Jarrod, you WON’T go here: The Japanese Bath House

Some may think it’s a little presumptive of me to issue your verdict in the title of the blog, but Jarrod, I’ve known you for 33 years and I can say with absolute certainty that I have zero chance of convincing you that the Bath House is worth a visit. In fact, I think it’s a fairly safe bet that you won’t even want to hear the details of my afternoon there. You’re a heterosexual man, so a group of naked ladies in a hot bath would usually sound pretty damn sexy… but hearing about it from your sister? That’s officially needle off the record, dousing in icy cold water material.

But I will press on, knowing that you are pulling the face you are in the cover photo, and try to sell it to you regardless!

I first heard of the whole Japanese Bath concept as a 15 year old, from a friend who did the exchange student thing in Japan for a few months. She came home and shocked us all with tales of how the family she stayed with would bathe TOGETHER in a large tub. As body shy teenagers who used to dry and change after school swimming by looping a towel around ourselves and clamping it together with our teeth to form a makeshift Terry Toweling Change Room For One, we were aghast. (What can I say, it might have been the 1980’s, but our attitudes about nudity were positively Elizabethan).

Having said that, I’m not a stranger to the communal female nudity experience *cue wince and audible groan from you* having been to Turkish baths when I was there in 2003. I’m not going to pretend I strutted in, cool as a cucumber going ‘boobs and buttocks everywhere, differing views on the importance of bikini waxing…whatever!’  I went with a friend whom I had just met that morning and we innocently attempted to walk in in our bathing suits, only to be towel flicked out of the steam room by a nude, elderly lady yammering in Turkish at us, pointing the contraband pieces of lycra criminally covering our breasts and genital area. It was quite the fast forward ‘getting to know you’ for Betsy and myself…. But we liked the experience–having a lady aggressively slough all the dead skin off you with a scrubbing cloth, then SHOWING you all the dead skin she’s removed, saying something in Turkish (presumably “you are disgusting. Look how disgusting you were before I cleaned you up”) then massaging you before you’re slapped on the backside to indicate ‘finished’ and spat back out into the streets, shiny and pink and so utterly dehydrated that you’re a one drink wonder that night… Good times.

I LOVE a bath. Love them. One of the happiest years of my life was my year overseas in  England, living in nurses accomodation where I could have a bath EVERY NIGHT OF THE WEEK. It was at the height of water restrictions here in Australia (dark days, remember when everyone was being indoctrinated that we had to keep our showers under 3 mins?) and I used to phone home and positively gloat about my baths. Which I now realise was about as kind as phoning up a starving pensioner and raving about the marbling in the wagyu steak I just demolished.

Anyway, enough reminiscing–you’re here to find out about Saturday’s visit! I took along my good friend Lisa, who has similar fond memories of Turkish Baths and therefore was only mildly freaked out at the prospect of a naked afternoon together. We opted for the $30pp option which gives you the bath and steam room and time in the Tatami Lounge afterwards. If you want to, you can also spring for the option of a shiatsu massage for an extra $46.

From the outside, things look very unassuming–it almost looks like you’re going to walk into a garage where some men named Garry and Russell have just set up a free standing spa pool beside the panel beating area.

But inside is a little oasis, an indoor garden with water feature bubbling in the background. It’s a ‘shoes off affair’ once you enter the front door, and much like I do at yoga, I took a quick scan of the footwear to get some insight into the population attending. (Lots of sturdy, sensible flats that would be teamed with novelty coloured tights, on Saturday afternoon). Above the footwear they have the mandatory collection of lucky cats, only it includes (somewhat mystifyingly) a grey creature at the front whom I’ve named Lucky Roadkill, as well as a a rogue owl and cow who seem to have infiltrated, undetected.

Lucky for some, just not the poor grey creature at the front…

You don’t take anything into the baths with you, they supply towels, toiletries, kimonos, hairdyers, the works. Armed with a little bundle that includes scrubbing cloth, towel, and kimono you head into the change rooms to disrobe. It’s initially a little confronting, everyone strolling about nude but after a while your brain does a bit of a reset and you’re less taken aback at the sight of a naked woman drinking from a water fountain in the change room. Not *shrug* whatever! about it, just less taken aback.

OBVIOUSLY there are no photos allowed in the change room or bath/sauna area. There is also a sternly worded sign warning that the premises are strictly for relaxation purposes only and behaviours such as ‘using the facilities as a pick up joint’ and ‘masturbation in the sauna or bath area’ will not be tolerated. (Who are these people that need that spelled out???)

Clothes off, you head into the bathing area and shower first with the scrub cloth.  Then, once you’re all clean, it’s into the bath which is heated at 40 degrees.  (Oh, and I should have specified at the start, they are single sex baths and they only allow about eight people per session). 40 degrees doesn’t sound that hot, but the room is really hot and steamy, so you do have to get out from time to time to either cool off with some cold shower water, or pop out to be THAT woman drinking in the nude from the fountain in the change room.

After ample lolling about in the water chatting, we headed into the sauna for a spell. Jesus. I was already flushed from the bath (thank you, delicate Celtic complexion with capillaries that go into complete panic mode at the slightest temperature elevation) but stepping into a sauna heated to 85 degrees celsius – YES, CELSIUS! tipped me into ‘holy shit is that lady alright she’s so red she appears to be on the verge of spontaneous combustion?’ territory. 85 degrees?! That is downright unpleasant. The wooden seats were so hot that they branded me as I sat down and I’m now sporting some nice permanent slat marks on my posterior thigh region.

We stayed in the bath/sauna area for about an hour, then dried off and donned our little kimono jackets along with the pair of drawstring shorts they supply–which are so long and baggy I felt ready to play an extra in The Wire (‘Dealer On The Stoop,’ perhaps?)

Then, into the lovely Tatami Lounge for some rehydration and snacks–

Cross legged sitting on the ground: suddenly grateful for the complimentary long shorts

Now the visit there is for the blog and we wanted pictures as well as text, but goddamnit that facial flushing of mine doesn’t go anywhere in a hurry. I’d harboured ambitions of emerging all glowing and relaxed, but the effect was more clammy and dishevelled. Fortunately, I have a photographic policy which I call “nothing Instragram can’t fix”

(Well, Instragram or some readily available props)

Anyway Jarrod, we had a great time and came out feeling really relaxed and floaty and pleasantly exhausted. But have I managed to sell you on the idea of lounging about, naked as the day you were born, with seven other men? The Japanese Bath House: Jarrod, Would You Go There?

Facial flushing somehow STILL evident in b&w!

Coy as hell