Last Night We All Took a Bath Together

A traditional Arab bath, that is, in Córdoba. 

I didn't take any photos, so I will regale my readers with this image by the 19th-century Orientalist painter par excellence, Jean-Léon Gérôme:

Description of the experience after the jump.

I signed up for a scrub and a massage. Based on his childhood in Iran, Tom told me to expect a big fat hairy naked guy rubbing me with a burlap sack until my skin wept blood.

The decor of the establishment was Moorish, with arches copied from the mosque/cathedral. Arabic music played faintly in the background. Upon entering I saw no signs of my big fat hairy naked guy. The male attendants were dressed in white Roman tunics and sandals, the females in red track suits and clogs.

We showered and changed into swimwear. (I thought, My big fat hairy guy will be naked while I'm decently covered? Hmm...)

Attendants reunited us with our spouses and escorted us into the bathing area. It was dimly lit; we were instructed not to speak; faint music continued to play. There may have been a hint of incense in the air.

Other couples were lounging in a large, shallow bath of approximately swimming pool temperature. We joined them. Later we wandered into a smaller, hotter pool, and later still a sauna. Then back to the original bath.

I was getting impatient. When would I meet my big fat hairy naked guy with the burlap sack?

After what seemed an eternity, a male attendant plucked us out of the water and directed us into a curtained-off section with smooth stone benches. I thought, At last!

A female attendant approached me. Lie down on this bench, she indicated with gestures and whispering. (I have a hard enough time understanding Spanish when it's spoken at normal volume.) I complied. She began to pour water over me.

Then I realized: This young woman in a red track suit and clogs was to play the role of the big fat hairy naked guy. Imagine my disappointment.

All in all the experience was pleasant. The scrubbing wasn't too rough; the textile employed was much less brutal than a burlap sack. My skin did not weep blood. The massage, on a cushioned table rather than a stone bench, was also nice.

We emerged glowing and went out for supper at 10:30 pm. (I guess I haven't yet mentioned that in Spain meals typically occur at least two hours later than in the US.)