Quasi-homoerotic massage...

The entrance to the hammam
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Well, the streak is over.  It had been 22 years, five months, and like 20 days, but it has finally come to an end.

I'm speaking, of course, about my longstanding streak of not having a 400-pound Moroccan guy lather me with soap as I lay prone on the floor of a communal bathhouse in the residential section of the medina in Fes.  It was one of those streaks that I had hoped would last me well into my eighties, if not later, but I'm afraid it ended last night, and no amount of wishing will ever bring it back.

Synagogue Aben Danan in the Mellah
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I suppose you'd like an explanation.  Well, yesterday after the internet cafe, I went back to my hotel and struck up a conversation with the guy who hands out keys (aka falls asleep on the chair in front of the keys, forcing you to reach over him to get your own).  He was about my age, so we chatted for a bit and talked about how miserable the rainy, cold weather was.  This guy, Mahmoud or something, said that the weather was good for going to the "hammam."  A quick check of my Lonely Planet revealed that "hammam" was "communal bathhouse," and never one to shy away from an authentic cultural experience, I accepted Mahmoud's invitation to tea at his house followed by a good, old-fashioned hammam-ing.

The Fes Tanneries
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Tea was nice, though I was poked and prodded and regarded with much curiosity by Mahmoud's relatives.  Before I knew it, I was whisked away down to the nether-regions of the medina, under shops and centuries-old apartment buildings, stripped down to my boxers, and led into a tiled steam-room-style cavern with men of all ages, shapes, and odors sitting on the floor, washing themselves with buckets of hot and cold water.  Riiiight, because this is really the sort of thing that makes someone like me comfortable.

Anyway, unbeknownst to me, Mahmoud had arranged for the hammam masseuse (because what good hammam doesn't have a masseuse, right?) to perform a traditional Muslim Turkish skin-scraping and muscle-yanking.  There I was, in my boxers, lying on the luke-warm tile of the bathhouse in front of like fifty other men, when the Muslim equivalent of a sumo-wrestling John Candy lookalike strolled in with Turkish soap in hand.  He bent limbs farther than limbs were meant to be bent, he soaped and scrubbed me from head to toe, and then, when he mercifully decided that the novelty of bathing another grown man had worn off, he doused me in water and laughed at the obviously pained look on my face.  Well, at least I can check "hammam massage" off my list of Muslim cultural events I never have to do again.

So yeah, that was, ummm... interesting.  I could actually feel my nerves firing as the guy walked towards me.  Weird.  Today was pretty cool-- up early for a medina and mellah tour with a hired tour guide (only way to do it, apparently).  We went to the old synagogue and Jewish quarter (long since abandoned by any actual Jews, except for the caretaker) and then walked around the shops, souqs, markets, etc.  The coolest part, by far, was definitely the tanneries, which incidentally smelled like shit, but I guess that's what you get when you visit vats of, well, pigeon shit among other things.  I strolled around with my guide, got suckered into buying a Berber blanket (which I actually really like, but whatever), and more or less just enjoyed being in the middle of the fray and not having to spend my life selling olives or live chickens.  Or rubbing down other men, for that matter.  Really puts things into perspective, I guess.

Ran into some girl from Dupont Circle down in DC at the post office just now, and it looks like I'm going to go out to dinner with her and her friend.  There's just something so comfortable about being with other Westerners... I can't explain it.  Just chatting on line at the post office was like taking a break from the petit taxis and swarthy looking men, all of whom offer their services as unofficial guides of the city.

Anyway, tomorrow I'm going to take a stab at making it to Chefchaouen.  No, I don't know when the buses run, and no, I don't know which of the two bus stations they depart from.  All I know is it's like five hours through the Atlas Mountains, and then I'm just going to hang out and do some hiking for a few days.  Chaouen (as the locals call it) is big on tourists, so let's hope my streak of meeting people who don't speak Arabic keeps up.