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Illustration by Marley Allen-Ash
Across the street from the tiny hostel is a sento (communal bathhouse) in Wakayama City, Japan. I’ve just arrived from Osaka and the humidity here clings to me in a way that feels almost personal. At home on the West Coast of Canada, I’m used to dry heat with the ocean breeze, not this thick, enveloping warmth that stretches into the night.
Tomorrow, I’ll catch the train down the coast to Mio – the fishing village where my grandmother was born and where many Japanese Canadians trace their roots. But tonight, I’m drawn to the gentle glow of the bathhouse and I cross the street in sandals. I’ve come here for something simple – a bath – but it feels like more than that. Settling into the sento feels like stepping momentarily into a home culture that has always felt close yet distant.
A hostel worker told me this public bathhouse was once a yakuza (organized crime) hangout. Now newly renovated, those sharp edges have softened. It’s quiet when I enter. The only sound is the gentle slap of wet feet on tile and the distant hum of conversation. Steam curls in the air like ghosts. I breathe it in deeply, letting it fill my chest. The air feels thick with memory, though it’s not entirely my own.
I still remember the first time I walked into a bathhouse in Japan at the age of 21, freshly moved from Vancouver and unsure of myself. I stood awkwardly in the change room, nervous and hyperaware. I wondered how anyone could be so casual, so naked around strangers. A friend sensed my hesitation and showed me what to do step by step. Sit low on the little stool. Wash thoroughly. Never bring soap or a towel into the bath. Each gesture felt foreign at first, but soon, my body learned.
Even now, years later and long after leaving Japan, I find the rhythm of the bathhouse still lives in me. I move without thinking. Rinse. Lather. Wash. Repeat. It’s become second nature, like muscle memory. What strikes me is how natural it feels despite the fact that I grew up far away, in Canada, where these customs weren’t part of daily life. This simple routine of bathing isn’t just about hygiene. It’s a small act that connects me to a culture I’ve often felt distant from. Each familiar gesture – a scoop of water, a careful rinse – makes that distance feel smaller.
A mother and her young daughter soak in the bath, the girl splashing water over her knees. I think of how my parents once told me stories of sharing the same bathwater with their family when they were children. Now, they prefer showers – quick, efficient, individual. Bathing is just another practice that has gradually faded with time, slipping away from their lives.
On the other side of the tiled wall, I catch echoes of men chatting. Their Japanese sounds rough and thick with dialect – maybe Wakayama-ben, maybe Kansai-ben? I wonder if my grandmother would understand them if she were here. Would she catch their clipped cadences the way I try to?
I lower myself into the bath, the water lapping gently at my collarbones. My muscles loosen as the heat sinks in. Steam blurs the edges of the room. I close my eyes and let myself melt into the moment. Around me, the sound of dripping water, quiet splashes, shifting weight as bodies slip in and out. It strikes me how bare I am here – not just without clothes, but without all the markers I usually carry. Canadian, Japanese, insider, outsider. None of it seems to matter in the water. I am just a body, floating. For once, the distance between me and my grandparents, between here and home, doesn’t feel so vast.
When I step outside, the night air bites crisply against my damp hair. The sento’s neon sign hums behind me. Tomorrow, I will walk through Mio’s rural streets, searching for something I’ve never quite been able to name. But tonight, I feel like I’ve found a piece of it. Here, in the steam, in the quiet act of bathing. For a moment, I belong.
Natalie Murao lives in Vancouver.
