Spa Day

I was naked.

 

Without a stitch on, as they say.

 

As a blue jay, as the day I was born.

 

I stood next to the locker I’d just closed and, with my left hand, briefly clutched the plastic bracelet around my right wrist like it was a talisman.  The locker could be reopened by swiping the bracelet over the magnetic panel on the locker door.  I had a brief, ridiculous desire to re-open the locker and put my clothes back on.

 

Somehow I’d had two minutes to myself in this row of lockers to get undressed and mentally prepared.

 

For the staring.

 

Due to the fact that Gokurakuyu Japanese Bathhouse was way out in Pudong (or “Pu-Jersey”, as I liked to call it), I was the only non-Asian in the entire facility.  Constantly being stared at has been part of my overseas adventures since I was 10 years old, and now that I was buck-a*& nekkid, I was certainly glad no one would be able to carry their cell phones (with camera) into the spa.

 

Or would they?

 

I took a deep breath and straightened my spine.  This wasn’t my first bathhouse experience, I reminded myself.  I’d gone with some classmates to a Turkish bath while studying in Greece.

 

So this trip would be my second.

 

I walked out of the bank of lockers.  I passed a few women about my age or younger.  They were clad in pink and yellow floral p.j.s, on lend from the spa.  They were deep in conversation, cheeks flushed and giggling, hands fluttering like birds.  There was not one flicker of an eyelid my way.

 

Whew.  So far so good.

 

As I approached the carpeted and towel-layered stairs up to the baths, I spotted an old lady.  Her hair was gray, thin, and short, plastered wetly to her skull, her pink scalp showing through in places.  Her spine was slightly bent from osteoporosis; I doubt she’d have stood higher than my shoulder.  She was dabbing at her age-spotted skin with a towel.  Her eyes moved over to me—here it comes—moved away, and she continued about her business.

 

Wow.

 

The glass doors at the top of the stairs whispered apart as I approached.  I stepped onto the wet stone floor.  There were at least 40 women in various baths, and I gathered myself for the staring of at least one of them.

 

Nothing.

 

To my left was a row of tubs, each one deep and short (but about long enough for me).  With their cement and hollow steel handrails, they looked like tanks used to water cattle.  I quickly found one that was empty, with unoccupied tubs on either side.

 

I let myself sink into the gloriously hot, slightly bubbling water, dangling my painted toes out the other end.

 

Aaahhh.

 

I closed my eyes, breathing relief.

 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

The journey here had been somewhat arduous.  I still underestimate the size of Shanghai—a map never does it justice.  It had appeared that the spa was in walking distance of the subway.  I expected to walk 10-15 minutes.  Unfortunately, there was massive construction happening along the main road.  Road signs were missing, or few and far between.  Pudong was not Puxi (my side of the river, the older part of Shanghai and more tourist-friendly).  I probably ended up walking around in circles, passing Muslim noodle shops and run down caves where you could get a haircut for under five dollars.  The construction overflow made piles of rubble, including glass and nails, as well as puddles that I had to skirt around.

 

After 20-30 minutes I gave in.  I had no idea where I was or which direction I needed to go, even with the map app on my smart phone.  I went to a busier street and flagged down a cab.  Luckily I’d printed directions to the spa in Chinese.  The cab ride was less than 10 minutes, but it was worth it.

 

The contrast inside the spa was startling.  The floors were pristinely clean, partly because you were asked to remove your shoes immediately.  The lobby was filled with small, pleasant ponds and plenty of comfy chairs.  Soft Japanese music—flute and harp, slow and tranquil—floated over my head like cherry blossoms.

 

The woman renting out pajamas was unable to explain anything to me in English, so we had a bit of an issue.  I had to get the pajamas from her, then go to another desk to get my bracelet (which I could scan for food or spa treatments, rather than carrying paper money), and then go into the locker room to change.  We figured it out, though.

 

Everything was pristinely clean.  Along with the p.j.s were disposable slippers, and the toilets had about 20 buttons.  There was plenty of t.p. and soap, and even small bottles of “seat disinfecting spray” in each stall.

 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

A small section of baths (shallow, natural-looking pools) were outside, and I sat in the warm water, sinking my butt to the stones and leaning my back into the sunlight-warmed rocks behind me.  I had this area to myself.  Many Asian women are extremely fond of white skin.  They carry umbrellas in all weather to keep their skin spotless.  (My freckles must freak them out.)  They buy expensive whitening creams.  Sunscreen costs double or triple what it does at home.  And they certainly won’t sit in the sun.  But for me, sitting in my birthday suit in semi-privacy, in the hot water while sunshine cloaked my shoulders, was a fabulous novelty.  I had no qualms about adding to my freckle count.  Japanese music sank into me, relaxing my back and slowing my mind.

 

As I begun to realize that there’d be no staring, I happily immersed myself in hot pool after hot pool; a “milk bath” (actually tiny bubbles, lending the water a milky appearance); a super-hot bath, a warm bath, the stock tub baths.  There were old ladies and girls under 10; there were a few plump ladies, but mostly thin ones—the Asian frame tends to be quite petite.  Every size, every shape of lady was here, and although there was not the German “here’s my fat butt” attitude, I didn’t get the sense that there was anything Puritanical about the place, either.  No one seemed self-conscious.

 

There was a room where I gave myself a salt scrub, and a back area where I had my first seaweed wrap for 60 RMB (about 10 bucks).  The lady tried to tell me to sit on the table five times without miming it clearly, speaking louder each time, until I finally understood her.  After being coated with the blue-green stuff (like a clay mask), I was wrapped in a huge sheet of saran wrap. 

 

The room was hot and steamy.  My whole body throbbed and sweated as I stared at the ceiling or closed my eyes.  I think I almost fell asleep once.  I must’ve waited 30 minutes for the woman to come back.  The suspense was killing me, but I was also oddly relaxed.

 

After the baths and the wraps, I was warm and calm.  I’d been chugging water (as many signs around the spa recommended), and now it was relaxation room time.  I got some cookies and xiguazhi (watermelon juice) by scanning my bracelet (“Your money’s no good here,” I wanted to joke to someone).  I draped myself over a leather lounger—just like the 100 other men and women in the room.  Some were chatting quietly, some watching TV, some sleeping—one guy was even snoring, and I tried not to laugh as he snorted from time to time.

 

I had some ramen at the restaurant later, with a small bottle of sake, and felt pleasantly snug, serene, and perhaps even a bit Japanese.