“I want your body!” the attendant exclaimed as I clung to my costume in the bathhouse. Tittering, I wondered why I was being so coy. Minutes earlier, I’d slipped off a bridal gown. For 500 years, the Bozori Kord Bathhouse – or hammam – in Bukhara, a holy Uzbek city of minarets, madrasas and mausoleums, has sloughed skin. The foibles of foreigners are reluctantly admitted. As Rosa scrubbed my back in a cloud of steam, my eyelids drooped. Swelteri…