Cubana Cigars and A Turkish Hamam

We were finally whole, we three musketeers in Orient were upon David's arrival. UM and I rushed him off to Bursa, as I had made unfulfilled promises to visit friends. We stayed in my old flat with Akin and Jennifer, and the first night was memorable. At the Istanbul airport UM had bought Cubana cigars, Monte Cristo No.2 I do believe, and they were masculine. Les Trois Mousquetaires convened themselves on the porch, Bursa's lights spread out in front of us, and we mired ourselves in the labyrinth of American Exceptionalism, a concept that America is especially good among nations. It has come under fire in academia, and my generation, molded in the halls of progressive-minded education, has a very different view of what America's legacy projects upon the role it should play in the world today. A good conversation with one defining impossibility: that such conversations are too wide in scope to be properly discussed. Too much research is needed, too many fundamental philosophical pieces to be assembled, the requisite time far exceeding what the interlocutors have at the time. Nevertheless, the exchange of ideas is almost always beneficial, and if "one has ears to hear", much can be learned from others.
As we neared the end of our cigars Akin arrived home and joined us on the porch. Now this was travel as education. This was a golden opportunity because assembled were people who were eager to listen. And it was quintessentially human in all of our imperfections, each attempting to understand the world we live in, striving to become more knowledgeable. Akin explained in his view what was happening to his country, it's history, Islam, and the opportunity to have a civilized, knowledgeable, open-minded, and cross-cultural discussion was special. Akin's fiancee, Jen, also came and shared about her experience teaching at a conservative Islamic school. It was all enlightening as an opportunity to hear first-hand what an open-minded person from the Islamic world thought of world events. This is the type of interaction that can break down stereotypes and prevent the insanity of wars. A sufficient amount will never occur, but I do know it was breathtaking to be part of something so good. Obviously I was inspired. It evoked in me a desire to better the world, to follow Jesus Christ's teachings, and be a force for social justice. I do not believe that I will shake the world to its core, as the Jacobins, Bolsheviks, and other burnt ruins on the landscape of revolutionary history did. But how much more fulfilling it is to be a voice for good rather than evil, to speak boldly for justice while shunning the mantle of cynical, silent impotency. For me, I think this lies in teaching, either at the secondary or collegiate level. I want to be the conductor in the classroom, orchestrating fruitful, beneficial dialogue and thought, greasing the wheels of learning, and helping people to acquire knowledge and to think for themselves. Therein lies my gifting, and I wish to give it.

On the following day we patronized the nearby hamam. Reputedly the location of a rendezvous between Antony and Cleopatra, it is quite old. The building is of Byzantine earthenware brick and domed. The ambiance in place, I braced myself for what I hoped would be an improved second experience. The first time, a year ago, I had left bleeding. It had been a different hamam, and the manly masseur was, shall I say, a bit rough, clenching my sides, thighs, calves, and feet with quick, clamping contractions, keeping me busy with my own bodily contractions, that is, restraining myself from reflexively roundhousing my attendant in the face. But the best was yet to come, in the form of a soap bubble immersion which I suppose was to help with the exfoliation, or more aptly, the corrosion of my epidermis. He used a steel wool pad that quickly tore away the dead skin and far too much sentient skin. During the rubbing I assumed the best, till the soap began to sting my wounds. I would have protested but for my host, an English student, and the nature of male bravado. What man wants to explain that due to his soft skin and abnormal lack of bodily hair, he needs "a softer scrubbing"? I persevered.

This time was better, though I will probably never place myself under the hands of another hamam masseur. We spent much more time by the pools, pouring mineral water from small circular dishes onto our heads. Water is always soothing, and the marble floor, humid air, placid pools, and flowing faucets were therapeutic. Sorry, no pictures:) There was a large pool heated at about 100F while another smaller area practically roasted the bather at a scorching 110F. Arriving at tranquility, David and I prepared for the masseur. He first sat us down by a basin and rubbed us all over with a much more tender but effective towel-like glove. Horrible dark rolls of skin came off. Then he plopped me down on the large marble table and disappointingly conducted a comparably painful massage to my first tormentor, drilling my back and calves with his elbows and conducting an overall mauling of my physique. David and I ambivalently concurred that it was a worthwhile experience as we departed the hamam, exquisitely cleansed and quite tenderized.