The Sauna

This is the story how how I ended up doing group therapy in a kiddie pool in some guy’s backyard at 11pm. It started when I really had to take a shit.

I’d been hiking Mount Unzen, near Nagasaki, which is absolutely gorgeous. Stop here for a minute and enjoy the atmosphere I captured about three quarters of the way up Fugendake, before continuing on to the absurdity below.

By the time I’d made it back into town and eaten dinner, night had fallen. I felt dusty and sweaty and like I could use a trip to the sauna. Because I never plan anything, I knew nothing about the bathing facilities of Nagasaki at this point and just punched “sauna” into Google Maps. To my surprise, there was a sauna just a half hour away on foot, with a perfect five-star rating¹ and which had just had its grand opening two days prior. What luck, off I went.

Well, one thing you should know about Nagasaki is it’s nestled into a skinny valley, and spills substantially up onto the hills. Walking anywhere involves a lot of climbing, and a lot of public staircases. Eventually I ended up supposedly right in front of the sauna, but I didn’t see anything sauna-like. And after a full day of hiking and climbing staircases, having just eaten dinner, I had to take a substantial dump, urgently.

Far into a residential neighbourhood by this point, I was certainly not going to find a public bathroom. What I did find was a railing overlooking a cliff. Having no other option I took a quick look around and, seeing nobody, dropped trou, sat my rear on the barrier and prepared to release a conflagration come hot from hell on the unsuspecting foliage some ten metres below.

Mere moments from letting slip the dogs of war, I heard a cough. I looked up: an elderly man was smoking on his balcony directly above me. Cloaked by dark of night, he didn’t seem to have noticed I was there, but I had to abort. I figured I’d hastily walk further into the neighbourhood and avail myself of another railing. I scampered up the stairs onto the next street up.

Except these stairs did not go up to the next street, they were attached to the old man’s house and led up to his balcony. Whoops. Luckily, he took it well. “Are you lost?” he asked. “Yes,” I said. “Also can I use your bathroom?” He enthusiastically obliged.

The innocent people of Nagasaki have not had raw American fury laid waste to their helpless infrastructure such as it was that night for quite some time now.

Upon emerging from the bathroom, he introduced me to his family. He lived with his wife, their daughter and son-in-law, and their two children. Sensing, or perhaps smelling that I’d lost a significant amount of fluids in his bathroom, he instructed one of the grand-children to “fetch some water for gaijin-san²” and asked me where I was going. “To the sauna,” I said. “I didn’t know there was a sauna around here,” he replied. “It’s just opened two days ago.” “Ahh, well then I’ll help you find it.” “Oh there’s really no need. I have Google Maps.” “No no. Let’s go.”

After a few more rounds of back and forth, it became clear he was not going to take no for an answer. I reluctantly capitulated and showed him the supposed location of the sauna was on the map.

I guess he didn’t drive, because he fetched his daughter to drive the car, and for reasons I don’t know, she brought the grandkids along too. Thus three generations of Japanese people stuffed themselves into a tiny kei car, followed by me, and we set off.

It quickly became clear why the place had been so hard to find. The newly opened sauna was, in fact, just a house, the owner of which had purchased a backyard sauna and charged people for its use. No hesitation from me, this is exactly the kind of entrepreneurial spirit I’m always ready to get behind. I profusely thanked the old man and his family for their generosity and made my way into the “facility”, which was staffed at the front by a young man and woman, which I think may have been the proprietor’s children.

There was a slight hiccup. You see, in contravention to sauna convention, patrons here were supposed to wear swimwear while using the sauna, which makes sense in hindsight, being someone’s uncovered backyard. Unaware of this, I didn’t bring any, and they somehow hadn’t anticipated this contingency and had no rental swimwear. Luckily, after a moment of thought, the proprietor scampered up to his room and fetched a pair of swim trunks from his wardrobe. Saved for the second time by Japanese hospitality that night.

Once I was all checked in, the male staff member instructed me to “please head over to the showna,” in his nervousness accidentally combining the words “shower” and “sauna”. The staff and I laughed so hard at this we cried. Maybe you had to be there.

There were only three other patrons in the sauna all night, Japanese guys about my age. We were fast friends. Sweating our worries away, we bonded over our shared love of Japan’s nature and our perpetual lack of girlfriends.

Every sauna needs a cold dunk, and this establishment did not disappoint: before the sauna laid an inflatable kiddie pool. Perfect. After reaching peak temperature in the sauna we plunged into the pool with pleasured moans of “suzushii~” — refreshing.

As we sat in silence, a feeling came over me. What a ridiculous and incredible series of events that led to this little moment. I suddenly noticed, which I somehow hadn’t before, that this kiddie pool overlooked an absolutely gorgeous view of the Nagasaki lights below. They were denser in the gully of the valley, and gradually became more distant as they worked their way up the hills. It was a clear night, so it appeared as though some of the stars had drifted down from the sky and settled into the geography.

The other guys must have been feeling it too, because we launched into a legendary male bonding therapy sesh, laying bare our worries, insecurities, and assuring each other everything was gonna be daijobu. It was a beautiful thing.

On the way out, I discovered why the sauna had a perfect five-star rating: the staff offered a free drink if we left a five-star review. None of us considered turning that down for a moment.

In that kiddie pool I gradually realised two important things.

First, I’ve gotten really good at making impromptu friends. It’s been a while since I travelled with someone, but almost every day travelling solo, I’m sure to meet some random guys (at a bar, on the bus, at a tourist attraction…) and have a grand old time with them. This is fun and it’s somewhat unexpectedly become a valuable skill in the workplace too, to wit, making fast friends with my coworkers and integrating into the team quickly.

And second, this is what it means to find beauty in the mundane: to experience it with others. When sharing ostensibly mundane moments with others, it doesn’t even feel mundane. It actually feels incredibly profound. At least it did that night, and so it has on many others I can recall. This, I realised, is the crux of my loneliness: it’s a yearning to experience these moments of beauty together with someone, forming threads into an expanding contextual yarn.

I developed a certain imperturbability following this. When life feels like too much, as it frequently does, I’ve found myself touching grass and mentally returning to the backyard kiddie pool. The Nagasaki boys are out there rooting for me, as I am for them, and so are the many others I’ve been blessed to be able to call my friends. As long as I have that, I can get through anything.

Much has already been written on the topic of “you can just do things,” but it bears repeating. Make it second nature. If you have to take a crap in the hood, you can just wander up to some guy’s house. Don’t even stop to think about it. If you wanna launch into an emotional healing circle in the kiddie pool, just go for it bro. That’s where you’ll meet the real ones.