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Good, at least she was wearing gloves, I thought as I tried to relax.
Grabbing my hip, she started to scrub my skin like no tomorrow.
Finally the endless walk does end, and I end up sitting alongside a spigot very near the two youthful French girls, who are so wasp-waisted I have no doubt they can easily garb themselves in their towelettes if they desire.
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By the time she finished, I looked down and I was covered with a layer of gray dead skin. Sitting me on the edge of the platform, she dumped bucket after bucket of hot water over my head to wash it off.
“No, on your back,” said Ayla, gesturing for me to turn over. With my hands clenched into fists and my body as tight as a bow, I rolled over, humiliation complete.
Breathing out, I watched as she poured warm soapy water all over me, and slide her hands into big exfoliating mittens.
I have photographed perfumers offering musky fragrances from folding trays, an old lady hanging her laundry from the window of a tall wooden house behind the famous Blue Mosque, and a sidewalk knife sharpener dressed in balloon pants whose foot-pedaled iron wheel spit sparks from a wicked-looking dagger.
Downstairs, beyond the reception area and a dank warren of hallways and dressing rooms, I’m stunned by the contrast when the main corridor opens up like a giant flower into an Arabian Nights fantasy -- my refuge is an enormous and lofty marble grotto, a cathedral to hedonism.