A first-timer’s guide to Turkish hammams

Almost immediately after I booked a trip to Istanbul last summer, I started researching hammams. If there was one thing I was keen on doing while exploring the Mediterranean city, it was visiting a traditional Turkish bathhouse.

Descended from Roman and Byzantine bathing rituals, the hammam itself dates all the way back to the 14th century. And in Istanbul, many of them, including the 440-year-old Kilic Ali Pasa and the 380-year-old Zeyrek Çinili Hamam (reopening in 2024 after a 13-year renovation) retain their historic grandeur and ethos.

According to some accounts, the hammam began out of necessity—they were often built next to mosques so that worshippers could bathe before praying. But the hammam is also a gathering place, said Yavuz Suyolcu, project director at The Marmara Group, which is overseeing Zeyrek Çinili’s restoration. Turkish bathing culture evolved thanks to the Ottomans, he explained, who considered it central to their social life.

These days, a visit to a hammam provides a break from the stress of daily life, said Selma Yildirim, director of the luxurious Chi Spa at the Shangri-La Bosphorus. Between the gentle sound of bubbling water, the fresh smell of soap, and the fact that, for this brief period of time, you don’t have to do anything except succumb to the cleansing ritual, it’s not hard to exhale your way into full relaxation mode.

It’s an appealing experience and, fortunately, not an intimidating one—even for a newcomer, as I discovered when I visited my first hammam in Istanbul. Knowing what to expect, however, can go a long way in helping you fully soak in your bathing time.

Regardless of where you go to try a hammam (be it your hotel’s spa, a spot that designates separate hours for men and women, or a bathhouse like Zeyrek Çinili, which has distinct spaces rather than time slots for each sex), hammam visits generally follow the same order of events.

After entering the palatial Kilic Ali Pasa, I was welcomed with a small glass of juice, taken to a locker room, instructed to undress down to my bathing suit bottoms, and given a plush towel to wrap myself in while I waited for my turn to enter the bath area.

Once inside the pristine marbled space, a staff member told me to drop my towel before pouring water directly over my head. Though I was never one to walk around naked in the ladies’ locker room at the gym, I didn’t feel too shy about bearing all—or nearly all—in front of the strangers in the hammam.

After being adequately rinsed, I was led by the hand to a large, circular slab of heated marble, where I was left for about 15 minutes to relax my muscles. Suyolcu refers to this area of the hammam as the “belly stone,” and explained that it’s meant to prepare the skin for exfoliation. The hot stone, along with the humid atmosphere inside the hammam, works to soften the skin, making it easier to slough off dead cells and get clean, said Yildirim.

By the time I was moved from the stone slab to the washing area, I was essentially putty in the hands of my capable masseuse. It was hard to think of anything besides how wonderful it felt to have my arms, legs, and feet exfoliated, my head and hair gently kneaded, and my skin rinsed until squeaky clean. I didn’t even feel awkward standing with my palms flat against the wall so my backside could be washed. By that point, I was practically in a trance state.

When it was over, I was invited to recline in the lounge area, where I noticed diverse groups of women (various ages, different cultures, both locals and tourists), all wrapped in identical towels and looking equally blissed out. While the hammam’s temple-like ambience wasn’t exactly conducive to conversation, there was a sense of harmony here—one that felt particularly freeing. In the heart of bustling Istanbul, where throngs of people crowd sidewalks and bridges, the hammam is especially precious: the ultimate escape.