Turkish bath:
Upon leaving a sauna, sweating copiously, and adorned only in a modestly sized towel, I am summoned to a steam filled chamber. Here I am subject to a thorough rinsing before undergoing the following ritual:
A hairy man rubbing, slapping and essentially tickling me whilst I am
covered in suds. There are four of us victims on a square slab enduring this invigorating,
revitalising, altogether weird experience. We are arranged so that if I look to
the right I cop an eyeful. I keep my eyes closed and fight back tears and laughter in equal amount. I enjoy it.
Alternative Turkish bath: Me in a shoddy hotel room. The
plug doesn’t work so the tub slowly leaks until I resemble a hippo in the dry
season, thrashing around in my own filth. I do not enjoy it.
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