An Experience to Remember

W&T left this morning to catch their flight and are now in the air on their way back to the states. I’m killing a day by doing absolutely nothing as I plan on travelling to Bulgaria tonight. We had one last adventure yesterday, whose outcome necessitated its own blog topic.

Before I get into the story, I have to describe the average Turk. This description applies to perhaps 60% of the men we meet in their late 30’s and early 40’s. The Turk is usually well-tanned with dark hair and dark eyes. He’ll be out-of-shape and have a large gut. He’ll smoke relentlessly, as if the intake of oxygen is only possible when sucked through the filter of an American cigarette. And he’ll be one hairy bastard.

Will had been itching to try out a Turkish bath with massage ever since we showed up. Yesterday afternoon we walked into one that claims to be 300 years old and we ordered the deluxe package, or Sultan’s Delight. For 50 yurtle (35 dollars or 50 lire, actually, which we affectionally called the yurtle because of the Turkish abbreviation Y.T.L.) we would be washed, steamed, scrubbed, and massaged. All of this in an hour.

After spending a few minutes in the steam room, my bulky masseur (see description above) ordered me unto the warm marble for a beat-down, Turk-style. But before really getting into it, it was time for business.

“I like Americans,” the Turk pointed out, “they very good tippers. How much you pay?”
“Uh, I don’t know,” I replied.
Him, “Oh, 40, 50 lire very good massage.”
“OK, 40 lire.”
“No, this bad.”
“OK, 50 lire.”
“50 lire good massage, but 100 better.”
“Ha ha ha. No.”
“OK, we start.”

Fuck me. The cost of my massage just doubled to 100 yurtle, and it hasn’t even begun yet. Well, I’m in Istanbul only once, let’s enjoy the service.

This man began something that would only be called a massage by a Turk. He alternated between beating the shit out of me and doing some slap/grab/grope routine like a retarded offensive lineman. At times it was relaxing, at times is was disturbing, but always I was treated like a piece of meat. He finished up the job with a back-breaking adjustment and a scrub/wash combo. Let me tell you, if I didn’t need a chiropractor before I do now. To give you an example of what I’m talking about, Will at one point ended up in a position that can best be described as the old-school wrestler Judo Jean LaBelle’s Camel Clutch. Ouch.

At the end of this ordeal, during which my masseur emitted the most onerous olfactory combination of cigarettes and body odor, the money exchange was explained to me. It seems that paying these guys in front of the building’s owner would mean some sort of tip-sharing. So, I had to go back into the masseur-room and slip him his bill on the sly. But these guys wanted to be sure that happened. When Will ran out of money, and had to leave for an ATM, his man actually came out to the street looking for him when Will didn’t return in time.

Dutch hotel resident points out that the similarly-priced massage in Amsterdam would have had a much happier ending. But that will make another story.