When my husband arranged for us to stay at a traditional Japanese Ryokan, I knew I could live without the comforts of an American-style hotel, sleep on a futon rather than on a pillow-topped mattress and survive without e-mail. But could I brave the communal hot spring baths, integral to the Japanese way of life?
"They can't be that bad, honey, " my husband reassured me. "After all, the Japanese have been going to the onsens for centuries. Nowadays, men and women bathe separately. You'll be fine."
Yeah, right. I am not a prude, but getting naked and taking a bath with strangers isn't exactly my cup of green tea. "You go ahead without me, dear," I replied. "Have a nice time." And because there isn't a shy bone in his bodacious body, he would. He proudly donned his slippers and yukata, the Japanese equivalent to a lightweight cotton bathrobe. With hands on hips, he winked, "How do I look?" Then he whisked out the door with a towel in hand before I could say sayonara. I was left alone to contemplate. After all, I'm a big believer in "when in Rome...". I love to travel and learn about other cultures, taking risks, leaving fears behind. Yes, I decided, I could do this too. I threw on my yukata and headed for the onsen, thinking back to a conversation I had with a friend before I left on my trip. "Better you than me," she teased. "Just sing to yourself, `My jugs are bigger than yooour jugs!'" Yeah, but unfortunately, the rest of me is bigger too. I left my slippers along with twenty other pairs at the entrance. Inside the first room, several young seemingly perfect, women chatted as they took off their clothes and put them in baskets lining the walls on shelves. In the next room, the bathers washed and rinsed, a prerequisite to getting in the onsen. As I scoped out the scene, it occurred to me: Once I took off my yukata, I'd expose my cellulite, stretch marks and varicose veins for all to see.
So much for Rome. This was Japan. Wrapping my yukata tightly around me, I hightailed it back to the room.
I was determined to try again, so the next morning I woke up early and hurried down to be the first one there. Yesss! No slippers ahead of mine! I doffed my duds and ran to the next room, taking a place in front of one of many hot and cold faucets. I quickly lathered and rinsed in Japanese-style, repeatedly dumping warm water over my head with a plastic bowl as I squatted on a little stool. Then I slipped into the swimming pool-sized tub of steaming, hot water. Ahhhh....peace came over me, if only up to my shoulders.
But not for long. Within minutes, a mother and her young son entered the onsen, interrupting my solitude. Lordy! I wasn't expecting to see the male species here! Thus, my first onsen experience ended hastily as I rushed to find my towel.
I had to confront this issue again a few days later when we stayed with a native Japanese family. Instead of bathing at home, our friends went to the neighborhood baths every night before going to bed. As they gathered their toiletries to take to the nearby onsen, no one seemed embarrassed, not even the pre-teenage daughter and son. The family graciously said nothing about my declining their invitation to join them and even set up a private bath for me in their home, leaving me alone, once again, to think.
When they returned, my husband described how the onsen smelled of sulfur, how the men bathed their young sons and washed each other's backs, and how they sat around the tub and joked with each other, while on the other side of the wall, the women gossiped with their daughters and friends, catching up on the news of the day. I knew I was missing out on the camaraderie and a significant aspect of their culture. I have to admit it sounded, well, fun.
I wish I could say I eventually shed my inhibitions and enjoyed the baths, but that isn't how my story ends. While I do appreciate many aspects of the Japanese culture, the onsen experience is not part of the social mores with which I am comfortable. I decided it was okay to opt out.
As Japan becomes more westernized, I wonder if this centuries-old tradition will be affected. I would hate to see that happen, for although I didn't overcome my timidity, this experience challenged me to look differently at myself. My way of doing things isn't the only way, I discovered. Nor is it necessarily the best. To grow, I have to be willing to test my personal limits. This was a start. Now that we're back home, maybe it's time to build that deck we've been talking about and install a hot tub. My husband and I will invite our friends over and tell them about our Japanese adventures. Perhaps we'll order some sushi to go and sip sake while we soak. But for the time being, you can bet I'll stick to my western ways by wearing my swimsuit.
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