The Bathhouse

here's a narrative i wrote for my ethnic/minority lit. class. a little revised than the actual one i turned in, but enjoy.

The Bathhouse

The fear and angst I had been pushing aside for three weeks was now a reality. My feet were planted before the curtained doorway, locking my body in hesitation. I knew passing that threshold meant complete immersion in what lay inside.
The girls had already gone through their respective doorway and being the only male, I was to walk this road alone. With great force my heavy foot left its rooted place and stepped into the Japanese bathhouse.

Three weeks earlier I was in Abbotsford, British Columbia, undergoing ten days of training. Kevin, a college student from Vancouver, was also there training with a team headed to Peru. During a meeting the bathhouses were brought to our attention and Kevin was there to help calm my uneasiness.
"It's just going to be awkward being naked in front of everyone, feeling so vulnerable and all. I'll have nowhere to hide and I'm also going to be the only white guy there you know."
Exhibitionism isn't my thing, and that's exactly what these bathhouses sounded like. Why else would they go hot-tubbing nude? I couldn't help but entertain thoughts of perverts preying in these dark, sinful bathhouses.
I continued to feed my worry out-loud to Kevin, "I thought Japan was a highly respected and evolved country. These bathhouses seem so third-world.
The conversation continued to escalate. The more I thought about strolling around a spa stark naked in a foreign country the more anxious I got. As I kept talking the reservations soon began to include questions of "manhood".
"I wouldn't worry man," Kevin began. "I had a foreign-exchange roommate last semester. Let's just say you'll be a god among men there."

Those words from Kevin echo in my head as I trespass the door into the bathhouse. I wasn't so much worried about my manhood as my white skin standing out like an ink blot on.
Upon entering I see a row of large mirrors to my left, complete with chairs and counters laden with combs, razors, and shaving cream. To the right there is an island of mini lockers coming up to mid-waist where all your personal items are stored.
This foyer-like room has about four Japanese men in there either toweling off in completion or disrobing themselves in preparation for a hot soak. I slowly walked up to a locker, fully aware of how safe I felt behind the confines of my denim and cotton protectors.
I stripped off piece by piece and soon stood without anything except a small hand towel. The door leading out of the foyer led into a room before the baths; a room lined with traditional Japanese showers.

Karis, the missionary who brought us to the baths, helped us understand what to do with these showers on the drive.
"There's a nozzle that you wash and rinse yourself off with. There's also a bucket you can use, which is even more traditional."
Karis also added, "You'll also be crouching down; the nozzles are at floor level."
I proceeded to an individual shower and spent a good ten minutes procrastinating while cleaning myself. I made sure I was well rinsed before I ventured to the baths where all the men already were.

Once I could stall no longer I grabbed my hand towel and entered the third and final stage of the bathhouse. To my left there was a large communal bath and individual baths to my right. All the baths varied in temperature, depth, and size.
As I walked in further there was an outside balcony area that overlooked the city that even featured a bath. A lot of the men took a break from the heat to come out and enjoy the cool night air.
Past the balcony there was a sauna room, and beyond that a cold bath. After that there was a room that had a pool that had you sitting down and leaning forward as two thick streams of hot water dropped from 10 feet up onto your back, massaging away any knots obtained during the day.
After a brief walk-through I came back and slipped into the communal bath. Of all the men taking part of the bath, no one made any kind of contact with each other. The Japanese men work so hard and such long hours, it's as if relaxing at the end of the day is just as much business-like in procedure as their workday. Some of the men had a look on their faces that showed they had been waiting all day just to get off their feet and away from the pressure of day-to-day life.
I had moved on to an individual pool that was formed in such a way as to let you lay reclined. As I stretched out in the soothing waters I watched all the men in the bath, trying to read their quiet, troubled faces. Most men in the Japanese business world work extremely long days just because it's what's expected of them. There's such a huge obligation to serve the group/company instead of yourself that men work themselves to the bone as a normality.

Japan is the only country with a word defining working yourself to death, and from observing those men in the bath, vacant of their defenses, I saw men looking for a relief, some kind of an escape to forget what they had to go back to in the morning.
My time was running up in the bathhouse. I had spent almost two hours going from bath to bath, fully intoxicated in the exotic customs so far removed from my own, and as relaxing as it was, I was grateful for what I get to go back to.
I had wondered in Abbotsford why everyone used the bathhouses naked and now I finally understood. What relief there is in shedding off the pressures of the day, to cast aside the suit and tie, and to return to man's basic, naked form in order to achieve the maximum escape from reality.

I went back to the showers and cleaned myself off, then proceeded back to the foyer room. My mind was still occupied with the men in the bath soaking away the toil of the day, so occupied that I didn't give any notice to the cleaning lady that was walking through
I dried myself off and slipped on once again my layers of denim and cotton, whose protection now seemed so foreign to my fresh skin. What seemed so foreign to me was for them, a routine that never ended. How do these men deal with such pressure?
The best way they know is to enter a place removed from the world they call their life, and to lose themselves beneath the calming, healing waters that for a few short hours help them return to the grind of working themselves death.
I left that bathhouse fully immersed into the Japanese culture. More than that, I left witnessing first-hand the burden some men carry, and how they deal with it the best way they know how.