Ten Dollar Bath Salts

Japanese baths are a sight to behold.  Or so my friends tell me.  Onsens, as hot springs in Japan are called are places of wonder.  The waters are rich with minerals and salts unique to the region said to cure ailments and aches, soften skin, and even make one beautiful.  I wouldn't know about any of this as twenty-some years ago I made what my Japanese friends call "your fateful mistake."

Mind you, I knew exactly what I was doing.  When my friend showed me the tattoo of an orange tropical fish on her hip I was sold.  Knowing full well tattoos in Japan were then reserved for those more comfortable with the underground, I would be forever banned from public baths, onsens, pools, and as I learned recently, gyms.  Not caring about these consequences, I allowed myself to get inked.  To date, I don't miss bathing in public, and still do not find sitting in hot water in front of others relaxing or restful.  The ink serves me well.  I get to avoid bathing with strangers.  So far so good.

When I moved into my apartment in Tokyo two winters ago, and after I got over the initial shock of having to live in something the size of my friend's closet I went through a phase of confusion.  I saw there was a wall-mounted air conditioner, and the remote control had a "heat" button but repeated attempts for hot air were not successful.  Perhaps Japanese air conditioners blew heat as well (why?) but not as heaters?  It made no sense.  As a result, I spent my first several winter months without heat, layering extra blankets, and on really cold nights my coats, in an attempt to add warmth.

I did eventually figure out how to make my air conditioner offer heat and was promptly scolded by many for not working out such simple instructions.  It's the several months prior to my discovery I want to write about today.

Japanese bathtubs, especially for those of us who avoid onsens, are simply places of bliss.  They're deep.  As in, you can fill it up with water, as hot as you want it (these instructions I did figure out) and then soak.  I can sit up straight in my tub up to my neck in hot water, temperature of my choice.  For those nights sans heat, the bath-right-before-bed was a need and not a simple want.

I long ago discovered Japanese bath salts.  Depending on the store, there are walls filled with packets of salts offering anything from extra-sweat (as in sweat-inducing salts), soft skin, no more aches, diminished rheumatism, weight-loss (these don't work), and improved circulation.  Then there are the scents.  Oh, the scents!  Rose, lavender, jasmine, pine, grass, citrus, eucalyptus, grapefruit and more, small apartments like mine take on the scent of that night's bath.  Add to this, hot pepper (meant to induce sweat), magma (bubbles), the gel-like substance that makes everything slippery, sleep-inducing vapors, calming, nerve-soothing, and the ones clearing sinuses there's not a lot a good Japanese bath won't cure.

The packets of salts cost around 100 yen and go up from there.  For 1000 yen ($10USD) I can get whatever I want:  scented, mind-altering, herbal, or mud-like, all meant to make me beautiful, youthful, thin, and relaxed.  I don't often justify the 1000 yen investment into this health regimen because after all it's only a bath, but there are those days...yes, those days where the 1000 yen bath seems to do what food (specifically bread and chocolate) and a good book cannot.  On days like this I splurge and let myself soak, easing away the messiness of the day convinced I will have shed those pesky 5 pounds the gym cannot.  (The messiness usually goes away.  The pounds do not.)

Try to include on your next trip to Japan a visit to an onsen (unless you're inked) or a long and relaxing evening in a deep bathtub.  You'll be glad you did.  For those who choose the tub, add your favorite salts for added pleasure.  It's worth the price.  Even the 1000 ($10) yen bath salts.

Inked: "I am not a gangster."

It is with much displeasure and great regret I announce the following:  I am now a member of a gym.  For someone who despises sweat and sweating, and for someone who considers exercise to be walking from the front door to my living room (and back) several times a day, the idea of paying to twist muscles, life heavy objects all while my body perspires a smelly substance--this act is a coup.  The recent influx of photos taken on iPhones and other such hand-held devices which show up on Facebook has led me to this moment.  I simply do not look like that.  I refuse to accept or believe this.  But, there's power in numbers.  The more photos show up of me the less I'm able to refute what is evidently fact.  Hence, the gym.  And sweat.  And sweating.  If I don't lose it now, it simply will not happen.  I concede.

Enter an evening spent looking through various gyms and memberships online.  I find one nearby and choose it because a). I like the photos I see of the gym, and b). I like their logo.  This is how I choose where I will sweat.  (I know.  I don't ask you to understand.)

Deciding reading the fine print on the membership rules would be a good thing here, I reluctantly put on my reading glasses and attack the text.  And yes.  There it is.  "No one with tattoos will be allowed membership."  Bugger.

Undaunted, I read on.  Surely they mean "no Japanese with tattoos"?  There are simply too many servicemen and women with ink on their shoulders.  To exclude those is a bad business decision.  Yes?  No.  They mean everyone.  "No one with tattoos" means just that.  No one.

To be fair, I know the reasons behind this.  Those inked in Japan have traditionally been members of the Japanese yakuza.  These are Japan's gangsters, mafia, mobsters, bad guys--they're beautifully inked scary men.  There has been an effort made by police and politicians (more on this some other day) to keep these bad boys at bay, preventing them from using public and private facilities and buildings by instituting policies refusing entry by "anyone with a tattoo."  

Back to my application form.

Then I see it.  It's a good thing I chose this one day to read what I was agreeing to because it's there:  "Unless our club determines your tattoos are acceptable."  Hmmm.  What's an acceptable tattoo?  Mine.  Right?

I decide this is not a question I can ask on the phone.  Because I like their prices, location, the look of the gym (and their logo) I make my way down to the building which will serve as my own personal torture chamber.  Feet apart, I stand in front of the nice, healthy looking young man and say, "I'm interested in your gym, but I want to know what you mean by 'acceptable tattoos.'"  He smiles at me as if he gets this question a lot.  "We need you to promise to keep your tattoo covered from the moment you enter this gym," and he points to the door "until you leave."

Pffft.  That's nothing.  I can do that.  I make an appointment for a tour and leave.

Today was my tour.  I like the place still, confirmed their tattoo policy, and signed the papers.  I am now a member of society who pays to sweat.  I'm not at all sure whether this is a good thing.

I signed documents, paid, had my photo taken for my ID card, and just as I'm about to put my coat on and leave, the woman who handled my paperwork hands me one more form.  "Read this and sign, please.  It's about your tattoo."  I glance down.

There are five boxes I'm to check.  The first one reads, "I am not a gangster."  I am to check this to swear, certify, and promise I am not a member of the Japanese mob, the yakuza.  It's funny but it's not.  I check it, and read on.  Boxes two through four are so insignificant I honestly don't remember what they said.  Box five was interesting.  The gist was to agree I will be kicked out of the gym if any member notices my tattoo and complains about it.  Well now.  That's rather harsh, isn't it?  Evidently they take this quite seriously.  Fine.  Check.  I keep coming back to this same thought--it's funny but it's not.

So, for the record, inked that I am, I am not a gangster.