Does Size Matter in a Japanese Sauna?

I was naked, sitting next to Endo-san, a fifty year old, five foot four inch, stout Japanese man. He was also naked. Next to him was a slightly taller but portlier man, naked as well, around Endo-san’s same age. All of us were sweating profusely in the thick heat. A still older man flung open the sauna door and tried to casually walk his wrinkled, sagging body to one of the tiers of wooden benches that we were seated at. I say "tried" because the man was clearly drunk on sake and had difficulty putting one foot in front of the other. Stumbling around drunk in a sauna wasn't a good idea, but the man didn't seem to recognize the danger. I winced as I watched him sway close to the burning stones that heated the small room. He swaggered and tried to focus on a place to plop down his floppy, bare cheeks. Seeing him eye the towel on the first tier of benches, a spot dangerously close to my foot, I moved into the agura position, cross legged, in order to avoid an incident. The position switch made my spot on the second tier feel more cramped, but it was far better than having an old Japanese man rest his naked ass on my toes. His presence made me uncomfortable. But that was just the beginning of the discomfort.

Endo-san laughed. He gestured a drinking motion at me to explain that the man was drunk. I feigned surprise and smiled back. I was still trying to get used to the whole situation.

Going to an ofuro, or public bath, is a very traditional Japanese activity. As much as I was grateful to Endo-san for inviting me to go, I was still anxious. Despite being a means to relax, ofuros, like all Japanese traditions, have strict rules that need to be observed in order to participate. I of course, was not familiar with most of them.

Before leaving for Japan in July I consulted a friend of mine who had lived there for two years and was currently getting a PHD in Japanese History. I asked him about working in the schools, what etiquette I should observe, foods that I should look for and others that I should avoid— all the basics that I would need in order to make a smooth transition into the new culture. During the conversation my friend mentioned ofuros.

“You know about the public baths?” he asked.

“I know something about them, I guess. They’re like a hot springs, right?”

“Kind of. There’s a bit more to it than that. You don’t just dive in and relax. The Japanese shower before getting into the baths. But it’s not like how we’re supposed to shower before jumping into a pool; like where you splash some water on yourself and call it good. In Japan, you sit down on this little stool and scrub the hell out of yourself for about fifteen minutes. You’re in a line with a bunch of other naked guys and you scrub yourself until your skin is red.

“Since I was a gaijin I made sure that I really scrubbed myself down. The Japanese have this image of us as dirty barbarians, so I did what I could to make sure that they knew that I was just as clean as them. I must have been there twenty five minutes scrubbing, longer than anyone else.”

I laughed. “Really? You really clean yourself that much?” The idea seemed silly to me, a man who has gone two weeks in the mountains without bathing.

“Definitely. And even then, when I rinsed myself off and went to sit in one of the baths, a Japanese guy saw me coming and got out. He didn’t want to be in the same bath with a dirty gaijin.”

I looked surprised, “Really?”

“Oh yeah. The Japanese can be pretty racist sometimes.”


With my friend’s advice in my head, I wondered what the Japanese men that I sat in the sauna with thought about me. We hadn't even gotten to the baths and showers yet, but I was worried. Was I ruining the others' ofuro outing by being there? Were they eyeing my body, looking for some filthy, contagious gaijin disease that could be spread to them?

Endo-san looked over at me. I expected him to say something about how I didn’t clean off enough.

“Joshua-san,” he said in Japanese. “You’re tall.”

He brought his hand up to the level of my head and compared it to his own, saying “Bigger!”

I laughed, hoping the action would calm my nerves a bit.

Endo-san looked at my arm. He flexed his bicep next to mine and made me do the same, comparing sizes again.

“Whoa!” he said, shocked. “Bigger!”

The game would have been funny if we were fully clothed. But now, naked and sweating, I couldn’t help but feel awkward.

He looked down towards my waist.

“Whoa! Much bigger!” he exclaimed.

The heat of the sauna felt like it jumped five degrees. Had my face not have already been red, I’m sure that Endo-san would have caught me blushing. I laughed uncomfortably.

Endo-san brought his hands toward me to measure the body part that he had just labeled as "Whoa! Much bigger." This was a clear cultural difference in personal space standards that no Lonely Planet cultural summary had prepared me for. Before I could jump or run, or perhaps curl into the fetal position and cry, I saw that he held his measurement far enough away that I didn't need to overreact. Relief came like a splash of cold water. But it didn't last long. I quickly divined that the measurement that Endo-san held up was almost a foot and a half. My relief became confusion.

“So big!” he declared.

Though I knew he was being generous, I glanced down at myself to verify how ludicrous his eye-balled calculation was.

Nope. Definitely not that big.

I thought that maybe his augmentation of my body part was some sort of strange Japanese way of complimenting me. Or perhaps he was fishing for me to respond in a similar way by, ahem, 'enlarging' his own measurement. Whatever it meant, I had no idea how to respond.

I was going to say something like, “Thank you” or “Oh, it’s not that big,” when I saw that he was bringing his one and a half foot hand measurement toward himself in order to compare. I quickly looked away, hoping to give him what privacy I could.

“Joshua-san, look."

That was the phrase that I was dreading. There are a lot of respect your elder politeness rules in Japan, but I wasn’t sure if that meant that I should or should not look at what he wanted me to see. I turned my head towards him, cringing slightly as I glanced in the indicated direction.

“You are much bigger.”

Endo-san had his hands at the same length as before but, to my surprise, he wasn't sizing up what I had expected. He held his hands just over his thigh. His was about a foot long, and mine was about a foot and a half.

I sighed relief, “Oh, yes Endo-san. Much bigger.”

Our thighs— he had been measuring our thighs the whole time.

The drunk old octogenarian in front of us slumped over, singing something to himself in more of a murmur than a song. I moved my legs out of the agura position and rested my feet back on the first tier. Despite the body part measuring game, I was feeling more comfortable now.

Then, a knock at the door.

The sound was unusual. Everyone who had entered before had simply flung the door open and sauntered in. I expected it to be some etiquette rule that I was unfamiliar with. Maybe I should have knocked when I first came in.

The knock came again, this time accompanied by a crackly, tired voice. Though I couldn’t understand what it was saying, I could tell that the voice was an old woman's. She rattled something in Japanese that seemed to issue a warning. I looked at the drunk man and wondered if it wasn’t his wife looking for him. Or maybe the ofuro was closing and we were supposed to leave.

Endo-san yelled back, “Dozo.”

“Dozo?!” I thought. The word itself is now easy for me to understand. My shock was not one of confusion as to the meaning of the word, but as to why Endo-san would respond, "Dozo", or "Come in", to an old lady about to enter a room full of naked men; naked men that included me!

I thought in silent protest, "What do you mean ‘dozo’, Endo-san? We’re butt naked in here!”

Apparently our nakedness wasn’t a problem. The old lady swung open the door and charged in with a bundle of fresh towels in her arms. When she set them down on the first tier and stood up, she was at eye level with my waist.

Being a gaijin, I understand why people stare at me in the streets or at the schools I work at. My brown hair, blue eyes and six-foot one stature are a stark contrast to the short, black haired Japanese. Usually I don't worry much about the stares. Now however, squeezed into a blazingly hot sauna with an eighty year old grandma looking on, I wished that I didn't stand out quite as much. I could only hope that her waist level glances toward me, like Endo-san’s, were merely to check my thigh length.

I stood up quickly with the other men and we helped pick up the old towels that we had been sitting on in order to replace them with the new ones. Brushing against a bunch of naked Japanese men was strange enough, but stranger still was the fact that the old lady stood there, maybe a foot away, barking orders at us. Again I was glad that the heat was a valid excuse for my blushing and profuse perspiration. The other men weren’t fazed a bit.

I wondered to myself about everything that I had heard about how shy the Japanese were and how privacy was very important to them. My experience wasn’t fitting into that paradigm. You would think that during my friend's advice about adjusting to ofuros he would have mentioned the old ladies that come in when you're butt naked and make you change the towels. I guess that part never crossed his mind. Or perhaps he wanted me to learn that lesson on my own.

Even when the towels were laid and the woman's job was finished, she stayed for a bit and chatted with Endo-san. Endo-san, as naked as anyone else, didn’t give it a second thought. He sat on the second tier, legs spread open, and chatted with the old woman about who knows what. I ignored the conversation, since I didn't consider it an ideal time to practice my Japanese, and attempted to sit cross legged again in hopes of maybe covering up a bit. It was hopeless. Actually, a better word would be ‘pointless’. The old woman cared as much about my nudity as I would have a naked baby’s. Whatever body part came across her view, big thighs or little thighs, it wasn’t of any interest to the towel granny.

When the woman left, Endo-san let me know that he was heading to shower before getting into the bath. I hadn’t even started the real ofuro process yet and I was well outside of my comfort zone. But clearly, there was no hiding. After such a start I actually felt somewhat empowered. What else could happen? Whatever awaited me at the showers and the baths, it would be hard to find anything that would be as uncomfortable as my first thirty minutes in the sauna.

I stood up and walked out of the small room, happy to leave the heat behind. As soon as I crossed through the doorway I could hear the old drunkard, alone now in the sauna, belting out a new song.

Fall Colors, Honky-Tonk, and Language Difficulties

We’re headed to Mount Aizu. It’s fall now and Aizu is the best place in Fukushima to see the colors changing. I’ve been invited by Kawase-san, my Japanese teacher, and his family.

From the tape deck in Kawase-san’s small SUV, the songs go between old honky-tonk and bluegrass. At first my brain struggles with the anachronism, being from both a different time and a completely different culture. But then, as I take in the banjo twangs and look out at passing shrines and Buddha statues, I realize the humor in it and I can't help but chuckle.

“Kawase-san. Ongaku ga dai suki,” I say after a long thought process to make sure that the sentence is okay: ‘I really like the music.’ When I finish the phrase my pride sneaks up on me and pats me on the back. I'm actually able to speak some Japanese.

“Hankuwiru musu” he responds.

That's when the cold stab of ignorance sets in where my pride had just snuck up a moment before; I don't understand.

“Sumimasen. Mo ichido onegaishimasu.” I ask Kawase-san to please repeat what he said.

Changing Colors - Aizu

My low level of Japanese makes it so I hardly understand anything, but sometimes when people repeat a phrase, and slow it way down, I can pick up on one word that allows me to guess at the general context of the question. From there I can give a blind shot at an answer, though I don’t have much of a vocabulary to give any elaborate response.

Kawase-san repeats, “Hankuwiru musu.”

I recognize the iru ending, which means that he’s using a verb form in the normal (not polite) present tense. But I have never learned the verb hankuwiru. Hanku sounds like hanko which is the identification stamp you use to sign documents. My Spanish would lead me to believe that maybe you could turn the noun, hanko, into a verb, hankuwiru, since there would be an obvious root to work with. But I’m slowly learning that Japanese doesn’t share roots as easily as romance languages. Sometimes it works; like with the verb ‘to sing’, utau, which sounds like the word ‘song’, uta. To say singer then, I would assume something like uta-jin, ‘song-person’, or utau-jin, ‘sing-person’. But unfortunately, it has no connection to the root. ‘Singer’is kashu. That's why I no longer trust my natural inclination to connect verbs and nouns vis a vis a root. It just doesn't always work in Japanese.

I repeat the word aloud, “Hankuwiru musu.”

“Hai,” Kawase-san affirms. “You know hankuwiru musu?”

At this point I have to admit defeat. I don’t know what the words mean. My face immediately reverts to an expression that has been my way of saying ‘I don’t understand’ since arriving three months ago - I raise my eyebrows and my eyes grow wide, as if the new word or phrase was a slap in the face from a martian. The face says, “I can’t believe it” and “What the hell is going on?” at the same time. People catch on to the meaning pretty quickly.

I have no idea what hankuwiru musu means and I don’t know why Kawase-san would be talking about identification stamps after I told him I liked his music. The phrase can’t be connected to hanko, then. Unless it’s an expression; like, you give it your stamp of approval.  No, that can’t be right.

My mind goes blank and I concede, “Iie. No. I don’t know.”

He looks surprised. In English, he comments, “Really? Very famous.”

I’m sure he meant to say that the word is very ‘common’, but I get the gist of his mixed adjectives since we have been meeting each other for two hours every Friday for the past two months. Our discourse is like that. I say funny things in Japanese and he understands me. He says funny things in English and I understand him.

His reaction to me not knowing hankuwiru musu doesn’t help me feel better. I think, “Great, I don’t even know famous words.”

Then Kawase-san’s wife interrupts with more Japanese that I don’t understand, but the meaning is easily inferable as she reaches her arm to the backseat, where I am seated, and hands me an orange.

“Oh! Arigatou gozaimasu.” I say, still fixed on hankuwiru musu and what it could possibly mean. Before I can ask, Mayumi, also sitting in the backseat, changes the subject.

“We are picking up my friend before we go to Aizu. Is that okay?”

“Of course,” I reply, tickled that her translations from Japanese to English still include the politeness to ask my permission for something I clearly have no control over, nor would I ever be opposed to.

“He is from Korea,” she explains.

I ask, “Oh, does he speak Japanese?”

“No, no, no. He is only here visiting. He speaks English though.”

I feel a relief that is irksome. I know I will be happy to be able to communicate in English, but I want to be forced to speak Japanese. Forced communication is the only way to relieve myself, eventually, from this constant feeling of ignorance. At least her friend will be in the same boat as I am. We can laugh about how we don’t understand anything.

When Mayumi’s friend, Jung, gets in the car, Kawase-san starts asking him questions in Japanese. I prepare myself to see the same dumbfounded expression arise on Jung’s face. To my dismay however, he barely hesitates before he responds to the questions clearly and articulately.

“I thought you didn’t speak Japanese” I try to say casually, hopefully hiding my jealousy.

“Oh! I don’t,” he responds without out any pretense. He really doesn’t consider his responses to be speaking Japanese. If he can answer Kawase-san’s questions and considers it not being able to speak Japanese, than I wonder what he thinks of my language ability. I must be at comatose level, or the level of some inanimate object; “Yes, I speak Japanese almost as well as a rock.”

Again Kawase-san’s wife’s arm comes arching to the backseat and hands all of us some wasabi peas.

I respond, “Oh! Arigatou gozaimasu,” happy that at least I can say that much.

Jung also says thank you, opens the tiny packet of wasabi peas, and before eating says, “Itadakimasu” which shows that you humbly receive the food. It’s a word that is always said before eating anything. I forgot to say “Itadakimasu” and I’ve already eaten four wasabi peas and my orange peel is sitting in my lap.

***

Kawase-san drives his small SUV like it’s a steed. He’s the cowboy trying to wrangle up wild cattle that done run off the ranch. Or, in this case, he’s trying to take us on a Sunday drive to see the fall colors. Between the speed at which Kawase-san takes turns up the winding mountain road and the thick fog, I am barely able to take in any kind of a view. I assume we’re headed to a lookout point and I’ll be able to appreciate the iridescent trees from there. When we get to the lookout however, the fog is so thick that we can’t see ten yards in front of us. I laugh at the circumstances. I don’t really care that much about the view. The time spent with everyone is entertaining enough.

On the way back down the road, Kawase-san really digs his spurs in and we tear through the forest. I think he wanted to match the rhythm of the honky-tonk still playing on the tape deck. Unperturbed by the speed, his wife yet again reaches to the backseat and gives us little cartons of an iced coffee drink. I think to myself, “Where is all of this food coming from?”

As we bounce and jar to the whim of Kawase-san’s driving, Jung reads the Japanese writing called katakana that's written on the coffee label. “Co-fu-i o-re-i.”

He doesn’t know Japanese, my ass.

***

The Kawase’s take us to a tea ceremony and then to an ancient castle. It appears that the Japanese tourist image isn’t solely reserved for the Grand Canyon or Disneyland. Even in their own country, people are out in the dozens, taking photos and posing by holding up peace signs in front of all sorts of interesting landmarks.

The day is long but enjoyable in its entirety. I am sad when we are on the road back home, where I’ll eventually sit down to another dinner for one. My brain probably needs it though. Despite not talking much I have managed to write down twenty new words and five new phrases that I try to commit to memory while we’re in the car.

The food providing arm reaches back yet again and deposits chocolate in my hand.

“Oh! Arigatou gozaimasu!” I say again. Then, before eating, I make sure to include, “Itadakimasu”.

A familiar song starts playing from the speakers. More honky-tonk. Kawase-san turns it up a bit and says, “hankuwiru musu.”

I’m so full of new words from the trip that I almost let it go by. It’s obviously too hard for me to get; hankuwiru musu. But then I pause and my brain chews on it a little more. Hankuwiru musu. Hankuwiru musu. Han-ku. Wi-ru-mu-su. I give a kind of guffaw of disbelief that I couldn’t figure it out before. Hanku Wi-ru-mu-su. Hank Williams.