Turkish Bath? Yes, please.

As the end of this study abroad nears to the end (1 month left!), life becomes increasingly busy.

In the midst of this chaotic crunch time, some girls from the program and I decided to go to a Turkish bath on our day off for the Islamic New Year.

None of us had been to one before, but had heard about one  off of Rainbow Street (just in case you ever need to find it) from the other male TA.

Apparently, there are two types of Turkish baths in this world: butt-naked baths and wear-your-swimsuit baths. Once again, according to the male TA who had been before, this was a wear-your-swimsuit bath.

So we grabbed our swimsuits, caught a cab, and headed over to Rainbow street. Luckily our taxi driver knew right where to take us, because based on outward appearances we may have never found it. The bathhouse looked more like an abandoned villa from the early 1900s, complete with an rusting motorcycle and side-car on its cracked-cobblestone driveway.

We wandered through the driveway and into, what we assumed to be, a small, simple, possibly family-run Turkish bath.

We were quickly proved wrong.

The main lobby was enormous, complete with cushioned couches, elaborate Eastern decor, and a hookah bar.

We followed the front desk's instructions, went into the locker room, changed into our swimsuits, and walked into the main chamber of the bath house.

First, we were led into a burning hot steam room. After we clumsily stumbled onto the benches through the thick, foggy humidity, they handed us cold towels and pomegranate smoothies to combat the steam's heat.

Afterwards, we sat in the hot tub until our turn to be scrubbed down came.

MJ and I were up first, so we waited patiently by our stone washing tables until our "washers" were ready.

"Why are you wearing so many clothes?" they asked.

MJ looked at me, I looked at her, and we shrugged as if to say "why not?"

Next thing we knew it, bringing or wearing swimsuits made no difference to the amount of skin we bore as they scrubbed down our butt-naked bodies.

During this deep, and very thorough (I can count on one finger my body parts that were not touched. That's right, one finger) body scrub I got to know my "washer" on many levels. We nonchalantly discussed our lives as if we were two strangers who met while wearing clothes and sharing a bench.

Her name was Leila, she was from Morocco, and she was married to a Jordanian man. They had three kids (side note: This conversation casually took place as she scrubbed my chest.

After the body scrub, we sat up as our "washers" hosed us down like little babies bathing in a sink.

Next stop: the massage table.

The massage was just as revealing, and once MJ and I stopped giggling about the hilarity of it all, it was extremely relaxing.

Following the massage we were led into another heated room; however, this time the heat was dry. After chatting, drying off, and changing, we left the bathhouse as changed women.

The whole experience, I believe, allowed us to shed a lot of unnecessary baggage- stress, dead skin, clothes, and personal boundaries.

In their place now existed a story for the generations, relaxed anxious minds, fresh new skin, and a stronger sense of self and comfort with our bodies.

I can't wait to go again.