Don't Be Such a Turkey.
In addition to catching a Whirling Dervishes performance and getting lost in The Grand Bazaar, I looked forward to a Turkish Bath to complete my Istanbul Experience. Not really knowing anything beyond the superficial details of the cultural practice, I handed over my American Express card and stripped down to my underwear. Based on the stern look of the man in the changing room, I soon deduced that boxer briefs were not customary. Wrapped in what I can only describe as a glorified cheese cloth, I took the bar of soap they provided (and the little pride I had left) down to the communal area where I was told to wait for my attendant.
When he arrived I immediately noticed that despite being at least a full hundred and fifty pounds heavier than me, he was dressed in the same-sized white fabric wrap... except his was wet and as transparent as the look of confusion on my face. He pointed to a door that I knew would lead into the heated marble dome… ancient and gorgeous.. just like the picture in the pamphlet. And it was…except instead of a few beautiful men on their backs in states of obvious euphoria, the place was full of other ordinary-looking tourists. Ordinary-looking tourists who, like me, were slowly coming to the realization that capitalism can find its way into even the darkest and most intimate corners of tradition.
It goes without saying, but there was absolutely nothing even pleasantly awkward about the experience. The heavy-set fellow in charge of me reduced all potential erotic and calming properties of the practice as he proceeded to bathe me… in the same fashion that a weary parent would bathe an unruly child. Stunned completely, I had a momentary psychotic break and found myself having an out of body experience. In front of me was a 25 year old naked Filipino-American with his right hand in the air having his armpit scrubbed by a hirsute Turkish middle-aged man. It wasn’t so much that the whole thing was the antithesis of a spa-experience so much as it felt oddly clinical that confused me. It was at that moment that I realized I had to make a decision: Continue the physical and mental disconnect, or return to my body and try, with all my might, to enjoy the adventure.
I suppose it’s the same choice we are presented whenever we confront something new or unexpected. Do we ruminate the awkwardness and let it in weigh down the experience? Or do we surrender to the uncertainty? Relinquishing control has always been a problem for me and so many potential opportunities for growth and fun have been wasted. But as I get older I’m slowly recognizing what little is actually at stake in comparison to all that I can acquire. And compounded by the pestering and costly likelihood that the WhatIfs will breed with regret… I’m making a more focused decision to.. just ride it. I suppose it takes someone like me a bit of time to reach this good place, but it is a good place to be. When one can trust himself enough to make a decision, he must then supplement that decision with commitment. Sure, you can modify and reassess when presented with something new, but until then, don’t half-ass it. Crawl into the decision, inhabit it. Live to say that it was a revelation or a mistake, completely. Otherwise, you’re just the asshole who paid $75 to get your body worked over without every reaching a climax.
When he arrived I immediately noticed that despite being at least a full hundred and fifty pounds heavier than me, he was dressed in the same-sized white fabric wrap... except his was wet and as transparent as the look of confusion on my face. He pointed to a door that I knew would lead into the heated marble dome… ancient and gorgeous.. just like the picture in the pamphlet. And it was…except instead of a few beautiful men on their backs in states of obvious euphoria, the place was full of other ordinary-looking tourists. Ordinary-looking tourists who, like me, were slowly coming to the realization that capitalism can find its way into even the darkest and most intimate corners of tradition.
It goes without saying, but there was absolutely nothing even pleasantly awkward about the experience. The heavy-set fellow in charge of me reduced all potential erotic and calming properties of the practice as he proceeded to bathe me… in the same fashion that a weary parent would bathe an unruly child. Stunned completely, I had a momentary psychotic break and found myself having an out of body experience. In front of me was a 25 year old naked Filipino-American with his right hand in the air having his armpit scrubbed by a hirsute Turkish middle-aged man. It wasn’t so much that the whole thing was the antithesis of a spa-experience so much as it felt oddly clinical that confused me. It was at that moment that I realized I had to make a decision: Continue the physical and mental disconnect, or return to my body and try, with all my might, to enjoy the adventure.
I suppose it’s the same choice we are presented whenever we confront something new or unexpected. Do we ruminate the awkwardness and let it in weigh down the experience? Or do we surrender to the uncertainty? Relinquishing control has always been a problem for me and so many potential opportunities for growth and fun have been wasted. But as I get older I’m slowly recognizing what little is actually at stake in comparison to all that I can acquire. And compounded by the pestering and costly likelihood that the WhatIfs will breed with regret… I’m making a more focused decision to.. just ride it. I suppose it takes someone like me a bit of time to reach this good place, but it is a good place to be. When one can trust himself enough to make a decision, he must then supplement that decision with commitment. Sure, you can modify and reassess when presented with something new, but until then, don’t half-ass it. Crawl into the decision, inhabit it. Live to say that it was a revelation or a mistake, completely. Otherwise, you’re just the asshole who paid $75 to get your body worked over without every reaching a climax.
posted by Al Sal at 2:48 PM
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