Here's the Rub By David Streitfeld Washington Post Staff Writer Sunday, July 6, 1997; Page E01

Turkish masseurs don't believe in gentle pats. I saw one literally walk on a client. Two hundred pounds of pressure on, say, a kidney does not sound appealing, even if he took his clogs off first. My limit is enthusiastic scrubbing with a special glove that resembles a cross between a Brillo pad and an oven mitt. I shed my dead skin as easily as any snake.

Perhaps contemplating how easy it would be to tie me up in knots, my guy pulls my arms back and twists them. He then works on my hands, my feet, my neck. Hardly a body part goes untweaked.

All this work is being done while I lie on what is basically a giant griddle -- a marble platform capable of warming up to a dozen or so men at a time. At the moment, there are only three of us, all wearing the customary Turkish bath apparel: a piece of cloth that, when wet, shrinks to the size of a Handi-Wipe.

Surrounding the griddle are a series of alcoves, each equipped with hot and cold running water. Usually the water flows into a marble basin, but when these are full, it pours onto the floor. If enough faucets are running at the same time, the

air itself grows misty, providing a deliciously dank atmosphere. Imagine the local YMCA after five centuries of decay and you'll have the typical Istanbul bathhouse.

You can lie here for hours without being disturbed by anyone or anything. The heat seeps into your brain, dulling your senses, making it hard to tell whether 10 minutes or an hour has passed. Slowly, the accumulated toxins and stresses of life are sweated out. For the first time in a long while, you feel really clean. "Redemption" is not too strong a word.

In other words, a Turkish bath has many of the same merits as taking a hot soak at home. But there's this: No one in Istanbul will ever utter that stupid line, the one made by those folks who just don't understand how much reading it's possible to catch up with during a protracted bath, who clean themselves by jumping in and out of the shower, who know only one joke, which they invariably repeat when you finally emerge, dripping, lightheaded from the steam: "Are you okay? Thought you drowned in there! Ha-ha." People in Istanbul understand.

My mother's birthday and Christmas arrive within two weeks of each other. Last year, as always, I was at a loss to produce even one present, let alone two, so I offered to take her on a trip. I envisioned a cruise. She would play shuffleboard while I read back issues of the New Yorker, flinging them into the sea when I was done.

Instead, she suggested Istanbul. She had been there before and wanted to revisit some old haunts, but didn't think at the age of 72 that she should necessarily be wandering about alone.

I quickly developed my own agenda. Influenced by Graham Greene, Agatha Christie and assorted old movies and travel guides, I had grown up wanting to take the Orient Express. Who could resist the atmosphere of mystery and romance that seemed to accompany all the passengers? But it was never clear why all these characters were going to Istanbul in the first place. The train arrived, they checked into the Pera Palas hotel, and then the stories stopped. The city itself was the greatest mystery.

Modern Istanbul began in the 1920s, when Mustafa Kemal Ataturk became the first president of the Turkish Republic. The last sultan was thrown out, the capital moved to Ankara and the country was secularized. Modernism and democracy are great things, but basically everything of interest to the traveler either ended or, at best, was frozen in time at least 75 years ago.

The prominent Turkish photographer Ara Guler recently complained in an interview in the New York Times that "the real population of Istanbul is 1 million. Today, 13 million people live here. We have been overrun by villagers from Anatolia who don't understand the poetry or romance of Istanbul. They don't even know the great pleasures of civilization, like how to eat well."

The delights of Istanbul used to be everywhere; in order to appreciate them, it was only necessary to wander through the old city, which resembles a thumb pointing toward Asia and boasts the Blue Mosque, Hagia Sophia basilica, Grand Bazaar, the Topkapi Palace and most of the major museums. Now the old city has been remade and tarted up for tourists, and too much of it looks like somewhere else. The first thing I saw on sale in the Grand Bazaar, a complex of hundreds of shops, was Hard Rock Cafe T-shirts.

All this makes a visit to Istanbul bittersweet, as well as urgent. Another decade or two at the current rate of change and the city will end up with all the exoticism and romance of Buffalo. One bad omen: There are reportedly more McDonald's in Istanbul than New York City.

I made a mental list. I wanted to see the city by water, which is the way all the visitors through the centuries rhapsodized about it; to strike a bargain in the Grand Bazaar; to smoke a hookah; to get lost in a neighborhood and not know what century it was; and, of course, to spend as much time in the baths as possible. It was a simple list, but not easily fulfilled.

The hookah, like the baths, belongs to a slower-paced world, where men had whole evenings to leisurely puff away on these elaborate water pipes. By one estimate, there are now only about a dozen cafes in the city specializing in nargiles, as hookahs are called here. Two of them are practically side by side on Yeniceriler Caddesi, the avenue leading from the Grand Bazaar to Hagia Sophia, and are identifiable by a sign in English that says "water pipe garden."

Whichever place you choose, the basic procedure is the same. One of the dozens of hookahs kept ready and waiting behind the counter is delivered to your couch, along with your choice of regular or fruit tobacco and perhaps a glass of tea. A tiny coal placed on top of the tobacco keeps the hookah running for about an hour. Initially, it felt like I was sucking on a fire hose, but I soon got the hang of it.

It was nearing 11 p.m. when I ordered my pipe, and the cafe was down to the serious smokers -- all men, ranging from youths barely old enough to smoke to some guys who looked like they knew the last sultan personally. Conversation was minimal; they either played backgammon or nodded out.

The latter was a great temptation, and not only because of the lateness of the hour. Since hookah smoke is cooled by its passage through the water, it is deceptively easy to swallow, like flavored air. Unlike a cigarette, a hookah mellows you.

During a long afternoon walk the next day, I noticed two hookahs in the windows of houses, almost as if they were on display. Perhaps it's not a disappearing culture so much as one that has simply gone underground, something now done privately in the home. My two hours of smoking cost about $1.25, which means a hookah cafe can't be a hugely profitable business.

I spotted the hookahs during a long walk we took from Kariye Cami'i, the former Church of St. Savior-in-Chora that has a notable collection of mosaics and frescoes, down along the old city walls to the Golden Horn, the gulf that splits the city.

The walls, which are massive enough to have successfully repelled the Scourge of God, a k a Attila the Hun, provide a useful navigating point, making it difficult to get truly lost on the dusty side streets. The crowds that assault the inner city are much less in evidence here. Ditto the traffic. No one thinks it is your goal in life to buy a carpet, or that it is his goal to sell one to you.

Some of the houses are still made of wood, the rapidly disappearing traditional building material in Istanbul, although these tend to be in a state of decay. There are various mosques and imposing edifices to admire -- the red-brick Greek high school looms over a hill like a Dickensian fantasy -- and, if you become tired after reaching the Golden Horn, impromptu ferrymen appear, promising to deliver you wherever you want.

There are official ferries, too, well utilized despite the abundance of bridges spanning the Golden Horn as well as the Asian and European shores. We took a couple and found that despite all the modern buildings, Istanbul from the water still looks something like it used to, when visitors routinely extolled the perfect harmony of sea, sky and city. Additional excitement is generated by near-collisions with other ferries.

Like many visitors, my mother had the idea of buying a carpet. We spent an afternoon talking to two young men in one store who were very nice, very informative about how to tell a handwoven carpet from a machine-made one, and very critical of every other seller of carpets in the city.

We also went to a government store near Hagia Sophia -- in a restored but non-working bath, of all places -- that had hundreds of carpets for sale for fixed prices between $500 and $2,000. That provided a benchmark, although the atmosphere was so desultory we couldn't get anyone to answer our questions, much less sell us something. The touts, of course, insisted that the government store was a rip-off, and we should come to them instead.

Unable to choose and fearful of being taken, we spent all our money at Cigir Kitabevi in the small but charming Old Book Bazaar, an adjunct of the Grand Bazaar. The proprietor sells framed pages of old editions of the Koran, some enhanced by a modern drawing but all with striking calligraphy -- some of it so fine, he said, that it was done with a single mustache hair.

Before I got a chance to test out my bargaining skills, two other customers came in, a young American couple. They chose a framed page, held it up. It was priced at 3 million Turkish lira, about $21. "We saw something just like this for 2 million," the man said. "Would you take that?"

"No," the proprietor said. The couple left.

So much for the grand tradition of bargaining. We bought some artwork anyway. "Pray to your Lord and sacrifice to him," said my favorite. "He that hate you shall remain childless."

Maybe I just never understood the way money works here. The guidebooks said that restaurant bills usually included a service charge, but it was impossible to tell from the bill, and the waiters almost invariably indicated it wasn't true. At Pandeli, which is on top of the Spice Market and my favorite restaurant in the city, the head waiter pointedly insisted I leave a big tip. Of course, maybe he just saw a sucker.

Still, the food was good. Turkish cuisine is at heart simple, and it's best when it stays that way. A brochure for Le Pecheur, a restaurant we didn't visit, claims that "our establishment with its specialities and kitchen of international experience is very pretentious in seafood." At least they admitted it, but my advice is to avoid any Istanbul restaurant that seems pretentious. There's a prominent one called Sarnic, in an old cistern right behind Hagia Sophia, which is very dark (the guy behind us used his cigarette lighter to read the menu), impressed with itself, and not very good.

But I would return tonight to Darulziyafe, part of the complex sur rounding the Suleymaniye mosque. The interior is large enough to seat a couple of busloads of tourists, but the best place to be is outside, under the colonnade. From the right table here, you can see over the wall to the mosque's four minarets. This view could make even the worst food bearable, but my cinnamon chicken was pretty good, too.

In 1836, the English traveler Julia Pardoe visited a Turkish bath. "For the first few moments, I was bewildered; the heavy, dense, sulphurous vapour that filled the place, and almost suffocated me -- the wild, shrill cries of the slaves pealing through the reverberating domes of the bathing-halls, enough to awaken the very marble with which they were lined -- the subdued laughter, and whispered conversation of their mistresses murmuring along in an undercurrent of sound -- the sight of nearly 300 women only partially dressed, and that in fine linen so perfectly saturated with vapour, that it revealed the whole outline of the figure -- the busy slaves, passing and repassing, naked from the waist upwards, and with their arms folded upon their bosoms, balancing on their heads piles of fringed or embroidered napkins -- groups of lovely girls, laughing, chatting, and refreshing themselves with sweetmeats, sherbet and lemonade -- parties of playful children, apparently quite indifferent to the dense atmosphere which made me struggle for breath -- and, to crown all, the sudden bursting forth of a chorus of voices into one of the wildest and shrillest of Turkish melodies, that was caught up and flung back by the echoes of the vast hall, making a din worthy of a saturnalia of demons -- all combined to form a picture, like the illusory semblance of a phantasmagoria, almost leaving me in doubt whether that on which I looked were indeed reality, or the mere creation of a distempered brain."

There are two possibilities: Either Pardoe was filling her hookah with something more potent than tobacco, or the baths have changed a lot in 150 years. For one thing, hardly anyone seems to go anymore. Morning, afternoon or night, I never saw more than a couple of men present. Once, I was the only one there. On the one hand, I felt like a sultan. On the other, it was a little weird, as if I was the only member of the audience for a play. It's supposed to be a communal thing.

The baths are divided, in case you were wondering, into separate sections for men and women. My mother declined to visit one after I described to her how I had seen a man take a tumble on slippery marble, so I can offer no evaluation of what the experience is like for women. Much the same, I'd guess.

Historically, the baths performed a number of roles: They provided people with no plumbing a means of cleansing themselves; they gave women a place of refuge outside the house; and they acted as a civilizing force, showing that all men were brothers underneath their clothes. "Christians, Jews, everyone is admitted and treated equally," wrote one amazed visitor a couple of centuries ago.

The Knopf guide to Istanbul asserts the city has almost a hundred baths, but if so their location is a well-kept secret. I tracked down about a dozen or so in the downtown core, and visited five. They're kind of like motels: They all look roughly the same, but the quality differs.

Using the facilities simply as a sauna is cheap and stress-free. Those who want a massage as well will find things trickier. Consider my experience at the Galatasaray Hamami, one of the best-known baths.

The entrance salon was as sleek as a classy hotel. Unusually, it wasn't necessary to pay up front. Equally odd was the temperature of the platform, which I had found elsewhere to be at best lukewarm. Here, it was sizzling. Lying down before my massage, I kept having to get up and pour water over myself, for fear I would scorch. At what temperature, I wondered, does the human body start to melt?

The masseur got off to a bad start when he pointed at my stomach and said, "Shish kebab. Baklava," and giggled. He began a perfunctory massage and, almost as quickly, began asking for more money. As best I could determine he was offering to give me a really special super-duper extended massage in return for 3 million lira. He pantomimed that he wanted it slipped to him as we shook hands goodbye.

It was a ridiculous sum, about $21 -- more than I figured I would pay for the bath and massage in the first place. On the other hand, it didn't seem a good idea to reject outright someone in a position to "accidentally" snap off my arm. "Gosh," I said, as he pressed my body ever more firmly onto the griddle, "I'd really love to give you huge amounts of money, 3 million is nothing, honest! But I left it all back at the hotel. It's a shame."

He didn't understand, or pretended not to. Negotiations continued. I offered 1 million, he came down to 2. We agreed on a million and a half, shook on it. Perhaps now, I thought, he would be be inspired to work a little harder.

Instead, he smiled and moved away. He went out the door of the bath and into the antechamber before I realized that I hadn't been negotiating for an extended massage at all, just the tip. I was snookered.

Somewhat disgruntled, I went out to my little chamber. The attendant squirted a pleasant lemon juice over my body and massaged it in. You're supposed to tip these attendants. I gave him the equivalent of $2. He held the money up in the air and said, in Turkish but so clearly I knew exactly what he meant, "You call that a tip?"

On my way out, my masseur emerged, dripping from the inner bath, a big smile on his face. Other fellows, some of whom I had never seen before, lined up, literally with their hands out. By the time I escaped to the street, I had a dollar left, and a deeper understanding of the economics of Turkish baths.

My analysis was that since the baths have so few customers, they really have to hustle each one. This, in turn, probably gives folks who end up shelling out $30 or so little desire to return. And the masseurs have minimal incentive to give tourists a good massage, because they'll never see them again anyway. It's a vicious spiral that eventually will result in only a few baths in the heart of the city remaining open. I tried to visit one near the Grand Bazaar that is mentioned in the most recent guides, and found it was out of business, converted to shops.

If there's a moral to this story, it's one that every seasoned traveler knows: The best, most authentic experience is to be found off the main tourist routes. It's no coincidence that I had my best massage at a bath that wasn't in any of the tourist guides or on any of my maps. I stumbled on it by accident because it was around the block from my hotel.

The Gedikpasa bath is only a couple of blocks south of the Grand Bazaar, which means it is very close to the main tourist track, yet it has the atmosphere of a neighborhood hangout. It is not particularly spiffed up, and it was one of the baths I wished were a bit hotter -- I've worked up more of a sweat walking two blocks in Washington's summer swelter -- but the massage was rigorous and excellent, and the masseur never even brought up the subject of a big tip. Afterward, I felt dreamy and weightless. If I could have one of these every day, I thought, life might just be bearable.

DETAILS: ISTANBUL

GETTING THERE: Many European-based airlines, such as Lufthansa and Swissair, offer connecting service to Istanbul from the Washington area. Turkish Airlines and Delta fly nonstop from New York; Turkish Airlines is currently quoting a round-trip fare of $1,052, including add-on fare from Washington.

WHEN TO GO: Summers are broiling and full of even more tourists than usual. In the winter, the poor light makes it difficult to see in drafty places like Hagia Sophia. Spring and fall are nice.

WHERE TO STAY: There are three kinds of places to stay in Istanbul: the Pera Palas; one of the restored touring hotels; and everywhere else. The first is Istanbul's classic hotel, used by everyone famous in the early part of the century. The rooms are reportedly smallish and uninteresting, and I found the bar and tea shop -- both widely celebrated -- unexciting. The touring hotels are small places that have been restored in the traditional style. Reservations are required long in advance. The extremely convenient Yesil Ev (Kabasakal Caddesi 5, 011-90-212-517-6785), with rates of about $150 a night double, is the best-known. Everywhere else is just a hotel. We stayed in the President (Teyatro Caddesi 25, 011-90-212-516-6980), which charged $150 a night double for dull rooms, but it was directly across from the Grand Bazaar, had a wonderful view from the roof, and offered great all-you-can-eat breakfasts.

WHAT TO BRING: More money than you would think. Turkey has a raging inflation rate, and everything seemed quite expensive. A typical dinner was about $35 or $40 for two.

BATHS: The Gedikpasa bath, which I found to be the most authentic and the least touristy, is at Hamam Caddesi 65. A bath and massage costs less than $10. All baths are open from early morning to late at night.

WHAT TO READ: The Knopf guide to Istanbul is a $25 paperback and heavy, but it covers the history, culture, sights and (somewhat less successfully) places to stay and eat. If you read only one book about the city, this should be it. Lonely Planet's guide to Istanbul ($12.95) is also useful.

INFORMATION: Turkish Government Tourism Office,1717 Massachusetts Ave. NW, Suite 306, Washington, D.C. 20036, 202-429-9844.

-- David Streitfeld