Cathedrals of the Flesh (24 page)

The Geishas of Kii-Katsuura

The onsen ideal involves hiking ten kilometers into the wilderness and finding rock-sculpted hot springs next to a riverbed
— or better yet, sculpting your own tub out of rocks the way they do along some riverbeds. Realizing that this ideal required
more rugged individualism and camping equipment than I could muster on this trip, I compromised by taking a train to a remote
fishing village in the Wakayama prefecture. Though many onsen have colorful stories of discovery and awesome perches, this
description held special allure:

The special bath, called Bokido, is situated in a natural cave . . . Bokido means 'Forget-to-Go-Home-Bath,' named after what
a nobleman of the Edo period did, so infatuated was he with this area. The water is sulfate and was once used by wounded warriors
of the Taira clan after skirmishes with the Minamoto clan in the 12th century. It's still good for any battle injuries you
might have . . .

The dramatic seaside setting and the evocative name and history immediately seduced me. I'd also seen a picture in another
book of two Japanese girls relaxing in a 'jungle bath' at Kii-Katsuura. So the bonanza prospect of both a jungle bath and
a Forget-to-Go-HomeBath kept me anchored to my seat as the train emptied out in the popular resort town of Shirahama. Yes,
I was becoming Japanese in my pursuit of as many different bathing experiences as possible. I settled in, the only passenger
in the car, for another three-hour chug to Kii-Katsuura.

The coastline came in and out of view. Crags cropped out of the water, overshadowed by cypresses and birches blazing yellow
and orange like bonfires falling into the sea. It was thrilling to see the Pacific Ocean, to be out of the mechanized chaos
of Tokyo and Kyoto. On this train to nowhere, I felt as though I were getting closer and closer to
satori,
the elusive Zen Buddhist enlightenment brought about through
zazen.
My preferred setting for mediation, of course, was chest deep in hot water.

The J R train had petered out to an exhausted chug as it scaled the mountainous coastline. Finally we stopped at the square
of a little town and I recognized Kii-Katsuura, not from any landmark, but more from a feeling. The town was tiny and charmingly
provincial, comprising two intersecting thoroughfares with festive banners overhead that seemed left over from a long-forgotten
parade. The avenues were lined with shoe shops, women's clothing stores, fishmongers, sushi stalls, and coffee bars. In the
West, we hear so much about Japanese tea ceremonies, but it's the coffeehouses that are ubiquitous, and coffee seems to be
the preferred vehicle for caffeine. Despite the assurances of the banners, it was eerily empty and quiet in Kii-Katsuura.
With my small wheeled suitcase in tow, I was the only person walking down the long wide street toward the ocean.

For a moment, I had an unsettling flashback to the deserted entrance of the Tchaykovsky banya in St Petersburg. I took heart
at the sight of three women approaching me on the dusty street. They were my age, maybe younger, and two appeared to be Japanese,
while the third was a tall, slender Caucasian girl with a shock of bleached blond hair. She was dressed in a white tank top,
her bra straps sticking out, blue Adidas sweat pants, and a pair of rubber flip-flops. She carried a plastic bag filled with
hot dog buns. As she passed, she nodded to me in acknowledgment, as Caucasians in remote parts of Japan are wont to do. Perhaps
she was an exchange student from Düsseldorf, but she was most certainly not a tourist. Tourists generally don't walk around
with hot dog buns.

Before I could even think about finding the Forget-to-GoHome-Bath or a place to stay, I had to find lunch. All I'd eaten
the entire six-hour ride from Kyoto were two packets of Pocky, a popular Japanese snack food of pretzel sticks dipped in chocolate.
I passed a dimly lit coffeehouse with a large group of women chatting and laughing. My entrance was welcomed with a warm chorus
of
'Irashaimase,'
and I took a seat at the bar. A moment later, the trio I'd seen on the street walked in and sat at a table behind me. I ordered
yakisoba, noodles and cabbage fried up in soy sauce, and an iced coffee, which the Japanese make deliciously strong. The blond
girl also ordered an iced coffee and then joined me at the bar.

'Are you a tourist?' she asked shyly.

'Yes, are you?'

'No, I work here.' She pulled a box of cigarettes out of her pocket and offered me one.

'Do you work in one of the hotels?' I asked hopefully.

'No,' she said, examining her fingernails. She looked up at me. Her brown eyes were tough and sweet, and she had a don't-mess-with-me
vulnerability that was instantly endearing. Finally she said in a pout, 'I don't like it here. Tokyo I like. But here so boring.'

'Where are you from?'

'Romania.' She took such a deep drag on her cigarette, I thought it would disappear into her mouth. 'My name is Kristy,' she
said on the exhale.

Her cheeks were somewhat hollow underneath her high, chiseled cheekbones. Her skin was porcelain white and flawless. She was,
I guessed, every Japanese man's fantasy woman.

'And this is Mama,' she said, introducing a preppie sixty-year-old Japanese lady who wore a yellow Izod shirt and a windbreaker
outfit. 'She takes care of me and the other girls,' she said, pointing to her two friends. 'They're from the Philippines.'

'So you used to live in Tokyo?' I asked, her line of work slowly dawning on me.

'Oh yes,' she said dreamily, 'I spent six months in Rappongi, and it was so wonderful. So much money, so much fun. Here so
boring.'

Rappongi, I remembered from a night out with Philippe and his entourage, was the red-light district of Tokyo, tightly packed
with strip bars featuring women of every nationality.

'Here I work at a club called Sweet Spot. Every night I have to be there from seven until three in the morning. And only two
days off per month.'

'Is the money good, at least?' I asked.

'No, it's terrible. One hundred dollars on a good night. They lure us here with a contract telling us "so much yen, so much
yen," so I come from Tokyo and there's nothing here. Just a few fishermen and whalers.'

'Can't you go back to Tokyo?' I asked.

'No. If I break my contract here, I have to go home to Romania, where I can only earn fifty dollars a month. Japanese men,
I don't like Japanese men. They are always trying to grab me when they get drunk.'

'So you don't do lap dances?'

'No lap dances. Just dancing and talking.'

'You speak Japanese?'

'Hai. Nihon-go wa wakarimasu ka?'
she said with a proud smile.

'Wakarimasen,'
I responded. It was one of my few Japanese expressions, and it meant 'I don't understand.' 'How did you manage to learn Japanese?'

'We have no choice. How else we get tips? Why are you in Japan?'

'Umm, to see the baths, you know the famous onsen of Japan,' I said, slightly embarrassed at the frivolity of my pursuit in
comparison with her life of survival.

'I have heard good things from my customers about these baths, but I have never been.' Then Mama, who didn't speak English,
said something to Kristy in Japanese, who explained, 'Mama is wondering about where you are going to stay tonight.'

'I have the name of two hotels in this book - Urashima and Nakanoshima. I'll be fine.'

'Are you lonely?' Kristy asked.

'Do you mean traveling alone?'

'Yes, yes, traveling by yourself, lonely. It harder to find a room for one at a
ryokan.
Mama said she will help you.'

After we'd each had three iced coffees and filled an ashtray, we set off, with Mama in the lead, for the quay. The quay is
the real town square of Kii-Katsuura. Small chug boats designed to look like sharks and cartoon characters shuttle guests
back and forth from the mainland to the two floating island hotels.

Mama and Kristy negotiated on my behalf at the hotel booking office. It seems 'lonely' travelers get penalized.
Ryokan
prices generally include a lavish dinner and breakfast and as many baths as you can handle. A price of $90 was agreed upon
after an initial insistence of $200.

Kristy repeated, 'So expensive, so expensive. You lonely, so they charge you more.'

'Yes, it's very expensive to be lonely,' I said, thinking more of her customers than myself. 'Kristy, do you want to come
to the hotel with me and we can visit the onsen before you have to go to work?'

She looked at her watch. It was nearing 5:00, and she had to shower and be in full makeup by 7:00. 'Maybe tomorrow,' she said,
utterly without enthusiasm.

'Can I come see you dance tonight?' I asked. There were only so many baths I could take, and Kristy was sweet and her life
a mystery.

'You want to see me dance?' she said, simultaneously aghast and flattered.

'Yes, if you don't mind.'

She didn't say yes or no. She and Mama walked onto the dock with me, and I hopped on a chug boat designed to look like Casper
the Friendly Ghost. I thanked them profusely and bowed deeply to Mama. She was beaming. I was another saved street urchin.
I took a seat on the boat and looked back to the dock, expecting to see them retreating up the gangplank. But they stood just
outside my window, watching the boat. Suddenly Kristy jumped on the boat, rushed over to me, and said, 'You understand yen,
right? Don't pay more than ten thousand yen. You understand?' And then she rejoined Mama on the quay.

As the boat zoomed away, I watched Kristy put her arm through Mama's and head back into town to put on eye shadow and a bra-and-panty
set, her workplace attire, for a night of dancing for groping fishermen. I wanted to see her again, to show her the onsen,
expose her to the pure side of Japan. And I wanted to thank her for helping me find a home for the night.

Casper the Friendly Ghost spat me and ten Japanese couples out onto the dock of the Urashima Hotel, a lush fantasy island
of six separate onsen areas, dining rooms,
pachinko
parlors, souvenir stalls, and karaoke bars. Hiruko, the only English speaker on staff, met me at the first reception desk.
His proficiency in English was slight, but we pantomimed dinnertime and onsen locations.

I had shin splints by the time we reached my room. It was a good half-mile walk through endless white corridors crammed with
video games and small walled-in cubicles for one-on-one romantic karaoke sessions. My room, on the seventh floor of a tower
building facing the Pacific, was really a suite, a trio of six-tatami rooms. In a country where space is measured in two-by-four-foot
tatami mats, and where Max spent seven years living in a single six—tatami mat room, I was living large at the Urashima.

The main room had a knee-high lacquered table with two
zabuton
pillow chairs and an alcove for the traditional calligraphy scroll and flower arrangement. A thermos of green tea and yunohana
buns were laid out in customary
ryokan
fashion. At night, the table and chairs were exchanged for a futon and bedding. Behind a shoji screen was a sitting room overlooking
the rocky Pacific coastline. Having explained all the usual features of a
ryokan
room, with special emphasis on the need to change from 'tatami' slippers into 'bathroom' slippers before using the facilities,
Hiruko left me in peace to contemplate the stresses of slipper etiquette.

I replaced my clothes and shoes with yukata and geta and set off for Bokido, about a quarter mile away, through a cavernous
tunnel that rounded the hotel by the ocean. At the end of the tunnel, the walls gave way to gray, exposed rock faces. I was
inside a grotto.

It was pure madness inside. Every newly arrived female guest was trying to squeeze in a predinner bath. I showered in front
of exposed rock, walked on slate. Not a synthetic material in sight. A series of three tubs moved toward the Pacific, pulling
the bather's eyes toward a hole, like the eye of a needle, that opened out on the wide expanse of cresting waves. Curious
to investigate, I made my way by wading through different pools toward the pear-shaped hole. I looked over the edge to the
waves crashing on the rocks below, dark blue swells cresting into foam. A few hundred feet beyond my safe perch in the cave,
other large rocks jutted up from the ocean, looking monolithic and sacred, like the second coming of Stonehenge emerging from
the ocean's floor.

Satisfied by my exploration, I returned to the first large pool, with a fountain in the middle bubbling over with yellowish
green water. The deep smell of sulfur went straight to my head, a smell I was growing very fond of and that I equated now
with health and good skin instead of rotten eggs. The water at the fountain was the purest, and I watched the women eagerly
approach the fountain and splash the hot, sulfuric water on their faces. Nature's Clearasil. I got in line. I splashed my
face and licked my upper lip. The water tasted like sulfur salts mixed with cayenne pepper. It had a nice kick. I could feel
my pores tighten after the jolt of sulfur. This was the good stuff.

I soaked with the other women. We smiled at one another as we listened to the waves crashing just beyond us. We sat there
in skinship, joined by the act of sharing water, an act of trust and of affection. Everyone was alone with her thoughts. As
I entered the cold pool, goose bumps spread across my skin. I looked down at my body. No, I could never be an exotic dancer.

At dinner that night, still stumbling around in my yukata and geta, I was seated alone in a large, glitzy dining room crowded
with people wearing identical kimono-style cotton robes and struggling not to dip their wide sleeves into the soy sauce. I
was plied with course after course of sushi, tempura, shabu-shabu, and strange slimy morsels in pretty bowls. I quietly read
my book of essays on Japanese life.

Trying to pull all the pieces together, I realized that Japan's diversity is manifested through its fetishes, from its high-art
fetishes such as tea ceremonies, flower arranging, sumo wrestling, and compulsive bowing; to its bizarre and flashy fetishes
- mandatory Louis Vuitton handbags, baseball, French pastries, Pokémon, germ paranoia, and kabuki theater — to its base and,
quite frankly, perverse fetishes, among them schoolgirl porn, the brisk market for used underwear, blowfish roulette at the
dinner table, and motel love affairs. And to wash away the guilt, stress, absurdity, and defilement of all the fetishes: the
bathing obsession.