by Alexia Brue
I soaked with the other women. We smiled at one another as we listened to the waves crashing just beyond us. We sat there in skinship, joined by the act of sharing water, an act of trust and of affection. Everyone was alone with her thoughts. As I entered the cold pool, goose bumps spread across my skin. I looked down at my body. No, I could never be an exotic dancer.
At dinner that night, still stumbling around in my yukata and geta, I was seated alone in a large, glitzy dining room crowded with people wearing identical kimono-style cotton robes and struggling not to dip their wide sleeves into the soy sauce. I was plied with course after course of sushi, tempura, shabu-shabu, and strange slimy morsels in pretty bowls. I quietly read my book of essays on Japanese life.
Trying to pull all the pieces together, I realized that Japan's diversity is manifested through its fetishes, from its high-art fetishes such as tea ceremonies, flower arranging, sumo wrestling, and compulsive bowing; to its bizarre and flashy fetishes - mandatory Louis Vuitton handbags, baseball, French pastries, Pokémon, germ paranoia, and kabuki theater — to its base and, quite frankly, perverse fetishes, among them schoolgirl porn, the brisk market for used underwear, blowfish roulette at the dinner table, and motel love affairs. And to wash away the guilt, stress, absurdity, and defilement of all the fetishes: the bathing obsession.
After a glorious bath and gluttonous dinner, I felt so contented being out of a city, so relaxed from all the pampering - having learned firsthand about the typical Japanese vacation of total sensory gratification — I couldn't help but wonder about Kristy's very different evening back on the mainland. She didn't seem overly enthusiastic about my visiting her at Sweet Spot, but she was so kind, staying on the quay, worrying about me getting ripped off. So I speculated that between her concern and her hesitation to see me go, she might not be altogether upset if I showed up to watch her dance.
I went back to my room and took off my yukata, dressed in a knee-length black skirt and purple shirt, and left looking rather smart. I caught the Scooby-Doo water bus back to the mainland, through the bay of rocks like ossified pterodactyls, and found my way to Sweet Spot. The small, dark club was completely empty at 9:00, save for the bartender, manager, and the ten bored dancers. A disco ball hung over the black vinyl booths, and pink lights bathed the long stage. Kristy teetered over in four-inch white heels, flushed and excited to see me. She had traded her tank top and sweats for a lacy turquoise bustier and a micromini black-and-white-checkered skirt. Her eyes were shadowed in blue, and her lips were lined in red but not filled in. She welcomed me like a hostess at a fancy dinner party.
'You are a bombshell,' I said.
'A bombshell?' she questioned, looking alarmed at the mention of bombs.
'A knockout. You look gorgeous, like Marlene Dietrich,' I said, momentarily forgetting that Dietrich was German, not Ronlanian.
'Oh, thank you very much,' she said, looking pleased. 'Come, I want to introduce you to my friend.' It turned out Kristy had a Romanian friend, Ava, who was also living and dancing in Kii-Katsuura. The three of us sat down. I was shocked when the manager, a pathetic twenty-two-year-old sociopath, wanted to charge me the normal 6,000-yen entrance fee. Kristy, the fast talker, ironed that over: it was decided that I just had to pay for what I drank and not the exorbitant entrance and hourly fee.
For the first hour they had no customers, so we drank Sapporo and discussed the bleakness of their lives in this tiny fishing and onsen outpost. Kristy and Ava complained that everyone wanted the Filipino girls because they look like Japanese girls and were therefore less intimidating. Ava, the softer, more melancholy of the two, confided, 'Every time I go out there, I am nervous and shy. I will never get used to it. This is not a good life.' Later we talked about their life in Romania - about Kristy's five-year-old daughter, Ava's boyfriend, and her career as an aerobics teacher in Bucharest.
Suddenly I heard a little electronic ditty. All the girls jumped, and thirty seconds later a group of customers walked through the door. Girl time was over. The manager asked the new arrivals, 'Philippine, Russian, or Romanian?' A smorgasbord of imported international beauties - though none of the girls, with the exception of Kristy and Ava, were beautiful at all.
Two more entourages of testosterone arrived, and the chosen girls delivered drinks and joked around in Japanese. The most amazing thing to me about this whole bizarre scene was the fluency these women had in Japanese after just a couple of months. Then, suddenly, it was showtime. The lights dimmed and the disco ball began spinning in the blue haze of the smoke-filled club. I sat back, ready for anything. First, one of the Filipino girls emerged from behind the curtain and performed a karaoke version of'The Greatest Love of AIL' She walked around the room in a black ball gown, staring into different customers' eyes, even mine, during her solo. I felt as if I were watching Star Search and hoping the judges would vote for her. Things heated up slightly when the four Russian girls came out - two in shiny red vinyl bondage suits and the other two in black gimp suits.
After the Russian S&M romp, the Philippine Quintet sauntered out in pink baby doll outfits and did a cutesy — I'd go so far as to say innocent — dance to an instrumental version of 'Mambo #5,' another song best forgotten. I sat in the back, watching the bartender holding the spotlight in her hands, and thought, This is pretty tame.
Finally, Kristy and Ava strutted out in denim shorts and tight denim jackets. After a couple of exotic pirouettes, they pressed up against the back wall and ripped off the jackets and shorts. They were naked except for pink g-strings. A huge applause rose from the audience. They gripped the silver pole in the middle of the stage while enacting male fantasies of lesbian sex. Kristy groped Ava's breasts while Ava did her best to appear turned-on. I thought back to our earlier conversation when I'd stupidly asked where they had learned to dance and Ava had rolled her eyes and said, 'It comes from within.' After their dance, they shimmied around the room collecting 1,000-yen notes in their g-strings. Any protectiveness I had felt disappeared when I saw how much loot they were collecting. This must have been be why the Russian girls hated them.
The audience was pretty worked up after Kristy and Ava's lesbian tryst. For a finale, all the girls, the whole United Nations of exotic dancers, convened onstage for a good-bye dance and bows. Then they headed off to individual tables for more personalized entertainment. It was late, and the last water bus was about to leave for Urashima. Kristy ran over to say good-bye. I handed back the picture of her daughter dressed as a cat and reminded her that we'd meet at 1:00 in front of my hotel for a trip to the hot springs. 'You will be my guests.'
'Yes, yes, we look forward to it,' she said, rushing back to her guests.
They didn't come on the 1:00 boat, nor did they come on the 1:30 boat. I was sad that they had stood me up and also surprised that in what sounded like a routine life, with not even a movie theater for distraction, they didn't want to see the Urashima. Feeling rejected by my new friends, I hopped on an escalator to explore new parts of the onsen island. One escalator turned into six escalators, until I realized I was ascending the side of a mountain, at least a thousand feet straight up through a corridor of mirrors and chintzy casino decor. At the top, instead of the aesthetically anticipated roulette tables and slot machines, a glass door led outside to a Shinto temple precinct. The long, narrow precipice gazed down upon the placid bay of Kii-Katsuura on one side and the crashing waves of the Pacific on the other. Orange torii gates announced several open-air dark-wooded shrines and, on the left, on the Kii-Katsuura side, a greenhouse.
A greenhouse? Could this be the famed jungle bath? Not speaking or reading Japanese, I tended to miss a lot. Whatever it was, it seemed out of place amid the temple architecture. I slid open the glass screen door and walked into the steamed-up greenhouse. To my right was a door leading outside to two small pools, rectangular boxes of cypress overlooking the bay. They were delightfully situated, but nothing I hadn't seen before. I was becoming an onsen snob.
Ins
ide, though, I hardly knew where to look through the mass of foliage. The high-beamed structure was a labyrinth of ferns and flowers, palms and hydrangeas. The leaves were changing outside, but in here it was a beautiful day in Tahiti. Then I noticed that this wasn't just a greenhouse, but that slate-carved soaking pools were hidden in every leafy nook of this overgrown jungle. Small groups of women went from pool to pool, each hidden in an alcove of foliage and blossoms, extolling and comparing the virtues of each. This must have been why the temple precinct was deserted. Everyone was bathing.
Just as I was removing my yukata, I heard my name being paged. 'Miss Alexia. Miss Alexia. Please come reception.' A phone call? Unlikely. Was the karaoke master demanding an encore of my rendition of'It's Still Rock and Roll to Me'? Very unlikely. Or had Kristy and Ava shown up? I raced down the escalators to reception. And there they were, with thinly veiled scowls, dressed for a day at the beach. Kristy wore a neon green swimsuit with white drawstring pants. Ava was more tasteful in a tank top and khaki shorts. They had been waiting for over an hour.
'Oh, I'm so sorry. When you weren't here by one-thirty I figured you weren't coming.'
'We get to bed late, so we sleep until one.'
Everything would be fine as soon as they were relaxing in the baths. 'I can't wait to show you this place. I just peeked into the jungle bath. It looks divine, so let's save it for last. First let's go to the genfuro, a bath inside a grotto.'
'Okay,' they said blankly. They looked hungover.
'Late night?'
'Yes, one group stayed until three and we had to drink so much beer with them. We are gaining weight,' Ava said sadly.
'Well, you looked great onstage. Your routine was miles better than the other girls,' I said like a supportive stage mom. 'And the onsen water purges your body of all the toxins from alcohol and cigarettes. Some people think it even helps you lose weight.'
This was the first thing I said that aroused their interest. On the way to the genfuro, a small jewelry store selling gold bracelets caught their eye and they wanted to browse.
'What do you do with all the money you've made?' I asked. 'Send it home or put it in the bank?'
'I either lock it in my room or keep it with me,' said Kristy. That didn't sound like the most secure arrangement, considering there was an icy detente between the Russian and Romanian girls after frequent fights over shower privileges.
When we entered the grotto I couldn't stop myself from shouting, 'Isn't this insane! The Forget-to-Go-Home-Bath; a shogun was so entranced with this cave bath that he forgot to return to battle.' I flailed around like a delirious tour guide, and they looked through the glass wall into the natural cave grotto with mild interest. I began to take off my yukata.
Kristy asked, 'You go in the pool naked?
'Yes, of course. The men are on the other side. First you take a shower along that wall, then you soak in the baths. And the water, it's very good for your skin and your joints, and it will make you lose weight,' I added, again holding out the carrot.
'Pew. It stinks in here,' Kristy said, and scrunched up her nose.
'It's the sulfur. You get used to it after a while.'
While I was busy washing, Kristy and Ava tentatively stripped to their bathing suits and joined me in the cave. They washed with their swimsuits still on. In a minute, they would see that all the other women were naked and that it was perfectly normal to soak without a suit.
I set the example and got into the big pool.
'Will I smell like rotten eggs if I get in?' asked Kristy.
'Of course not,' I answered. 'Well, not for long.'
Ava, the more intrepid one, the one who actually ate Japanese food whereas Kristy subsisted on frozen chicken nuggets and fries, joined me in the pool, albeit with her orange neon swimsuit still on. Kristy pouted by the steps of the pool.
At this point, I realized that Kristy and Ava had no intention of taking off their swimsuits. It would be a triumph if I managed to get Kristy in the water at all. They had no problem strutting around in g-strings, rubbing their crotches against silver poles, or squeezing each other's breasts onstage, but soaking in a pool of naked women was more than they could handle.
Kristy went back to the dressing room, weighed herself, and informed us that she had risen to sixty kilograms. 'Really, Kristy, the minerals in the water break down the fat.' Whatever it took, I was determined that she try the bath. Ava reassured her that the water wasn't toxic, and finally Kristy descended into the pool, giving us a wan smile. We applauded.
They didn't want to stay in the water for long. I didn't lecture them on skinship or try to convince them to ascend with me to the botanic jungle bath. Maybe in retrospect Kristy and Ava will remember the experience fondly, maybe even as they wait their turn to dance they'll think back to our bath today and wish they'd taken off their swimsuits.
After seeing them off, I stepped straight onto the jungle bath-bound escalator. I reentered the greenhouse and removed my yukata and geta, my ryokan outfit that I now wore as comfortably as sweats. The only sound of water, the gush and bubble of a modest waterfall, came from the back of the greenhouse where the water poured down from stone-hewn shower spigots. I walked past the other bathers to examine this strangely monolithic structure. Huge square blocks of stone stuck out of the wall at six feet, and a steady stream of warm water flowed out of the stones and into the long rectangular tub below.
After a thorough scrub, I began to bounce from pool to pool. In the long rectangular pool I lay down, positioning myself under the spigots so that water bounced on my feet, back, and head at the same time. Free reflexology. I don't know how long I stayed like this. Idly, I cupped some water in my palms. The water had tiny particles of black, organic minerals. I remembered what Ayako had said back in Tokyo about how you could see organic matter in the best onsen water.
I felt better than I had at any point along the trip. Everything was coming together — the perfect setting, a clear state of mind, a readiness to drink in my surroundings. My mind was quiet: no interior criticism, no nagging guilt, nothing but the pure physical sensations of this place. Every sense had been elevated to an almost surreal heightened awareness. I could smell the chlorophyll in the leaves, the iron reddening the water, I could even smell the rocks, as if they were freshly quarried. The sound of the bouncing water and the low reverberation of voices echoing off the rafters sounded pleasantly tinny.
I was alone, and so happily alone. I promised myself that my days of guilt seeking were over. I would trade in guilt seeking for thrill seeking; I would stockpile rosebuds instead of apologies. Life would be different.
east 10th revisited
Back at my empty New York apartment, home did not feel like home anymore. After six months of travel, I had the new, invigorating sense that home could be anywhere. All I needed were the essentials of a well-packed bag. This kind of liberation was disorienting.
I called Marina for counsel. She was having her own issues in London. Her problems with Colin had gone way beyond his unwillingness to speak Russian, and her job was a tedious intermission between vacations.
'Marina, we both need to make a change,' I advised by phone. 'Come visit. Any bank holidays coming up?'
'Actually,' said Marina, sounding chipper, 'the Queen Mum's birthday is just next week and we have a long weekend. Let me see if I can get a good fare.'
I trusted Marina to get a good fare, and a week later there she was, yelling up to my fourth-floor walk-up, and wearing pink silk trousers and an embroidered pink sweater and carrying a tiny bag.
'Did you just bring shoes?' I asked.
'Your apartment looks like a photographer's studio,' Marina said. Since Charles had moved out, the place looked empty and the bare white walls and hardwood floors made my small loft look more like a white seamless backdrop than a place for cozy dinners.
'I'll take your head shot later,' I said. 'I know you just got here, but I think a field trip to East Tenth is in order.'
&n
bsp; 'Oh God, no, not that place.'
'Why? You've never actually been inside.'
'Isn't that the place Natalia and I wouldn't set foot in last year? And you stood on the stoop for fifteen minutes trying to convince us it was safe?'
'Exactly. You said it was "too close to the earth.'" That was Marina's euphemism for skeevy. I continued, 'Trust me, I spent many cold nights there before I left for Istanbul. Yeah, it's a little grimy, but it has a soulful quality, and it will purge the toxins from your system.'
If nothing else, I knew my audience. Marina was a sucker for detoxification, adhering religiously to a quarterly detoxification that involved prolonged dietary and alcoholic sacrifice.
'Oh, all right, but I'm bringing my own towel.'
'Marina, we've visited some very close to the earth places together in Istanbul and Moscow. East Tenth is no worse.'
'It's all relative. In Russia the bar is considerably lowered, and in Turkey at least water is constantly flowing.'
On East 10th Street, between First and A, hangs a white sign that says, 'Russian Turkish Bath,' a replica of the original from when it first opened in 1892. In 1900, New York City contained forty-two commercial bathhouses, largely owned by Jews and called shvitzes, just like this one. Izzie Sirota, my great-grandfather, frequented these types of sweating establishments, where he'd rub shoulders with his favorite actors of Yiddish theater — Boris Thomashefsky and Maurice Moscovitch. Now East 10th and a few holdouts in Brooklyn are the only shvitzes to survive the encroachment of gyms, spas, and lavish home bathrooms. With five thousand members and a tightly knit group of regulars, East 10th still offers the camaraderie, gritty intimacy, and heat-induced relaxation of the old New York steam baths.
The faint scent of eucalyptus hit us when we walked in, a reassuring smell in the face of a grungy reception room and changing area. A television blared the evening news in the café. Several customers wearing navy bath coats sat on brown plastic chairs, eating cold, mayonnaise-drenched salads. Marina and I left our watches and wallets at the check-in, bought two bottles of cold water, and put on bathing suits. I wore a blue sports suit and Marina a black leotard. Not once on my trip had I needed a bathing suit. Marina clutched a thick hunter green cotton towel, and I grabbed a handful of the threadbare brown towels no bigger than dishrags. We descended the steep, slippery steps to the basement steam compound. Within roughly 1,200 square feet, they managed to fit a ten-yard blue-tiled plunge pool and four rooms of different heat.