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I was reaching the end of my semester abroad in Andalucía when I had the marvelous pleasure of relaxing in what I believed to be an authentic Arabic bath. I had wandered through the star-lit, cavernous ruins of the hot and cold rooms of centuries past in La Alhambra in Granada and Los Alcázares of Sevilla. Finally, these rooms had filled again with water and I could immerse myself in a tradition that had taken place in the land since the Muslim invasion of 711. Candles hanging from stained glass lanterns shone the way from pool to sauna as melodious tunes echoed along the marble walls. I was unaware of being enraptured in a modern day illusion of false grandeur that would captivate me until I took a trip to Morocco a month later. I had never set foot on the African continent and was quick to accept my roommate, Sara's, invitation to join her on a trip to Meknes. Remembering my recent spa indulgence, I was able to convince her to come with me to the local hammam. After passing through the gates, we entered a small, yet tidy changing room. I tried my best to calm my excitement about the pools that awaited beyond the walls as I fetched my suit. Suddenly, Sara and I were approached by a rather thickset woman who demanded we return our swimsuits to the lockers. There was an exchange of confused glances between us, but we knew that this lady au-natural was not someone used to disobedience. Our eyes followed her as she passed through a beaded partition I hadn't noticed on my way in and we caught glimpses of other unclothed women sitting to tea. Tentatively, we got underessed and proceeded towards the door. Behind the door, we were hit by a wall of steam which further increased my anticipation to see what lay hidden beyond. Eventually, among the clouds, we could discern a large, dark shadow. It seemed to be consuming the space around it until I could see that it was the same woman we had just encountered. She shoved sponges and packages of what appeared to be some kind of soap into our hands and pointed through a clearing in the fog to a series of pipes lining one of the walls. We approached the metal tubes and found small wells carved into the floor below them. They were too shallow to be considered baths and had no stoppers for the drains at the bottom of each one. Before I had any time to process my surroundings, the robust woman was upon us, raising a loofah above her head like a Statue of Liberty proclaiming cleanliness for all. She quickly descended upon Sara's back, going back and forth until red splotches began appearing. Another glance was stolen between us as I hesitantly took up my sponge and attempted to scrub my own back. Our sighs of relief added to the surrounding steam when the matron moved on to a different bather. We finished wasing up before she could return. Back in the locker room, Sara started to feel unwell and needed to lie down on one of the benches. In an instant, the loofah woman was by her side, one hand on Sara's head and another on her wrist. I thought I witnessed another emotion appear behind her steel façade, perhaps one of compassion, but she was on her feet with complete determination before I could get a better look. She flew in and out of the beaded curtain, a small silver pot in hand. She spoon fed its contents to my friend then rushed for a glass of water. She stayed by Sara's side until she regained her strength and sent us off with a shot of Moroccan whiskey, very sweet mint tea. As I took one last look into the room, I felt that we were leaving some odd family home. It was definitely not the spa treatment I had been expecting. Instead, it was the treatment of a long forgotten mother who would never cease to care for those who stopped by for a visit.