Istanbul, Turkey. I'm lying on hot a marble floor, naked save for a towel, sweating my tits off and watching my two semi-nude friends get a soapy rub-down from a squat man with a powerful moustache and giant hairy hands.
Soon it'll be my turn. I remember my last massage, in Malta, when I was praying I'd get the less attractive of the two Mediterranean girls, fearing that there was no way my pathetic brain could've coped with being subjected to half an hour of devoted attention from the other one. This is very different. If I find this arousing there is something clearly wrong with me. And I'll be moving to Turkey.
I'd certainly be tempted by the vibe. Wandering around on a tourist sweep in the morning, everyone we encountered was upbeat and friendly. Yeah we're in the tourist part of town, but at least they're fairly mellow about being pushy. 'Hello! How can I rip you off?' shouts one shopkeeper.
We walk around the Aya Sofia and the Blue Mosque. Jeff points out it's not as blue as he was expecting. 'How blue did you expect it to be?' I ask. 'Blue,' he says. It reminds me of the time I went to the Van Gogh museum in Amsterdam with G-Man, and he described the paintings as 'a bit blotchy'.
Not that I can talk. My level of knowledge of anything is embarrassing. As we're wandering around Sultanahmet Square, an area steeped in thousands of years of blending between east and west, I berate the fact that my entire history degree went in one ear and out the other, while thousands of useless facts from my youth as a football fan remain perfectly to hand - ready for that time I'm definitely going to need them. What was Byzantium? I dunno. What territory did the Ottoman empire encompass? Hmmm. Who was the first England player to be sent off in a World Cup match? Easy - Ray 'Butch' Wilkins, Mexico '86.
Tourism is weird though. We spend our free time trooping around looking at remains of older cultures.That's our culture. It's fair enough, as they are fascinating (the square's perfectly-preserved Egyptian obelisk gets us all going) but it makes me wonder what kind of legacy we'll be leaving the travellers of the future, who'll have to settle for tours round the ruins of our tourist information offices.
We soon abandon the tourism for more Zen navigation, wandering around the cobbled streets as the mood takes us, which is my preferred way of seeing stuff. I like the hapzard, 'just chuck it there' nature of the streets and the buildings. A few holes in the wall reveal a glimpse of impressive gravestones, and then we find ourselves tentatively entering the courtyard surrounding a mosque. It's unbelievably peaceful. A guy reclining outside in the sun in his socks beckons us across. We go inside for a look and it's stunning, built in the C13, and full of incredible detail. We find out later that it's something you're meant to see anyway. See us do Istanbul.
And so to the evening, staring up at the old stone ceiling from a pool of other men's sweat. We're lying there prone, letting the heat of the marble floor relax our limbs ready for what's coming. And judging from the reaction of the Turkish bloke who's currently taking a pasting, it's going to be quite the muscular onslaught. We watch as he's ordered to sit on a stone slab next to a little font, and the bloke chucks a bowl of cold water over him. He screams like a child. Hmm. Then during the whole massage he lets out these almighty cries. Jesus. The bloke giving the massage carries on regardless, whistling like a sadist. I feel like I'm next up in a holistic remake of the Reservoir Dogs ear-cutting scene.
Turns out the bloke was just a bit wet. Jeff and I both enjoy our massage, with the elbow digging around in the back, and the slap of the hand on the thighs, but we're both left feeling he could have kicked our arse a little more. It's a bit like getting all the rubber gear on, getting the big plastic ball strapped into your mouth and having yourself chained to the dungeon wall only to receive a light tickling with a feather, rather than a good spine-tingling 240v of current butterfly-clipped on to the ol' testes.
I'm guessing.
Steve was luckier - he got the more sadistic chap. And he says the bloke found every knot, pushing it into the muscle, into the bone and then out into the marble. He looks a little weary. But we all walk back out into the Istanbul streets refreshed, stopping off with a few cans of Cappy juice to watch a bit of dervish. We're left disappointed by the lack of whirling.
And then it's back for more backgammon and smoking, and trying to wean ourselves off the coffees. I'm crowned undisputed lord of backgammon, which is a far more important role on this epic trip than 'bloke who remembers to buy water', 'king of car packing', or 'dude who doesn't keep losing the car keys'.
We end the day back on the hostel roof, drinking G&Ts. We've had the tiniest glimpse of what is clearly a vibrant, diverse and history-dipped city. Hang on, what am I saying? We've done Istanbul. And so it's off to a final sweaty night in the dorm, and the hairy-handed land of nod.
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