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At the appointed hour, I’m greeted warmly and brought into the back rooms. Then the special hammam attendant – known as the natır – asks if I already have my bikini on or if I need to change into it.I take a deep breath and look into her face. I shrug, gently toggle my head. For a moment, the face looking back at me appears dismayed, eyes narrowing, top lip twitching. “Is she supposed to give her clients that look?” I wonder.
“Too much! TOO MUCH!” she calls out. I follow her gaze to see large grey skeins of skin rolling off me like sigara boregi – the ubiquitous cigarette-shaped Turkish cheese rolls I’ve been enjoying. I nod, smile-wincing in embarrassment. In the changeroom, I’m bathed in feelings of discomposure, shame and self-consciousness. I consider making a complaint about what I felt were snide looks and rude remarks. But I don’t. In a flash, I’m struck by the real gift of this day; beyond the sloughing of my skin, beyond the kindness of my husband: I realize I’ve experienced a moment of authenticity in a sea of mostly managed tourist experiences that so many travellers experience today.
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