Stripped Down, but Rarely Naked

by Michelle McRae (Canada)

A leap into the unknown Japan

I’m someone who even in the comfort of my own home, dresses and undresses as though there is a hidden camera in the room. I’m like a slow quick-change artist, never really allowing a glimpse of myself in the nude. I am a worrier, with treacherous fingernails; so bad, I’ve evolved to naturally recoil my fingers to hide them from onlooking eyes that would otherwise cringe. When I travel, I’ve found I don’t demolish my fingernails as much. I guess I’m so engaged and excited, I don’t feel stress in my regular way. I’m having more fun, trying new things, and worrying less. My anxious personality isn’t entirely erased when I travel, but I do find myself more at ease; taken away to somewhere I become a better version of myself. In 2009, I traveled to Japan with my partner. Upon arrival, we met up with an old university friend, Ken. Ken is amazing – he is friendly, captivating, authentic, and open – definitely not afraid to show his body. To paint a picture: Ken was profiled in Canadian and international media with tag lines including: “rub-a-dub-dub, there’s a stranger soaking in your tub” and “this guy has been bathing at strangers' houses and having a great time”. This is because, in 2017, Ken made a resolution to make new connections as part of a trading community, exchanging social engagement for a bath. His relationship with bath-related social situations is a throw-back to his time spent in Japan. When my partner and I visited Japan, we stayed at Ken’s place in Shimizu. His traditional Japanese house was a convenient launch pad to travel all over. On our first day, Ken gave us a crash course to Tokyo, showing us more than we ever could have navigated all on our own. It was sensory overload; exceptional mental stimulation, which left no time for worry. Ken still had to work while we were visiting, and upon arriving home one evening after work, suggested we go to an onsen – describing it like a building full of hot tubs, meant to simulate hot springs, traditional to Japanese culture. When we arrived at his local onsen, he explained that we would need to be naked. If we were uncomfortable, we could wear a bathing suit at this location, but if we did, people would stare. Ken elaborated that we would have to separate into men’s and women’s bathing areas (meaning I’d be on my own with strangers), and that we would be provided with a ‘modesty cloth’. I started to pick at my fingernails when I saw that a modesty cloth was actually a very small facecloth which covered basically nothing. I reluctantly entered the onsen, naked, for fear of otherwise being stared at, and found it as a described: a collection of baths. I quickly jumped in, using the water as a liquid robe. I allowed myself to take in my surroundings, noticing that each bath had an interesting feature – my favourite was literally a big cup of tea to steep in. As I allowed myself to look around, I noticed small groups of women bathing together, catching up over laughter and, unrelated, nudity. I bathed alone, and eventually found myself starting to relax, just enough to enjoy the experience and take it in as something distinctly local. This onsen in Shimizu reminded me of a café or pub in a small town where people might go to catch up. Just like you might fade into the background at home, I realized I couldn’t tell if anyone was looking at me, and eventually, I didn’t even really care. It just seemed normal. The experience didn’t totally change me; I haven’t started traipsing around naked and I don’t embrace nudity the way that Ken seems to be able to, but I have relaxed, at least a little. Now, as I sit in a café, hearing people unwrap the details of their days, I’m reminded of genuine realness and engagement. I’m no more noticed here than I was there, but I am more present and more motivated than ever to get away and experience even more, committed to becoming that better version of me.