Bathing in these hot springs is truly an art form.
is like seeing a brown bear twirling pasta. Whereas a Japanese person, who likely grew up with the cultural ritual of the onsen, seems at home soaking in the stone-colored waters, not moving for long stretches of time, periodically getting up and disappearing only to return to hydrostasis, the American usually looks pretty awkward. There is usually a lot of shifting weight, a tendency to move between pools a little too quickly. Onsen etiquette is an art often lost on the American.
One particular American spoke to a Japanese fellow who glowed with a kind of post-vacation luminescence — the day before, he had spent seven hours in the onsen, soaking or napping. The Japanese man’s skin beamed, and his eyes beamed harder. OK, thought the American, let's do this. Let's plunge into the stone-colored waters and let our earthly concerns about credit card payments and existential anxieties rise up off our skin and disappear into the hydroether.
But if he can be honest with you, the American was also terrified of entering the onsen, the joyful and celestial and transcendent and supercorporeal onsen, and doing something embarrassing, like compare a cold towel to a fowl dropping. Remember when the American accidentally sat in a Japanese man's assigned seat on a northbound bullet train? Do you remember what the Japanese man did? Nothing. Just stood there elegantly.
But there are safe spaces for we Americans to explore the reverent qualities of Japanese bathing culture without risk of humiliating ourselves. There are seven, actually: the Hoshinoya constellation of luxury ryokans. The contemporary hotel — and, by some accounts, the very notion of hospitality — owes itself to the Japanese: Monk-run inns that sheltered wandering travelers from the elements evolved into sprawling campuses where travel-weary rich people can soothe their existential bruises.
There is another room: A large glass cube that filters in nothing but sunlight, which diffuses through the humidity into what heaven looks like in movies. The American sits on a submerged bench, closes his eyes, and sweats. He sweats out everything that is in him, and then he sweats more. Some unseen part of him, it feels like, is pulled from his pores, congeals at his hairline, and tumbles down his face, and his chest, into the water, where it eventually drains.
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