ISTANBUL -- BY JANE WOOLDRIDGE jwooldridge@MiamiHerald.com

The gray marble cavern is filled with men. Half-naked men. Men with towels looped so loosely about their waists they might plummet at any instant. And that's nothing to anticipate, by the way: There seem to be plenty of Michelin super-size tires, but not a gym-hardened pec or narrowed waist in sight. Twice I've passed by, too hesitant to enter. But a man insists this is the entrance to the hammam, the famed historic bath named Cagaloglu. In I go.

"Is the women's bath still open?" I ask uncertainly. Perhaps, at 7 p.m., it has already closed. What else would explain so many men?

"Yes. Pay here. He" - the corpulent man in charge gestures to a teenaged boy in a Muslim robe - "will show you."

Halfway down the block and into an alley - am I being led into some medievel trap? - we find the entrance to the women's bath. Whew!

What lies beyond isn't exactly the Doral Saturnia or the spa at the Mandarin Oriental. There's more of the chilly gray marble, with a row of wood-trimmed glass cabanas, a table loaded with towels, a fountain. The brochure for Cagaloglu insists that King Edward VIII, Kaiser Wilhelm and Florence Nightingale were among its patrons over the past 300 years, and that these vaunted halls have served as the setting for 138 video productions, including Indiana Jones and a Visa commercial. The Lonely Planet guidebook assures me that "service seems to have improved, and hassles reduced, in recent years."

A generously proportioned woman in a voluminous robe ambles up and takes my ticket. "No. 13, " she says in her few words of English, pointing at the cabanas. "Towel, " she says as I pass a table stacked high with terrycloth. "All off."

I follow instructions, emerging with the short towel tucked around as much of me as it will cover. A half-dozen American women, all 50-ish, are just finishing up, giggling and insisting on a photo with their masseuses. "How was it?" I ask, as I snap each of their point-and-shoot cameras, holding my arms tightly against my torso lest my towel slip. "Great!" they insist.

Her fame secured, my attendant, Sema, points the way through a marbled corridor into an elaborate hall of pillars surrounding a vast octagonal slab beneath a vaulted ceiling. Tucked against the stone walls are tiled pools fed by brass spigots. Despite promises of the brochure, there's no steam bath in sight. "Sit down, " Sema commands. I do.

Four other women - in their 20s and 30s - sit near spigots, sloshing themselves with water scooped with a copper bowl from one of the marble basins, fed by a constant trickle from the taps. All are dressed in the simplest of manners, making a farce of my skimpy towel. Two have Sports Illustrated-perfect bodies, enough to make a normal woman weep. Two others are - thanks goodness! - lumpy like me. Now what? One of the perfect bodies - American - clues me in.

"She told me to wash."

I hook my towel on a peg and move toward one of the ceaseless faucets.

Four attendants enter, clad only in fabric wraps. Each steps into a giant pair of demure white underpants, then drops her cloth shield.

Four attendants, five customers. I grab my towel, prepared to wait. "Towel there!" barks Sema, pointing at the peg from which I've pulled it. "Wash more!" I grab the copper bowl and start splashing.

Now, my turn. Lie down, I'm directed. Ignore the cold of the marble slab, I tell myself. My Turkish bath begins. Though the attendants are topless, and the customers are wearing even less, there is nothing even remotely risque about the experience.

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