Travel

July 13, 2010

European Nudes And American Prudes

It was 1978. My vagabuddy Gene and I were heading for a Turkish bath. With tattered towel around my waist, I walked gingerly across slippery marble into a steamy world of shadowy Turks under Byzantine domes. I felt gawky . . . and more naked than naked. After an awkward sit in the sauna, a muscular Turk, who doled out massages like cannery workers gut salmon, laid me onto a round marble slab. With a loud slap, he landed on me, his hands working as if kneading dough in a prison bakery. He smashed and stretched each of my tight muscles. Finally, like lobotomized Gumbys, we were led to marble thrones to be doused in hot water and scrubbed with coarse mittens. Dirt curled off of us in rolls. Finally, we emerged onto the streets of Istanbul, cleaner than we'd ever been.

Related content

Comments