Defining Gaijin
Mt. Fuji, Japan
Not at an onsen, but in a community shower room.
It took us all day to get there. We were staying at the base of Mt. Fuji, on Lake Saiko, in a bungalow. We arrived sometime in the late afternoon. We quickly checked in, asked where the best views were, and then took off. We found the hot spot, admired Fuji-san, ate dinner, and drove back. I was tired, cold, dirty. I needed a shower. I found the bathrooms, saw the signs – men on the left, women on the right. I walked in to find two sinks, a toilet closet, and one shelf to put your things on. There was a door in front of me. There were voices coming from it. I cracked it open, peeked in. I saw 7 or 8 showerheads in one large, open space. I saw a bathtub full of murky water. There was a mother and her daughter sitting in it. I closed the door. Shit.
Apparently this was the Japanese way of bathing: in an open area, with other people. OK. I can do this. Why not? We’re all female here. We all have the same bodies, come from the same place. Breathe. Breathe. OK.
I took my clothes off, wrapped myself in a towel, opened the door, and stepped in. The mother glanced at me. The daughter stared. I squatted down in front of a showerhead. Now, towel off, I looked at it blankly. I didn’t know how it worked. Where was the nozzle? Where was the on button? I thought everything was so convenient in Japan. Where was the damn on button! Breathe. Breathe. OK.
I looked over at the mother. The daughter was still staring. “Sumimasen, sumimasen. Uhh, the water? I don’t know. I don’t know?” I was helpless. Naked, literally, and helpless. She got up, came over to me and tried to turn the water on. It didn’t work. She pointed to another showerhead, said something about the one I was at. I didn’t understand. She pointed over my shoulder again. I looked to my right. “Oh. Wakata! Arigato. Thank you.” Pulse pounding, I got up and went over. I squatted down. I figured it out. The water came on. I pictured the daughter staring at my naked, foreign back.
They finished. I relaxed. I finished. I stood up, put my towel on, walked out the door. We started to dress in the changing room. I smiled at the mother. She told me my skin was beautiful, asked me where I was from. I grinned at the daughter. She stared back. Suddenly, the door burst open and a strange man appeared. He rambled on in rapid Japanese. Did he know the mother? I looked at him. He looked at me. I was only half-dressed. I was stunned, my mouth half open. I looked at the mother. She was yelling at the man. She looked at me. I looked back at him. He looked at me. I looked at the daughter. She was staring at me. The man said more, then smiled at me, and walked out. Breathe. Breathe. OK.
Wow. I asked the mother, in broken Japanese, if she knew him. She said no. I didn’t believe her. I started to laugh. I wanted to cry. The whole thing was so amusing. I wanted to cry just to get all of my tension out. But I started to laugh. The woman got her things and left. I brushed my teeth. What an absurd experience! I walked outside. No one was around. I went toward our bungalow. I stopped outside the door. I wanted to tell my friend what just happened. I didn’t know where to begin. I laughed. Only in Japan.
