Raki

“What the hell am I drinking?” I think to myself as I take my first sip of Raki, or “Lion’s Milk.” The strong taste of black licorice is not what I was expecting and is a stark shock to my taste buds. A few hours ago, while enjoying dinner in Istanbul’s hip area, my friends and I grew curious watching the local’s swig glass after glass of a mysterious clear liquid. Some would add water turning it milky white, while others cut it with some kind of juice.

As we watched our fellow diners, we became more intrigued by what they were drinking and decided to go out and try it ourselves. Which is how I found myself sitting in a pub style bar around the corner from our restaurant drinking Raki and watching an interesting parade of people walk by.

Raki is a well known Turkish drink. It’s distilled with anise similar to Ouzo and has the same black licorice taste. My friend ends up getting a double shot, while I stick to my single — my cousin decides to have a beer instead. We are each given a glass with Raki and ice as well as a bottle of water. Just for good measure we each get cherry juice —we were told pomegranate or cherry are the best— to help cleanse the palette. We pour half the bottle of water into the glass with Raki, turning it cloudy white and start sipping away.

It takes us the better part of an hour to get through our small amount of liquor —the locals at dinner were slugging it back no problem! — and we often add more and more water to finish off the last of our little bit of Raki.

On the car ride back to our hotel I notice things aren’t quite right with my stomach. I’m not queasy per se, but the Raki is not sitting well and I’m on the border of nauseous. While I’m happy to have tried a local drink, I think I’m going to stay away from Lion’s Milk from now on.

Cağaloğlu Hamami

I lay, somewhat self-consciously, at a communal stone slab with nothing covering me expect a tiny pair of paper undergarments while a tiny Turkish woman washes foamy bubbles over me. I’m thankful that the baths are not busy and that it appears — for now — that I am the only person partaking. The bubbles tickle my skin I can’t help but let a laugh escape, which of course, makes me more self conscious.

Others told me that when I visit Turkey, I absolutely had to have a traditional Turkish bath. At the time, all I knew was that it was akin to a spa experience and it was something I really wanted to try. Once arriving in Istanbul I sought out — along with my travel companions — a traditional bathhouse. We opted to go all in and experience a high end bath.

Located near the major sites, the Ayasofia and the Blue Mosque, the Hammai is tucked away — while not necessarily non-descript, it’s also not glaringly obvious. Stepping through the arch marking the entrance and walking inside, there’s a sense of feeling transported to an era long forgotten by the modern world. Beautiful marble flooring with cushions and small tables are surrounded by individual rooms where one can leave there personal items. A female attendant leads me to the women’s bath where I’m given a single papery undergarment to wear.

The experience was incredible; the hot room (think giant clay pot meets sauna) was wonderful and the bubble massage was relaxing, if not ticklish, I was not prepared for the communal part of it. Or the feeling of being so . . . exposed. Of course, I have had massages in my life and I’ve had communal bathhouse experiences, I was at an Onsen when I traveled through Japan many years ago, but never have the two collided — getting a public “scrub down” while being in my birthday suit and in female only communal space.

The experience ended with a more traditional massage — in a private room followed by delicious Turkish delicacies. It was a truly unexpected, but pampering experience.