I lay on a wet, marble slab draped in a tiny loincloth.
My handler was a huge, mustached guy named Constantine who pushed me around like a big tuna on the soapy rock.
I imagined the ancient Romans in similar Turkish baths, getting scrubbed raw by guys with gladiator forearms.
As Constantine scrubbed my back he said, “Later…you get 30 minute massage. Maybe you need hospital after massage.”
Image by Pixabay