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Learning to Belong at the Sento, or Public BathBy Kimberly Palmer
Learn more about onsen and women in Japan at www.notageisha.com, featuring the new book “Not a Geisha: Being Young and Female in Japan.” The room was so humid that cold droplets of water fell from the ceiling. The herbal scent of the darker bath saturated the tiled room, creating the same sensation of inhaling the steam off a cup of peppermint tea. Naked women sat on stools under rows of waist-high shower heads, foaming up their bodies with thick white soap suds. I carried my bucket with shampoo, soap, and a towel over to one of the empty spots, and pressed the metal button. The water, which was already set at 40°C, shot out and rinsed off the stool under my shower, clearing off any leftover germs from the person before me. I sat down on the stool and pressed the button again, letting the hot water pour down my back. As it hit my feet, which were cold from the short walk between my apartment and the neighborhood sento, shivers shot up my body. The mirror in front of me was completely fogged over. I cleared a space with my hand so I could watch myself wash my face. If I just focused on washing myself, I worried less about whether or not the other women were watching me to make sure I cleaned myself well enough. I wasn’t being totally paranoid – some hot springs in Hokkaido had posted “No foreigners allowed” signs after Western men used the baths without first washing themselves. Just cleaning myself wasn’t good enough; I had to show others I was cleaning myself, and that I would be pure enough to share a bath with them. I had lived in Japan for almost a year, but still wasn’t completely secure about my washing habits. As I washed my face, I snuck glances at the woman washing herself behind me. She was methodically scrubbing her arms with a towel, using enough strength to turn liquid soap into inch-thick mounds of foam. After slowly covering both arms with suds, she moved to her chest, and then her stomach. She kept the same rhythm and circular motion as she moved down to her legs and feet. With the suds still clinging to her, she put down her towel and picked up a pumice stone, and rubbed it hard against her the heel of her foot. I turned my attention back to my own body and looked at my own feet, callused from running. I needed to get a pumice stone.
We had left work together and ate dinner at an izakaya, a Japanese-style restaurant, where you order lots of little dishes and share everything. I had complained to Asako about my trouble at the office. I had been researching for an article on depression treatments in Japan, and had found that psychotherapy – or talk therapy – was replacing pills as the primary way to treat depression. I thought this represented an important and newsworthy shift; Ohno-san thought it was boring. He had told me that unless I could include examples of depressed businessmen who used hostess girls to cheer themselves up, then the story wasn’t going to work. I came to the sento hoping to escape the frustration of trying to fit into Japanese life and my latest work setback. I had moved to Japan because I wanted to go to a place where I would be challenged and forced to question my values. Japan had seemed like a place that could shock me. It turned out that being shocked was the easy part; it was fitting in that was the problem. I hoped my vigorous scrubbing proved that at least I belonged at the sento. Trying to be Japanese took a lot of effort. “Kim, do you want me wash your back?” Asako asked, leaning towards me with her small towel. Her question jogged me back into focus on the task at hand. “Yes, please!” I said. Washing each other’s backs is my favorite sento tradition. The first time I saw an old woman washing her friend’s back, I thought it was because her friend was too weak or inflexible to do it herself. Now I knew that mutual back-washing was part of a friendship and a way of showing affection, in addition to being the easiest way to get a clean back. Asako’s delicate hands worked the towel into a lather. I swiveled around on my stool so my back faced her and rested my elbows on my knees. She started at the top, rubbing my left shoulder in a circular motion, with her other hand on my right shoulder for stability. She moved from left to right, and then down my back. I had to brace my feet on the wet floor to keep from slipping off the stool. She went up and down my back two more times. “Was that okay?” she asked, rinsing the soapy towel under her faucet. I told her it was great, and started getting my towel ready to wash her back. Learn more about onsen and women in Japan at www.notageisha.com, featuring the new book “Not a Geisha: Being Young and Female in Japan.” |
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Finally, Asako came in and sat down next to me. Her
face was shiny with the liquid make-up remover she had just used to clean
off her mascara, eyeliner, and foundation. She looked younger with her
freckles and thinly shaped eyebrows showing. She turned on her shower head
and hunched underneath it. She had tied back her long, straight black hair
with an elastic and was rinsing off her body.