When my mother took us to the bath houses, after we were scrubbed til it hurt, washed, and free to run around glistening in the steam, my sister and I would find an empty room in the labyrinth that had cold water faucets. We would fill up our bath cups to the top then raise them high above our heads and letting it all spill on us we pretended it was raining on our little naked bodies. Our shrieks and laughter from the rush of the cold drops echoed loud bouncing from the warm marble walls.
In the Hammam
Memoirs- A. L. Casablanca
