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A shopkeeper in the market teaches a visitor how to wrap a head scarf.BJ Oudman

Dispatch is a series of first-person stories from the road. Readers can share their experiences, from the sublime to the strange.

'Men from 6:00 to 11:00, 21:00 to 24:00; women only 11:00 to 17:00, no men allowed." The hours were hand-painted above the nondescript door in a narrow alleyway in the heart of the Fez medina. Could this plain building really be the hammam that Rana had insisted we visit? But just as she'd said, there was the bakery across the street, so this must be the place.

We were spending the last few days of our trip to Morocco in a beautifully restored riad in Fez. It being slow season, we were given the best room in the house, more than a thousand square feet of lovingly restored wood, tile and furniture. It would have been easier to visit the spa they had on site – a luxurious, sterile Moroccan oasis. But Rana, the manager of our five-star riad, noticed our enthusiasm, even need, for local experience and offered direction to the traditional bath house.

Peering in the doorway confirmed the declaration on the sign – men were clearly forbidden. In this Muslim country, where full burkas were the norm on the street, just behind this closed door existed a different world. As we made our way into the room of women with their protective garments shed, all eyes – some shy, some suspicious – turned toward us, revealing curiosity as to why two foreign women (both sporting short hair nonetheless!) wanted to join them in their personal weekly ritual.

Our entrance fee paid, the woman tending the door directed us up the stairs to a private room to change. Heading back down, our bare skin robed in fluffy monogrammed towels borrowed from our riad, we were eager to begin, but instead our confidence was challenged by the dramatic gesturing and verbal reprimands of the welcome wagon. Figuring out what it all meant was made very clear; we reluctantly returned sporting just underwear, this time only to be greeted at the bottom of the stairs by Ada, our 70-year-old personal massage therapist – a luxury for which we had each enthusiastically paid an extra hundred dirham, or $40.

Toothless and wearing only boxers, her 70-year-old breasts dangling to her waist, she led us into a room about 300 square feet in size, furnished only with simple wall taps and plastic buckets, occupied by about 40 women. She pushed her way through, making room for her special customers, and cleared a patch of concrete, shooing other mostly naked women, then motioned for us to sit while she fetched supplies. Cross-legged, hands on our laps, we felt self-conscious as eyes around us continued to question the purpose of our presence.

Ada returned carrying two buckets of hot water, a bar of black soap, some worn squares of cloth and explicit directions to wash. We scrubbed and scrubbed until our skin was spotless and tender. I realized my personal hygiene standard was nothing compared to what these women performed. Or perhaps the ritual had meaning much beyond just hygiene?

But my reflection was interrupted by Ada. Obviously not satisfied with our cleaning efforts, Ada plopped herself down between us. I had Googled hammam etiquette, but nothing quite prepared me for what came next. Using only gestures and grunts, Ada instructed Karen to lie down, offering her soft lap for a pillow. But instead of beginning relaxing massage strokes, she pulled out a steel-wool brush and proceeded to vigorously scrub my helpless friend. Ada's breasts swung wildly, narrowly missing Karen's face, while I attempted to stifle my horror and my giggles.

Eventually satisfied, Karen was allowed to get up, relieved her torture was complete. But the next charade's clue had only one interpretation: "Drop your drawers."

My bravado faded. I knew I was next. And I wondered why we gave up the glossy five-star spa for this bracing dose of authenticity. Enduring the remainder of our "massage" under the watchful eyes of the local women, Ada finally beckoned us to follow her. What was next – clipping our nails? Brushing our teeth?

Ada led us into a dimly lit room. A wall of steam enveloped us, the smell of harsh black soap replaced by the sweet smell of essential oils. When the steam subsided and we could focus, Karen and I were now met by dozens of acknowledging, welcoming eyes. Only then did we grasp the full significance of this place of solace; we had gained their respect and were offered a spot in their sacred feminine community. Here, women could live fully exposed, safe, open.

As we were were left alone to absorb the steam and our thoughts, a young woman smiled and reached over, offering scented lotion to soothe our skin where the brushes and black soap had rubbed it raw. Her kindness was balm for our bodies, not to mention our sense of sisterhood. We had seen more than just the sights in Morocco; we had finally been welcomed into its culture.

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