I've been feeling a little sure of myself, a little cocky maybe: thinking that maybe this Arabic thing isn't too bad, being able to understand people in the street and being able to make myself understood.

So I thought that a little ritual humiliation would be just the thing, just bring me down a peg or two and teach myself some humility. That sort of thing. So undressing and getting scrubbed by some grandma was perfect.

I got off the bus early and walked through Souq Al-Hamediyyeh to find the spice souq and buy ingredients for tea. A main ingredient was turmeric. I didn't know the word for it and tentatively saying the word with an exaggerated Arabic accent proved no help so I just pointed to the yellowest spice (I have it on good authority that turmeric is bright yellow) and bought 100g of that.

Walked through Al-Qaimerieh until I almost reached Bab Touma Street and arrived at Hammam Bakry. Hammam, not hamam. The former means bathroom, public baths; the latter dove.

10-4 Saturday to Thursday is women's hours so there was a carpet hanging over the door to preserve our modesty and two blokes sat on plastic chairs and drinking tea outside to keep an eye on things.

Inside you're standing in a large domed room with a fountain in the middle. The walls are painted white and the roof's high, giving it an airy feel despite the few small windows being frosted glass. The floor is all stone paving and raised platforms line the walls. The benches on top of them are covered in soft red carpets. Piles of clothes are scattered on these benches.

The place is cluttered: a still with a brass boiler and jars of different teas, a set of shelves piled high with towels, water pipes perch precariously on this. The odd mirror, Arabic calligraphy, a calender showing an Imam clutching a klashnikov, and frescoes of flowers adorn the walls. It looks a bit run down but it's clean.

I undress and head through to the steam room wrapped in a towel. I'm joined by two others. German, by the sound of it. We sit and swelter as the small room fills with steam. The roof domed as well and light seeps through circles of glass set into it.

I go out after maybe 10 minutes for something that is helpfully announced as "Abrasion" by a blue bilingual perspex plaque on the wall. A short, rotund grandmother, a black flannel, a font of hot water and me. She chucks water over me - the floor is sodden and I slide backwards when I sit down - and proceeds to "abrade" my arms, neck, stomach, back and legs with the harsh black flannel. Dead skin peels off in thin, grey rolls. Eew.

Next massage - this sounds more promising and less painful than the sting of hot water on red and abraded skin. The massage is yummy - I'm covered in soap and rubbed soothingly by the same grandma.

Then back to the central bathroom to wash the soap off. I scrub my face and wash my hair with the soap as well. It's the traditional natural stuff that's made with olive oil although the blocks are an unattractive muddy green.

Dripping, squeaky-clean, and smelling faintly of olive oil I head back to the main room. A girl is cleaning the floor with one of those overgrown squeegee things that they use instead of mops out here.
"Shway shway" she tells me mildly and points to the wet floor. Careful, or slowly. I walk too fast for Syria and people are always warning me. I dry off, read a little and drink a cup of strong sweet tea