Boobs A-Flappin'

If Anthony was a little embarassed by what I said in Beware the Typos, I can only imagine what he's going to feel about a posting titled Boobs A-Flappin'. But that's the price you pay when you marry a writer.

My friend Megan is in town from San Francisco, somebody I just started to get to know last year, before we moved. She has heard of the Hammam (Middle Eastern style baths and spa) at La Mosquée de Paris, the Paris Mosque, in the 5e arrondissement and wants to give it a try. We meet there this morning -- on a day open only to women -- to relax and rejuvenate.

The building is lovely (with the Moorish arches I fantasize about having around the courtyard in an immense Spanish-style villa in the heart of San Francsisco), and the price is right: 48€ (~$65) for unlimited use of the baths and hot rooms, a body scrub, 20 minute massage, black soap, and mint tea.

 

I am told to bring a bathing suit bottom, so I bring my sporty board shorts once I realize I don't have a traditional bikini. I have an extra one-piece suit that I bring for Megan, since she didn't think to bring one to Paris. We are given a little plastic cup with a packet of liquid soap, which is exactly the color and texture of phlegm (so why is it called "black soap"?) to be used in the pre-shower.

The main room is hot, with marble lined alcoves in which to sit and relax. It seems like it would have felt really elegant 70 years ago, or perhaps the last time they gave it a thorough scrubbing (these may be one and the same). There is a faucet with cold water, and Megan and I find ourselves gradually pouring more and more of it onto ourselves, as we talk about life, San Francisco, Paris, friends, children, parenting, shared experiences, unique experiences, exposed breasts, and all the things that help you get to know a relatively new friend better. There is another client at the hammam, probably in her mid-fifties, who walks back and forth a great deal. She is quite thin, with globe-shaped, enormous breasts that stick straight out from her chest as if a child had drawn her body and glued on two grapefruits. Actually, of course, it is a surgeon who has glued on two grapefruit-shaped silicone implants. False or not, they just beg to be honked. Never in my life have I had such an urge to reach out and squeeze another woman's breasts. Honk! Honk, honk!

The next room is much, much hotter -- in the actual sense, not euphamistically. There is a thick layer of fog hovering a few inches over the cold-tub (which looks exactly like a hot-tub, but is just the opposite). Even I am not short enough to bend myself over or submerge myself low enough to breath in the non-steamy few inches of air above the water, though I contort myself for a few seconds trying. I have never done well in any sort of sauna or steam-room, and breathing in this ultra-hot fog makes me feel like I will die about 40 years too early, so I run out of the room, boobs a-flappin'.

After this, we wait our turn for gommage, a body scrubbing with a rough mitt worn by an even rougher lady. She is mannish, sweaty, and about as unfriendly as they come. The woman before me is obese, with great flaps and folds all over her body, and her gommage takes about 40 minutes. After, the gommage lady hoses off the table, pulls out a different -- but still used -- mitt from a bucket and hoses that down, then orders me up on the plastic table, first face down, then face up. She only scrubs me for about 8 minutes, but we calculate that if you go by surface area, that's probably equivalent.

While I am on the table, Megan learns she can go out and buy her own, new and unused mitt for the exfoliation. It is too late for me, however, and I am wondering what kind of horrible skin disease I will contract through this unbelievably unsanitary sharing of tables and mitts. When I say "wondering," I don't actually want to know. If you know, please keep it to yourself and let me hope for the best. It's bad enough that Megan happened to be telling me a story just yesterday about when she was in a hospital in Japan in the early '90s and watched a nurse rinse hypodermic needles under warm water in order to re-use them. Luckily, she was there for a bum knee and managed to avoid getting any shots. Will I be so lucky? Only time will tell.

By the time the battle ax is done with me, I look like I have been sprinkled with gray confetti of dead skin. So, naturally, I take another shower. Once Megan is done, we head out to the mercifully cooler massage room, where a wonderfully cheerful Moroccan lady slathers me with lavender-scented oil and gives me a truly excellent massage in a colorful Middle East room.

Afterwards, however, Megan and I try to shower to get the oil off, but we are so thickly coated with impermeable oil that it is if we have been purposely waterproofed. Since nothing will penetrate the oil, and we have used up our black soap in the pre-shower, we are forced to get dressed oily. Later I shower at home and she showers at her hotel, and still neither of us will be able to get completely oil-free, especially where they massaged our heads through our hair.

Oily, relaxed, and possibly newly infected with some horrible skin condition, we finish off our excellent morning with a fragrant, warm chicken tagine. It is perfect for this cold, rainy day and is one of my favorite meals I've eaten since in Paris. We top it off with mint tea and a couple pastries from a huge selection of baklava-like desserts with rose-water, pistachio, almonds, and honey .

Perhaps my favorite part of the day is on our way out where I stop to read the sign by the entrance/exit. It says in English, "Our hammam lends you tap-dancing, in case of oblivion. It is all the same more pleasant to use his."

In French, it reads, "Notre hammam vous prête les claquettes, en cas d'oubli. Il est tout de même plus agréable d'utiliser les siens." The correct translation of this would be "Our hammam will loan you flip-flops, in case you forget to bring yours. It is nevertheless more pleasant to use your own." However, I much prefer their translation to mine. I feel like they've got it right. I want to be loaned tap-dancing, in case of oblivion.

I also learn that "A lot of women prefer to remain high clouds..." Here, the French reads, "Beaucoup de femmes préfèrent rester nues...." and the actual translation is "Many women prefer to remain naked..." Not me. I see this perfect morning differently.  I prefer to remain high clouds, honking a woman's fake grapefruit boobs, sipping mint tea with a new friend, and tap dancing into oblivion.