irreplaceable charm that made us giggle and move on to the next attraction of the day. Each businessman spoke impeccable English and mastered his use of charm in order to persuade one from thinking rationally. An older Turkish man nearly had us convinced that his store was the only location to buy real magic carpets. At that point I realized the wit and clever spark of the city was enough to keep me smiling all day.

While the Hagia Sophia and Taksim offered stunning scenery and vibrant local nightlife, it was only when a voluptuous older Turkish woman was scrubbing down my body like a dirty saucepan that I began to understand the grace and kindness of Turkish culture. What began as a spontaneous decision to skip yet another tourist attraction, led us to the wonderfully uncomfortable experience of a traditional Turkish bath (Hamam). My cohorts and I diverged from touristy travel and into this Turkish treat of relaxation, cleanliness, and naked women. Since we chose this specific bathhouse, it was very clear that we were the only women there who did not regularly attend, and we were the only women who did not speak a word of Turkish. After a chaotic conversation in a combination of confusing hand gestures and Turkish, we were led into the large sauna and bath area smelling of steam and a musty soap. Our flip-flops sopped in the water on the ground, as I slowly removed my towel to begin the bath experience.

Eventually, the shock wore off and I began to enjoy and love the tough-love of Turkish pampering. I lay down on the hot stone, and was surprised to find how soothing the Turkish woman’s voice was as she sang Islamic prayers. Her voice echoed in the bathhouse, and I began to feel at ease as the other women began to hum along. Not only was Istanbul a beautiful city, but it was also filled with an assortment of citizens ranging from the eccentric and clever street vendors, to the religious and tranquil women in the bathhouse; a perfect duality representative of the city itself. I left the bathhouse feeling refreshed, raw, and regretting that I could not stay forever.

via “Istanbul not Constantinople” | Tripped Media.