Onsen

When I set out on this trip to Tokyo, I wanted to embrace my fellow Asians and truly explore what it was like to live in Japan. I wanted to bathe in a pool of the unknown, luxuriate in the warm waters cultural learning, and plunge headlong into uncomfortable situations.

And so, dear readers, that is how I found myself at an onsen.

An onsen is a public bathhouse heated naturally by hot springs. A sento is similar, only the water is heated rather than sourced from a hot spring. The public baths are all over Tokyo and are generously subsidized by the the local government, which means bathing at an average sento will generally only set you back ¥500 or so. In return, you will be soaking in the neighborhood chatter, with people from all ages and all walks of life. Suffice it to say, English is not spoken here.

Reading through the Lonely Planet listings, the onsen in Ginza seemed the most conveniently located/priced. The description, however, was a bit daunting: "The fact that this straightforward Meiji-era bath manages to keep its wits about it, even as real estates continue to climb in the ritzy Ginza that surrounds it, must be one of Tokyo's best jokes. The bath mistress is a daunting battle-axe - no kidding, this gal chews tacks. With this in mind, make sure you scrub extra hard behind your ears." All righty then!

I circled around the block several times as I set off to find the onsen, which (as expected) was marked by a tiny sign and a half curtain leading down a narrow flight of stairs into a humid basement with a bunch of lockers. What next?

As I sat scratching my head, a man emerged from one of the doors and pulled an umbrella out of a small locker. Aha, I hadn't noticed the umbrella icon on the keys.

Then, he put a wooden block into a larger locker and pulled out his shoes. The wood blocks were a rudimentary key system with lines carved to match the key hole.

At this point, I'd stared long enough at the signage to figure out the onsen was ¥450 for admission, and for another ¥100, you could get a towel set with a towel, soap and shampoo. So I stored my umbrella and shoes and resolutely marched inside the door marked for women.

Immediately to my right, there was a counter with the bathhouse attendant. I explained that I was American and heads immediately swiveled. After handing over my money, I stripped off my clothing and put it in a locker. Next, you are supposed to thoroughly scrub yourself clean with a bucket and washcloth. I spotted a few buckets in a corner and grabbed one. Hmm, looks sort of dirty, I thought. As I headed into the scrubbing area, I heard shouts behind me. Oops, I'd mistakenly grabbed a regular bucket. There was another stack of buckets inside that I was supposed to use. Bathhouse faux pas #1, check.

Another woman was cleaning herself inside, so I figured I should scrub at least until she finished. Though I usually shower in 2 minutes or less, Lonely Planet suggested that 10 minutes or so was a solid amount. Ten minutes passed, then twenty, and the woman was still there. At this point, I decided that I'd sufficiently scrubbed myself red, and headed toward the bath. Wait, she said, and motioned towards my hair. Oh, should it be tied up? I gestured. She took a hair pin out of her hair and stuck it in mine. I was now cleared to enter the bath. Bathhouse faux pas #2, check.

Now, when they say "hot," they aren't effing around. I slowly dipped a foot inside, and almost yelped from shock. Gradually, I submerged my whole body into the bath, which had a whirlpool of hot water circulating from the bottom and seating on the sides. First time? asked the other woman. I nodded yes, and explained that I was American, from Chicago. With some additional charades, I told her that I was Chinese, and then gave her my American and Chinese names.

At this point, the water was really, really hot, and my skin was wrinkling like a Sharpei dog. Also, I really needed to pee, and being submerged in warm water wasn't helping. I eyed the clock. It had been about 5 minutes, maybe ten. I forced myself to stay in for a few more minutes, then decided to call it quits. I rinsed myself off with cooler water and tried to stop my head from spinning.

The small hand towel that I'd bought was completely soaked, which left me with a dilemma: how to dry myself. In the end, I simply wrung out the towel and dried myself off as much as possible, then changed back into my street clothing slightly damp. I returned the hairpin back to the woman, who looked me up and down and asked, You okay? Yes, I smiled.

Lessons learned: bring your own towel and hairpins to the onsen, pee beforehand, be prepared for uncomfortably hot temperatures. I don't think I would do it again (I really prefer lukewarm showers) but after a long day of walking around the city, the hot water did wonders for curing sore muscles and I slept like a baby afterwards.