One of the must-do “cultural experiences” while in Morocco, or the Middle East in general, is to get cleansed in a hammam. Before actually going, all Mommy, Anat and I knew was that we were going to a communal shower and maybe a woman would clean us. While that is true, we were in for quite a surprise.


Before I get into the details of the hammam, I have to share some personal aspects about my mom and my upbringing, with regard to sanitation. The word “cooties” was a word we learned at a very young age; they were almost like the boogie man for me when I was young. I knew they were bad, dangerous and to be avoided at all cost, but I could never see them or actually tell you what they were. And where did we learn this? From my mother, of course. Even though I used to not exactly know what she meant by “cooties,” I avoided contact with unfamiliar toilet seats, shower/bathroom floors, spotted glasses, food touched by a stranger’s hand, bars of soap etc. LIKE THE PLAGUE, so terrified that if, g-d forbid, I fell onto a public toilet seat, I would be infected with AIDS. The trouble with being socialized that way at a young age is that it really stays with you. To this day I would rather drop dead than sit on a public toilet seat, and even my former roommate Mary Beth used to make fun of me for wearing shoes in our shower that was covered with a new shower mat that we had bought. I understand how ridiculous this might sound, but it is important to know before proceeding with the story.


Before we entered the hammam the woman at the locker check handed all three of us blue-turned-black shower shoes to wear, which we all 3 looked at and simultaneously said, “No thank you, we have our own.” You never know what kind of foot cooty the girl before you could have had, or if they wash those shoes at all! It’s perfectly reasonable. Beforehand, I was told that you must go to the hammam completely naked, to which Anat was extremely hesitant (understatement of the century). She manned up and we all walked into the hammam completely nude, only to find that the majority of the women in there were indeed wearing underwear. Great, awkward balloon number 1.

It is a large, tiled, steamy, square room, bordered by fountains and bidet-type wash stations on 3 sides, and showers on the fourth. Arranged around the room were red tables with women of all ages laying on them in all their naked or not-so naked glory, getting scrubbed by the employees whom were all wearing soaking wet khaki wrap around skirts and a pink colored tank top.

Our “host” took me by the hand, dragged me across the slippery tile floor (I guess the cooty shoes actually have traction, unlike my $6.99 Sunsations sandals) to a tub full of a black gelly/paste like substance (soap), and reached her hand in to scoop some into all three of our hands. We then proceeded to a steam room where one other woman was washing herself. Our host threw water on us, told us to start washing ourselves with the soap and left. Well, when I finished I didn’t know what to do so I thought I would test out the exfoliating glove we had bought. As soon as I began, the other lady in the steam room kindly but sternly informed me that I clearly have to wash the soap off first. At that moment, our host walks in, begins scolding me for essentially doing her job, throws water on me to rinse me off, and drags me out to the main washing room. Awkward balloon number 2.

At this point, I was separated from my mom and sister and mentally prepared myself to sit on one of those red tables completely nude. She does me the “courtesy” of lightly hosing down the table before I got on, which made the climb onto the table a bit more comfortable. But I couldn’t stop thinking about Mommy and Anat and their probable mortification at having to put their bare bodies on this table where hundreds have women have sat before.

As for me, I got used to it and actually began to enjoy the scrub down I was receiving from this Moroccan woman. We spoke a little bit of Arabic together as she scrubbed away layers and weeks of my dead skin, when all of a sudden, as a result of the vigor with which she scrubbed, her breast slipped out from under her shirt and was bouncing around with every stroke. Shocked and embarrassed, I diverted my eyes and realized that my hostess was the only woman working at the hammam wearing a tube top pink shirt; just my luck. Awkward balloon number 3. Anyways, she finished my scrub-down half-exposed and I eventually got used to her large, old, saggy breast bouncing around in front of my face because I figured that the two of us had definitely already passed the point of “appropriate.”

After the ordeal was over, Mommy, Anat and I exchanged stories, and overall I was very proud of how the “cootie crew” handled the hammam. We all agreed that yes, it was a little uncomfortable in the beginning, but the place itself seemed very sanitary and when it was over we all felt very clean and refreshed. I think the hammam was a baby step away from our cootie-phobia, but I don’t see either of the 3 of us showering without shoes in the near future.