Why, yes, I do like naked, outdoor bathing time with strangers!

Perhaps a strange title, to begin, but it jumps to the heart of this edition of blogliness.

As seen previously, the Hub and I had already spent some time in a private Japanese bath, but, as explained by my Japanese friends at work, an onsen is a completely separate experience altogether.  While both boast of relaxation and meditation, the onsen is fueled from natural hot springs bubbling just below the surface of the islands of Japan which are strewn with active volcanos.  Since Kyushu is a fairly small island and has a very active volcano just a few hours away (Mt. Aso), there is an abudance of onsen in this area which we had never taken advantage of.  For the long weekend, MWR offered a "romantic" getaway to the Ureshino Spa and Ryokan.

Having visited the baths, Hub and I knew that the actual time in the water was spent naked, but we were hoping to find a private facility where we could be alone.  At one point, one of my supervisors at work was going on the trip, and the thought of being naked with coworkers seemed a bit odd, although something I was determined to move beyond.  When she had to cancel and when no one else I knew stepped forward as a co-visitor, I eased up and told Hub that, according to a friend who had visited in the past, there were no private baths to be found but that at least we would be split by gender.  He was torn between hoping there would be no other guys on the trip (the ships were supposed to be gone at the time) so he wouldn't be naked in front of someone he might know and hoping there would be other guys there so he wasn't naked alone with Japanese men he knew for sure he wouldn't know, all of which I found humorous.

Kitty wishes you a good day

So, the morning of the trip, we packed a backpack apiece with a few snacks, a big towel, flip flops, and not much else, assuming that nothing much was needed for a bath visit.  Loading the bus, we said hello to the three people we knew (from church and work, no less), and took our seats in the back, settling in for the distant journey.  To our surprise, 30 minutes and 2 highway exits later, we were slowing on the exit ramp to a giant sign bearing our onsen's name.  Following the signs led us down a couple of back streets to a large hotel building with the beginnings of a garden peeking around the corner.  Upon our entrance, we were greeted by both the hotel's friendly, welcoming cat (present in all Japanese businesses and often in people's homes to welcome and to bring well wishes to the guests) and by hosts of a more human nature. 

Into a larger room we were led, removing our shoes before we entered, and seated around a low, traditional Japanese table for green tea and a cookie which served as a light snack from the trip.  When our guide announced we could attend to the baths whenever we liked, nervous glances were swapped around the room between some while others coolly tried to play that they needed another cup of tea at just that exact moment, which forced me to bite my lip before a giggle could escape.  Standing, I resolutely decided I would not be cowered, grabbed the hand of Hub (yes, I'll not be cowered...with an accomplice!), and asked where we should go to change.  Snagging towels and robes, we followed the only two of our group to begin before we did around a corner, separating into our own "locker rooms."  To say it was a locker room is to be accurate, as there were lockers to place your belongings into, but that is, by no means, to insinuate that the smells and the memories of high school gym flooded back to me.  Instead, I found tatami mats carefully placed to cover the floor with foot massagers in one corner, and baskets ready to hold your essentials placed on shelves in the middle.  Finding a cubby hole-d basket, I began stripping down, carefully not looking around the room and determinedly not covering myself with a towel immediately after taking off my socks (exaggeration, but you can understand how this situation might lead to extreme modesty where one normally might not have any or as much).  Loading everything into the basket, I snagged my washcloth, which, in its defense, was nearly as long as an American handtowel, and walked out as casually as my pink face could muster. 

(Here, I suppose, I really should state that any pictures taken from this point on are from the guys' perspective as Hub was the camera holder of the day.  I realized this after stripping and hoped he would remember to take them; once we rejoined and settled in our house after the trip, I was surprised by how comfortable he became with his fellow bathers, though I do not know all the stories.  Needless to say, I'll insert them as best I can but acknowledge that all might not make the best of sense.  Carry on.)

Leaving the locker room by way of a glass door at the opposite corner of the entrance, I found myself surrounded by steam and stone, in a room where tiny, sit-down showers lined three of the walls while the fourth was solid glass, overlooking a garden outside.  In the center of all the showers was an indoor bath where several older Japanese ladies relaxed, looking up curiously at my entrance.  Shuffling slowly to a shower, I sat on the low stool, adjusting the spray to a warmer temperature in order to ease the shivers whose origin came from either the brisk air, my nerves, or a combination thereof.  Trying to sneak a peek at my neighbor who seemed to know better what to do, I grabbed the provided washcloth, lathered up a sweet, but mild, smelling soap from the first pump of three, and began scrubbing myself clean.  Knowing I was expected to be clean before entering the bath, I continued for about 15 minutes before deciding I was as fresh and pink as possible without removing a second layer of skin then, dumping my washtowel into the provided bucket, I dipped into the indoor bath to relax.

While heavenly, I knew this wasn't what I had come for and left soon afterwards via a door that blended well with the wall of glass in the front.  Just outside, I discovered the full version of the beautiful garden I glimpsed from indoors, complete with a hot springs bath.  From the side, steaming water poured out of an immense stone teapot over a giant bag filled with green tea leaves, turning the bath into one giant steaming cup of tea!  Off to the side of the teapot sat a basket full of smaller tea bags, which I grabbed two of, dipped them in the water in emulation of the pair of Japanese ladies in the back, then placed them over my closed eyes, gently rubbing them across my face, hoping the antioxidants would soak in and erase all of the lines that have insistently appeared with time.

My relaxation was slightly marred by the incessant chatter of one of the women on the trip, but for the most part, I was able to just stretch out in the hot water, tea bags on my eyes, all the unease of being naked slowly draining with the tension from my muscles.  Approximating that an hour had passed, I eased myself out of the bath, smiling, and again stepped up to the mini-showers, rinsing the tea away, and re-robed in the locker room.  A quick poll among the women found us all putting our underwear back on under the robes before making our way back to the original room, now transformed with multiple pallets strewn around the room, one for each of us.  Selecting our own mat, we lay as gracefully as we could, careful of our robes, as a different masseuse was assigned to each of us in turn.  Our guide came by, asking if the pressure should be increased, decreased, or maintained, and I sighed my contentment to the words of, "It's perfect," before she left.

And then I almost cried.  After she walked away, my masseuse seemed to take it a personal offense when my body did not immediately let go of the tautness of muscle to the degree he felt it should when he thought it should.  From that point on, the massage was an experience of pain (when he "massaged"), of relief (when he paused), of whimpers (from me), and of grunts (from him).  When he tapped me to say he was finished, I swear I saw a ghost of a triumphant grin pass his face before the stoic mask dropped again, and he stood, bowed low, and walked away.  It is less important, although humorous to those not in my condition, to note that I rose much more slowly and hobbled over to my bag where I changed behind the painted screens, feeling like I was some sort of shadow-dancer who had been at the gig years beyond my prime.  My track record now with Japanese massages is as follows:  Hillary-zero, Japan-two.

After everyone changed, we spent a little time wandering through the gift shop, taking a few pictures, and sipping on tea before bowing in exchange with our lovely hosts, boarding the bus, and waving happily as we drove back the short distance that seemed a lifetime away from this tiny, quiet corner.

(Note, again:  I did feel better later on, and Hub laughed at me for being a pansy with regards to my massages.  That continued until the next day when a gigantic bruise erupted from my skin, to which I pointed in pained joy as proof of the over-zealousness of my tormenter from before.  Still, we loved and enjoyed it and plan to return another time soon.)