Stripped to my birthday suit, I was instructed by a stunningly efficient woman to lie on the marble slab while she slathered me in black soap, oils, and potions of questionable origin. Between scrubs, she barked orders: “Sit up! Lie down! Sit up again!”
Each time I obeyed, I slid — less gracefully, more zip-line — across the soapy marble, ricocheting wall to wall like a human puck in a Turkish spa version of air hockey.
By the sixth command, I decided to rebel. Through soap-stung eyes, I glared at the beautiful tyrant and thought: No, I am staying sat.
They said the hammam would be a spiritual experience. Oh, it was. I prayed fervently — first in French (Mon Dieu, pardonnez-moi mes péchés), then in Arabic: Inshallah, salaam alaikum, Mecca, Medina, al-chemy, al-cohol. Any word that sounded holy or remotely related to survival.
I did attempt one reconnaissance peek for an escape route. But with water gushing everywhere, I realized only a full parting of the black waters would get me out. So I sat and prayed some more.
When it was finally over, the attendant handed me a robe. I rushed into it like it was sanctuary itself.
But no — round two awaited. I was led, gently but firmly by the sash, into another room where a kinder woman massaged away my trauma until I stopped trembling and started purring.
At last, squeaky clean and vaguely reborn, I waddled back to my room.
Moral of the story: cleanliness may be next to godliness, but next time I’ll settle for a shower and Wi-Fi.
— from Gita’s Chronicles of Chronically Underwhelming Experiences