*A Female Turkish Bath or Hammam* by Jean-Jacques-François Le Barbier (1785)

There are some experiences that stay with you. Not because they were picture-perfect, but because they pushed you beyond your comfort zone. My visit to the Kılıç Ali Pasha Hamam in Istanbul was one of those experiences. And since no photos were allowed inside (it’s an all-female hamam, so duh), I’m here to paint you a picture – one with heat, bubbles, awkwardness, and surprising grace.

Let’s back up.

I was in Istanbul for a short getaway, drifting through bazaars and sokaks when I found myself daydreaming about a Turkish hamam for quite some time now. You know the images: arched marble walls, steam rising like mist, women wrapped in peshtemals reclining on warm stone… and yes, the glowing post-scrub skin. I read the blogs, picked a highly-rated one that seemed elegant and steeped in history, and booked a treatment at Kılıç Ali Pasha Hamam.

Spoiler: Nothing was able to prepare me for what actually transpired.

The grand lounge of Kılıç Ali Pasha Hamam. (source: Google)

Arrival: The Calm Before the Steam

Nestled in the Tophane neighborhood, the hamam entrance felt more like stepping into a quiet sanctuary than a spa. Built in the 16th century by Mimar Sinan, the building has this understated grandeur. I was early, and the receptionist welcomed me with soft voices and hot tea.

I filled out a short form, and was guided into a softly lit changing area. Everything was spotless and serene. They handed me a peshtemal, the traditional cotton wrap, and I changed into it, unsure if I was doing it right. Was it meant to go over both shoulders? Was it supposed to feel this… erm, breezy?

I tried to play it cool.

Stepping Into the Steam

Then came the moment of truth. One of the attendants motioned for me to come into the hararet – the hot room.

And there it was.

The big, circular marble space – hot room, or hararet. (source: Google)

A big, circular marble space. High domed ceiling with tiny glass insets letting in soft, celestial light. The air was thick with steam. At the center, a massive round marble platform (göbek taşı) where women lay motionless like sunbathing goddesses. And they were… topless. All of them. Just out there, chests out, skin glistening.

I stood at the door like someone who’d walked into the wrong movie.

No one warned me. Not in the blogs. Not in the booking. I mean, I’m all for body positivity, but I hadn’t mentally prepared for this. I immediately became very aware of my own body. How tightly I was holding my peshtemal, how out-of-place I felt, how many eyes (if any) were watching me. Truthfully, I didn’t know where to look. I was shy. Maybe even a little judgmental, though not of anyone else – just of how unready I was to be this exposed, even just to myself.

But as I lay down on the göbek taşı, the heat seeping into my spine, something shifted. The marble was hot, almost surprisingly so but not in a harsh way. It felt like lying on a sun-warmed boulder. I could feel the tension melting from my lower back almost immediately. The steam softened the air, making everything feel slower, as if I were dreaming.

As I lay there, I tried to let go of my unease. I was still tightly clutching the edge of my peshtemal like a security blanket. But after a few minutes, I began to surrender to the space. The other women weren’t watching me. No one cared. They were just… being. Soaking. Resting. I decided to do the same.

My eyes drifted upward, and I found myself gazing at the domed ceiling above me. Soft light streamed through the circular glass insets, known poetically as “elephant eyes” (fil gözleri). The light didn’t just illuminate the space – it transformed it. Beams broke through the steam in gentle, divine shafts, giving the room a feeling somewhere between mosque and moon temple. I was inside a stone lantern, glowing from within.

And this. This, was why I had chosen Kılıç Ali Pasha Hamam.

Not just for the glowing reviews, but because of its history. Its bones. Its presence.

A Hamam Built by Sinan

Kılıç Ali Pasha Hamam was built in 1583 by the master architect Mimar Sinan, commissioned by the Ottoman admiral Kılıç Ali Pasha (a fascinating figure himself—an Italian-born corsair who converted to Islam and rose to become a Grand Admiral in the Ottoman navy).

Sinan is often called the Michelangelo of the East. As chief architect of the Ottoman Empire, he designed more than 300 major structures across the empire including mosques, aqueducts, bridges, and hamams. His architectural genius lies in how he played with light, space, and silence, and the Kılıç Ali Pasha Hamam is a perfect example of that.

The dome floats above the central marble platform like a heavenly crown, pierced by glass “eyes” that let in natural light without compromising privacy. Every surface – the arches, the basins, even the echo of water feels intentional.

Lying beneath that dome, I realized something.

This wasn’t just self-care. It was cultural time travel.

Enter Şerap

Then came Şerap, my natır—the woman who would guide me through the ritual. She was middle-aged, with kind eyes, strong hands, and this quiet confidence. When I told her it was my first time, she smiled and said in soft Turkish-accented English, “Don’t worry. I take care of you.” And she really did.

She led me gently to the kurna, the marble basin and gestured for me to sit back.

The Scrub

When it was time for my scrub, Şerap approached with a bucket and a small kese mitt. She gently poured warm water over me from a brass bowl, her movements practiced and rhythmic. Then came the kese, a scrubbing glove that removed layers of dead skin I didn’t even know I was carrying.

Let me be clear: this part is not for the ticklish or faint of heart. It’s firm. Vigorous. And a little shocking at first. But it’s also unbelievably satisfying. You can literally see the grey rolls of skin sloughing off, like erasing a dusty chalkboard.

At one point, I glanced at my shoulder and thought, “Wait, all of that came from me?”

But it wasn’t just physical exfoliation. It felt symbolic. Like I was letting go of stress, judgment, and mental clutter. I wasn’t in my head anymore. I was just in my body, present and softening.

And as I lay there, caught between heat and awareness, something dawned on me.

This is ancient.

I imagined them – Ottoman women in silks, palace concubines, daughters of merchants, resting on the marble just like me. Laughing, sharing secrets, being scrubbed. I imagined myself among them. Maybe even a sultana. Maybe this was my private sanctuary. Şerap was my devoted attendant. For a few blissful moments, I tried to play the part – to lie still like royalty, letting the ritual unfold with grace.

And then I wondered: Why did women back then need someone to do this for them?

Was it luxury? Was it tradition? Was it about rest? Or was it simply a way to be cared for in a world that didn’t often make space for that?

Bubbles and Grace

After the scrub, Şerap dipped a linen pouch into a bucket of soap and started waving it through the air. Suddenly, a cascade of soft, silky soap bubbles floated down over me like a cloud. It was wonderful! I was encased head to toe in this soapy sheath, with a soft scent of lavender and olive oil. It was both cleansing and modest, a kind of protective shell that made the nudity feel less vulnerable.

She kneaded me softly from behind the foams – shoulders, arms, legs. I had never felt anything like this. And with the steam, the heated stone, the foam, I felt as if I were dissolving into the hamam itself.

I caught a glimpse of another woman nearby also being scrubbed, covered in bubbles, her face completely relaxed. We didn’t exchange words or eye contact. It was as if each of us was floating in her own little cocoon of quiet.

Water and Reflection

The final part of the ritual involved rinsing with warm rose-scented water. Şerap poured bowl after bowl of water over me, soaping away the sweat and bubbles. I closed my eyes and allowed the water to cascade over my scalp, down my back, onto the stone floor.

#notme. Someone sneaked in their phones ~ but yes, looks just like this

When it was over, she wrapped me in a fresh towel and led me back to the dressing area. I moved slowly, like I had just come out of some deep emotional massage.

I sat in the grand lounge afterward sipping tea, wrapped in layers of cotton, hair damp, heart full. There was no music, no chatter, just the occasional clink of teacups and the soft shuffle of slippers. The world felt hushed. Reverent.

What I Wish I’d Known

Looking back, I wish someone had told me that it’s okay to be overwhelmed your first time. I wish I’d known that yes, women are topless. Yes, you’ll feel exposed. And no, it doesn’t matter. It’s not a spectacle; it’s a ritual. It’s not about being seen. It’s about letting go.

I also kind of wish the space was a little more intimate, to be honest. Just something small like sheer drapes or separate corners for us easing into the experience. But I get it now that the open-ness is tradition. It's communal.

And in a world where we’re constantly covering, hiding, filtering, maybe that’s what makes it so powerful.

Would I Go Again?

Absolutely! But next time, I’ll go in knowing what to expect. I’ll walk into that steamy dome like I belong there. I’ll let the peshtemal slip a little easier. I’ll surrender quicker. And I’ll probably ask for Şerap again—because everyone deserves a natır like her at least once in life.

So if you’re reading this because you’re considering a hamam experience, let this be the blog post I wish I had found. Yes, you might feel shy. Yes, you’ll be scrubbed within an inch of your life. But you’ll also emerge feeling reborn, rinsed of more than just sweat and skin.

And you’ll carry that softness with you, long after the bubbles are gone.

Between Steam, Stone, and Vulnerability: My First Turkish Hamam Experience at Kılıç Ali Pasha Hamamı