Finding Relaxation at a Turkish Bath in Istanbul
Taking time to unwind in the hamam was a significant part of daily life in Istanbul but is no longer as popular.
Having spent more than half an hour face-up on a heated marble slab in a room where the temperature had soared beyond 100 degrees, I could no longer tell if I was staring through the pinhole skylights or if I had truly begun to see stars.
My breaths were relaxed yet labored as my heartbeat had slowed considerably. Wisps of steam that hadn’t wafted toward the domed roof had long ago begun to coalesce on my skin. The calming tones of a reed flute harmonized with the steady trickling of water.
For centuries, the Turkish bath house, or hamam, has been the essence of leisure and decompression. After a few chaotic days exploring Istanbul, relief was something I needed.
Slowly, I sat back up, tightening the edge of the thin red towel around my waist. With the taste of salt on my lips, I wicked the sweat away from my eyes and ran my hands through my bedraggled hair. I lurched forward, dangled my legs over the edge of the stone and lethargically stood up.
My vision blurred from the heat, I slipped cautiously into a pair of crude wooden clogs, staggered toward a washbasin and, without a hint of reluctance, poured a shallow tin bowl full of cool water over my head. I did it again, and then a third time, letting the relief cascade down my spine and crash off the stone floor.
That’s when a gruff voice shook me from my calm.
“Are you ready?” the attendant asked.
***
The concept of the steam bath began with the Romans, who built lavish facilities not just for personal cleansing but also for socializing and relaxation. Water, supplied by an aqueduct, would be heated and directed throughout the hall, and the bather would proceed through increasingly warmer chambers before reaching the caldarium, a hot bath located above the furnace.
This idea remained popular through Byzantine times and was adapted by the Ottomans, who embraced the bathhouse in concert with the Islamic ritual of ablution, customary before praying. A number of hamams were constructed, often as part of the mosque complex, and became increasingly ornate in both their design and architecture.
Originally prohibited from visiting a hamam, females were gradually allowed in, though they were — and remain — strictly segregated in different quarters. (At most bathhouses, males and females must enter through different doors; the attendants are always the same sex.) People from all classes were welcomed, with many considering a visit a necessary part of each day.
Like in Rome, the hamam began to play an additional role in society as a public meetinghouse. Open from sunrise to sunset, barbers would visit, casual meetings would be held and entertainment was provided. Rulers constructed their own private hamams within the confines of their palaces, and the women who lived there would often have a bathhouse of their own.
The hamam’s mystique gradually spread westward in the mid-1800s as travelers relayed their tales of the experience, but its prominence throughout the Islamic world gradually declined over time as homes were constructed with their own bathing facilities. Although some still operate today and retain an important function within the community, several have re-envisioned themselves as tourist attractions.
***
The Süleymaniye Hamam, built by Mimar Sinan in 1557 as part of the nearby mosque for Süleyman the Magnificent, was elaborately constructed with lavish arches, domes and chimneys — and it even contained a private lodge for the sultan himself. Today, it caters to couples, although there were single bathers using the facility during my visit.
Murat, the talak, guided me past the large marble dais I had been lying on, and toward one of the four chambers in the larger octagonal bath hall, known as a hararet. With very limited English and a series of simple gestures, Murat, a skinny, dark-haired man in his early 20s, asked me to sit and began to demonstrate the process we would undertake. He flapped his limbs, pointed to the slab and made a squeezing motion with his hands — things I figured I’d understood. He then turned to the faucet, grabbed a tin bowl and filled it with water, splashing it repeatedly over my head and shoulders to cool me down.
After donning a gray mitt made of coarse goat hair known as a keşe, the attendant grabbed my right arm and began to scrub, eliciting from within me a number of involuntary guttural utterances that were seemingly meant as satisfying. He did the same with my left arm, then had me extend each of my legs at a 90-degree angle to wash them as well. After a rinse under fresh water, he pointed to the stone slab.
Lying face down and without a pillow, I felt Murat dig in. Using the mitt, he sanded my neck and my back, providing a service that was both chiropractic and massaging. I tried to match my breathing with the cadence of his kneading, if only to give my body some sort of relief from being pressed against the hard stone.
He stopped to rinse himself, then grabbed what appeared to be a large, olive-colored pillowcase and filled it with a green paste. It bubbled once he added water, and he splashed the soapy mixture across over my back before massaging it in. Once finished, he tapped me on the side so I could roll over, then he began the process anew on my chest. With my skin sufficiently lubed, he asked me to sit up, then splashed more fresh water across my body before stopping, smiling and exiting the chamber.
Like that, after no more than 15 minutes, I was clean. Gingerly, I slipped on my clogs and strutted back through the chamber entrance, where another attendant greeted me and offered me a new towel. At that point, I was escorted to a much-cooler anteroom, the soğukluk, where I finished a glass of pomegranate juice and collected my thoughts.
There, the pinhole skylights illuminated a massive, worn relief painting of traditional hamam life. It was invigorating. It was inviting. It was relaxing.
This much was clear.
Want to go? Appointments can be made online for the Süleymaniye hamam with a variety of options available. Plan at least an hour to 90 minutes for the entire experience.
Disclaimers: All products, services and experiences were paid for and arranged by the author and the vendors named herein had no editorial oversight of this piece. The cover photo is licensed through Amtrak as a publicity photo; other photographs were taken by and remain the property of the author. Contact for republication rights.
