Englishman in New York

We’re back! What a great holiday. Five days of sun and spa water in Badenweiler, southern Germany, three days of football fever in Berlin and three days of friends and family in Leeds, England.

The most blogworthy event was probably my gruelling massage at the hands of a hammam meister in Badenweiler. I waited until the end of our stay for this Turkish delicacy, which I have since found out was especially popular amongst Ottoman soldiers for all the wrong reasons.

My hammam meister bore a striking resemblance to Ali G’s Borat. About one hour before our appointment he took great delight in giving me the thumbs up, firmly shaking my hand and insinuating that he was about to cause me a great amount of pain.

The hammam started innocently enough. The hammam meister wrapped me in a tea towel-like loin cloth and placed me in a steam room for about ten minutes. Then he took me into the massage room, removed the cloth and told me to lie on a giant human-shaped sink. Then, with just a small towel to protect my modesty, he proceeded to swish warm water over my body and scrub me from head to toe.

Five minutes in I was still in good shape. The hammam meister took what looked like a giant, cloth shopping bag, dipped it in water, twirled it above his head and pulled a drawstring to release a cascade of soap bubbles that soon covered me from head to toe. I could almost feel the weight of the bubbles, like lying underneath a sheet of soapsuds.

All very relaxing, until the hammam meister covered my eyes with a towel and, starting at my feet, proceeded to massage each major muscle group in my body. He ran his hands over the muscle, digging in with his thumbs and forefingers, first firmly, then deeply and finally with the kind of pressure one reserves for squeezing the remnants of toothpaste out of a tube. I clenched my teeth. At times my body lifted off the table. I realised I would crack easily under torture.

By the time the hammam meister reached my neck I thought I had survived the worst but as he dug his fingers between each of the vertebrae heading towards my head I realized how easy all that had come previously had been. Finally, he hit me with a Vulcan death grip, digging his fingers into the base of my skull.

“Is good, no?” came the voice of the hammam meister, as he lifted the towel from my eyes and motioned for me to turn over.

It would be the same all over again as I lay on my front. I thought I remained conscious throughout but I found out afterwards that at some point he invited Sofie in to take photographs of me, so I must have either dozed off or passed out.

After the massage the hammam meister sat me on the edge of the table, pulled and pushed me into a few stretches and then washed my hair.

“Hammam very good massage for man,” said the hammam meister. “You feel?”

Indeed I did. Every muscle and vertebra felt in line. Every knot had been undone. I was exhausted but rejuvenated. Unfortunately I was also about to become very ill.

The next morning, as we set off for Berlin at about 6.30am, my throat began to hurt. By the time we arrived I was running a fever. And soon I would be suffering from a bad case of tonsilitis.

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