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Naked and skeptical, we confronted the tiny sink. The proprietor had clearly explained the requirement to bathe before entering the onsen, and we knew these Japanese hot springs subscribed to serious rules. But had it been unreasonable to anticipate we’d be given the supplies needed to wash? Rahul and I examined the bare room, taking inventory of a tiled floor with just two small wooden stools, a single cubby for clothes, and not a lot of other options. We crouched down, and avoided making eye contact as we began to scrub. My buddy and I had pledged to immerse ourselves in Japan. In Tokyo, we squeezed into subway cars and karaoke booths, shoulder-to-shoulder with locals who introduced us to fearsome-looking foods. We encountered less English in Kyoto, but it didn’t stop us from lodging at a ryokan hotel, where we slept on traditional floor mats. The next morning, with sore backs, we decided an onsen could soothe them. A little advance research had prepared us for the single sex environment, as well as the custom that we soak without using any form of bathing suit. Through pictures and patience, the host briefed us on the rest of the facility’s many rules. He handed me a box of band-aids to cover a small tattoo on my shoulder, and issued washcloths to carry at all times. He instructed us to sit on the stools and clean ourselves before entering the communal bathing area, insisting that after the washcloths had touched our bodies, we could never let them make contact with the hot spring water. “Where do we put them when we are bathing?” we asked. “You can hold them on your heads,” he suggested. Never mind that I didn’t particularly want to see my friend naked, or how I always looked the other way in America when pool signs “required” me to shower before swimming. I had resolved to experience Japan properly, with great respect and appreciation for cultural sensitivities, and so I leaned further into the moment. Still, the situation in the onsen didn’t feel relaxing. After disrobing we squatted over our stools next to the smallest sink we had ever encountered, and squeezed small drops of hand soap onto our skin. I worked my washcloth to create a rough lather, and bathed with an awkward attention to detail. After some time the outer door creaked open, and a Japanese man in a bathrobe entered and interrupted my focus. I will never forget the look of pure disgust when he saw us. With nostrils flared, eyes peeled back, and his upper lip curled into a sneer, he shook his head and hurried into the adjacent onsen area, without stopping to wash himself first. We had both heard stories of Japanese who preferred not to share the onsen experience with foreigners, and it appeared our presence had offended him. “Can you believe that?” I asked Rahul. “He didn’t even bathe.” “So disrespectful,” he replied. “Don’t sit next to him inside.” When we were good and clean, we rose and made our way to the onsen. Many aspects of Japan had surprised me, but nothing compared to the moment when I opened that door and discovered a beautifully appointed locker room on the other side. We shared a good laugh when we passed the private shower stalls and took note of all the soaps inside. There were even little compartments for our stools. At last, we submerged into the onsen itself. The warm water felt gorgeous, and I tried hard to relax, though I couldn’t help but notice our Japanese counterpart kept glancing at me. We sat naked, just a few meters apart, with washcloths balanced precariously on our heads. I wanted desperately to apologize and explain my embarrassment, but if he had understood our language I like to think he would have intervened during the earlier unfortunate circumstance. In the silence, steam rose from the water. I thought about the story he would probably tell his friends. I wondered whether he’d describe us as well-meaning visitors, or uncouth invaders. “At least he saw how diligently I washed myself,” I thought. He knows my conscience is clean.