Paul waits for Blake Biegler in the dusty field behind the school. Biegler is ten minutes late. He pokes his fingers through the chainlink, staring beyond the suicide barriers toward Golden Lakes. The ... [+]
Susan Lendroth has written children's picture books as well as essays and articles. She works for Los Angeles Public Library, a dream job for any booklover. "Failing Bath Time" is in Short Circuit #19, Short Édition's quarterly review.
Everyone knows how to take a bath, right?
I thought I did, until I visited Japan for the first time.
Japan has elevated bathing to an art form, complete with accoutrements like wooden buckets, very short stools, and the possibility of soaking with complete strangers, enveloped in gentle clouds of steam.
A stern reminder in a brochure from the tourist bureau warned me that I would be navigating uncharted waters: "Do not use soap in the tub."
Because baths in more traditional hotels and inns are shared, etiquette requires one to thoroughly wash before stepping into the water. In concept, it sounded simple enough.
My friend Lu and I began our trip in Tokyo. There, as well as at our next couple of destinations, our rooms featured compact ensuite showers. Not until we arrived at a small hotel in the mountain town of Nikko was our bathing etiquette put to the test.
The Nikko pension offered guests communal bathing rather than private tubs or showers. Communal did not mean mixed genders. The sign on the door specified "Ladies Time" from 8:30 to 10:30 p.m. When my friend and I arrived at 8:30 on the dot, we found ourselves the only women there.
The bath was lovely. Tiled in lustrous blue and gray, the tub could easily seat three to four people. Hot water rippled down a boulder-covered wall. Slate lined the floor, textured underfoot like stepping stones across a forest stream. In fact, the overall atmosphere mimicked being outdoors at an onsen—a hot spring—especially the wall-sized picture window at one end of the room.
We paused at the sight of that window, skimpy towels clutched tight, clothes left behind us in the changing room. Still, at night, with the hotel perched on a wooded hillside, who would see us? Those lights spaced at regular intervals up the incline might not delineate a trail.
Finally, we shrugged, grabbed wooden buckets and stools, and resolutely turned our backs to the window and the world beyond.
Flexible shower hoses and spigots dotted the walls. Selecting one, I scrubbed and sprayed, splashing water with abandon. I also followed the age-old tradition of sitting on a tiny wooden stool to scrub myself clean. That posed a challenge.
The stools hugged the ground and had obviously been designed for people built on far trimmer lines than my Rubenesque figure. Balancing soap and hose without sliding off a very small, very slippery perch took great concentration. Lu did fall off her stool (twice) and rolled on the slate floor in gales of laughter. After her second tumble, we decided we were clean enough to take a bath.
That tourist brochure had promised, "When you immerse yourself in a tub of water that is a little on the hot side, you will be able to relax your strained nerves and muscles."
I stepped into the bath and immediately yanked my foot out. A little on the hot side? I could have cooked ramen noodles in that water! I braved the bath again, sliding my leg in more slowly on the theory one just needed to adjust to the temperature. Nope, that wasn't it.
Lu and I hopped in and out three or four times as though performing a demented "Hokey Pokey" dance. Finally, we steeled our resolve and sat down in the water.
"Now I know how lobsters feel," said Lu through gritted teeth.
If I kept absolutely, perfectly still, I could just endure the hottest water I had ever voluntarily allowed to touch my skin. Any shift, any ripple, caused a searing wave of heat.
After five minutes of sitting like a stone, I declared myself "relaxed" and clambered out on rubbery legs. Lu followed.
The warm humid air of the room felt like air conditioning after the bath itself.
We had just picked up towels to wrap around our pink skin when a young Japanese woman entered the room. She spoke English, so we chatted with her a few minutes while we dried off and she soaped up.
I eyed her with respect as she approached the tile rim. Now I would see firsthand how her culture had perfected the art of steeping oneself in a simmering tub. The young woman knelt and dipped her fingers into the water. Wisps of steam drifted off the trickle sliding down the rock face.
"Too hot!" she yelped, jerking her hand out of the water and shaking it in the cooler air. Then she turned on the cold water tap full blast for a minute or two before climbing in to enjoy her bath.