What
comes to mind when you think of Saturday night as a child? For many people,
it’s bath night. Or maybe that should be capitalized. Bath Night, an American
institution.
 |
| David (left) and his older brothers, presumably AFTER Bath Night the previous eve. |
As
a child Bath Night for our family had a certain ritual. I had seven
brothers and sisters. The girls got the upstairs bathroom usually, while my two
brothers and I splashed downstairs. Glenn, nine years older, would usually
bathe first, because he had places to go and people (usually of the opposite
gender) to meet.
Danny
and I followed. Three years my senior, Danny was expert at taking baths. He
convinced me that no soap was necessary. There were little germs in the water,
and these germs drove tiny bulldozers that scraped dirt away. Mom ended that
theory, possibly after finding no ring in the tub one too many times.
After
the bath, it was into pajamas and onto the living room floor in front of the
TV. At 8:30 Palladin—Have Gun, Will Travel. Next: Gunsmoke, everybody’s favorite.
How many squeaky kids watched Matt Dillon square off against the man in the
black hat every Saturday night at nine? Matt always fired a second late, but
his aim hit its mark. An important lesson for us clean kids.
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| A hamam in Chaouen, Morocco. (Daughter Malika took this lovely photo on her stay in Morocco.) |
I
usually went to the hamam early in
the morning. Fewer people, less hassle. But one blustery night in January, I
grabbed a towel and went to the local bath house. I paid my 50 cents in the
front room, put my clothes in a basket under a bench, and walked into the hot
room.
All eyes turned on me, a
six-foot-one, white American bulk in a sea of brown bodies. The room was
packed, men and boys, dads and sons, washing their hair, scrubbing their legs,
sitting, talking, enjoying their Bath Night, and enjoying watching me.
I
looked for a place to sit down, then spotted a vacant chamber off to one side.
I asked a man who I recognized if the room was taken. He glanced in surprise,
then said “La, sir illa bghiti.” Go
ahead, if you want to.
As
I sat in the room, a small man entered, shook my hand, introduced himself.
“La
bes. N-atai-ek kulshi?” Hello,
You want the works?
It
then flashed that I had entered the domain of the hamam’s masseuse. Before I could say anything, he poured water on
me, and started washing my hair. He scrubbed my back, my front, my legs. He
used a pumice stone and a pad that made Brillo seem like baby lotion. As a
topper, he threw on a few wrestling holds on me and stretched me out. My
muscles cracked and popped. I never felt so good.
As
I left the room, the Moroccans made way for me like Moses in the Red Sea. Their
faces showed a new respect for the Americani.
A few of my students shook my hand. They’d never seen anything like that in
their hamam, and I would guess,
haven’t since.
That
was my most memorable Bath Night. I’ll never forget it, and I don’t regret it.
But I think I’ll stick to Gunsmoke.
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