I nodded politely as the waitress cleared my breakfast plate and coffee mug. “Kuidaore” I said [an expression meaning to eat oneself bankrupt, commonly used in Osaka]. The chef and his wife looked at me blankly. “Quee-da-orey” I repeated, this time phonetically. Again, they shared a perplexed look. I got up, nodded to say thank you, and hastily left without uttering another word.
Close to Osaka was a small town called Arima Onsen, a hot spring retreat. For a rare night of luxury and tranquility, I booked a hotel close to the thermal baths. The concierge showed me to my room and cast his hand invitingly to the Onsen (hot spring) Rules. There were four documents. He left, and I took a seat at the desk to examine the documents. Rule 1, no clothes or other garments allowed in the baths, indoor or outdoor. One must be stark naked. Rule 2, always wash with soap before getting into a bathtub. Rule 3, do not wash with soap before getting into a bathtub. My nose tucked in and my eye brows dropped, forming a muddled expression. The rules contradicted themselves. I read again to ensure I had not misinterpreted, but my comprehension had been correct. Rule 4, wear a Yukata, and you will find one in your closet. What happened to being naked? I opened the closet. There were two similar looking apparels. I remembered the concierge had informed me there were Japanese pyjamas in the closet. But which were the pyjamas, and which were the Yakuta? “Wakarimasen” [I don’t understand], I cried. Was I about to perform a profane act? I could forsee it. Entering the sacred bath space wearing pyjamas and covering myself in soap, or without soap, and getting into a bathtub. A relatively innocuous act that would cause considerable shame. I glanced at the map. Three public baths, all situated on Floor 1. Red changing rooms for women. Blue changing rooms for men. That wasn’t so difficult to understand. Please turn left to enter bath space 1 and changing rooms. Please turn right, walk down the corridor, turn right, down the escalator, and cross the wooden bridge for bath spaces 2 and 3. Again, my face puzzled. How do I walk from bath space 1 to bath space 2 or 3. Do I walk naked down a corridor, continuing naked down an escalator and naked across a bridge. It felt like a long way to go being expressed openly. Or do I wear my Yukata? I calmed myself down and maturely descended down to reception to probe for more information. However, after 2 minutes of misaligned conversations, my knowledge was nurtured no more. I went back to my room, picked up a towel, and with great fortitude I headed to Floor 1 to the baths.
The elevator doors chimed open and I expected to see numerous naked individuals strolling the long corridor between the changing room and the escalator. Instead, situated in a quiet foyer, were an elderly couple on faux leather massage chairs. I clutched my towel firmly. There were two changing rooms. One red and one blue. In a moment of panic like an anxious school boy spiralling during an examination, confusion and fear fogged my mind. I had forgotten the colour to go through. Was it blue? No, it was red? At this point, neither looked blue or red, but both blended to a violet light purple. “Wakarimasen”. I took a breath to recollect my thoughts. And at last, the foggy mind was short-lived and I saw the answer I was looking for. On the floor, in front of the blue room, was a signage indicating for male use. I gleefully entered. It was a simple changing room and to my relief it was empty. With an urge to act as quickly as possible before any onlookers watched my pre-bath preparation, I ushered myself through the sliding doors and to the washing booths, situated alongside the bath space. At this point, I decided it was safer to use soap, so to not defile the baths, and I scrubbed myself down. After cleaning myself, I scurried across the floor and into the Kinsen baths, an odourless brown water bath with high levels of iron to help soothe skin.
I lowered my shoulders into the swarthy water. I had done it. I evaded all eyes and could finally relax. The mischievous child in me grinned at a fellow traveller’s anecdote about the miniature male organs seen. I doubted the veracity of the story, which admittedly I had heard for years as a stereotype. But here, I was about to witness it myself, whilst giving my own self-confidence an uplift. I waited for the sliding doors to open to reveal the unbeknownst gentleman. The age didn’t matter, it would all be the same. I let out a forced wheezy laugh and then accidentally swallowed a gulp of the salty water. The doors opened and I heard the pitta patter of the foot steps. This was the moment. I twisted my head and my burning smile turned into ashes. This was not a local. And it certainly was not a white man. The heavy footsteps thudded shattering any hopes of self-confidence that lay awaiting. What were the chances, the probabilities? NO! The gentleman lowered himself into the Kinsen bath along side me. A significant amount of water splashed out. I looked at him and then I looked down. I looked at it and it looked at me. It was as though I was now in an ice bath.
It took no less than ten minutes for a bout of dizziness to hit, which I credited to the heat of the water and nothing else, and I sauntered back to the changing rooms. There, I reflected on a day of mental morass as my fellow bather stood infront of a standing fan to air dry his male organs.
The day had been strenuous. It had been draining ensuring my actions, nor behaviour, did not desecrate Japanese etiquette. When the Tokugawa Shogunate instilled his policy of isolationism during the Edo Period, this had been to avoid European conquests and to preserve Japan’s own history and culture. Sometimes, I thought Tokugawa was right. A canny guest in this country, I had always been careful to fit in. But having performed a cost-benefit analysis, some activities were not worth the confusion and stress. And given there was only one changing room, I still had not found out how one travels down the escalator to bath spaces 2 and 3.
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