asahi-yu - 3/11/26
I woke from an afternoon nap in the room I’d rented near Kyoto station before setting off West in search of Asahi-yu, past Toji Temple, away from Kamogawa and the popular shrines in the Northeast. I was nervous to visit the sento alone, an outsider, with limited perspective on its customs.
Circling the block several times before noticing its waving, blue banner over the door, I stepped inside. In the genkan, I sat down on the ledge and slowly removed my shoes, watching an elderly woman as she pantomimed with her hands how the wooden mechanisms slid in and out of the shoe lockers' latches.
At the counter, I purchased a small amount of soap and shampoo from the attendant, fumbling with the array of coins that had started to weigh down my pockets. Some of my things fell to the ground and an older man nearby bent down to help me, placing my toothbrush back in my hand with a subtle, but welcome glint in his eye. It was sort of a relief to be naive, relying on the good graces of others to get me where I needed. I was almost a child again.
In the next room, I removed my clothes and stood barefoot in the tatami-floored, dressing room that led out into the bathing hall. The sento housed a wide range of waters to soak in; herbal, milk, and mineral baths, a cold plunge, electrical pool, sauna, a steam room, and finally an outdoor onsen. I decided to try them all, migrating from pool to pool as steam rose higher into the air from the men who sat on short stools, scrubbing their backs and legs under low-lying showers.
Across the room, a man of around 70 stood with his back to me, spraying water over himself and what looked to be irezumi, a full body tattoo, bearing the image of Oni. It was an elaborate portrait of a demon-man with fangs, faded with time, but still vivid as it stretched neatly from his collar to his lower thighs.
There was a familial energy between those present in the room that night with several younger men sitting together, sporting their own in-progress tattoos depicting variations of the style. On my own in the herb bath, I laid down, up to my chin in the opaque waters while two little boys splashed nearby. They craned their necks over the wall between our baths curiously asking about its green color. I responded clumsily through laughs, explaining in basic words how it contained plants for healing.
In the sento, three generations of Kyoto men repaired themselves in silence and then there was me, sticking out like a sore thumb with my pale skin and hair in a bun, feeling seen but allowed; to be present, to be alongside them, and to be fully in my own body.