A New Tale of Bravery: The Hammam Incident

It happened just yesterday.

I was at a spa, alone.

It’s probably rare for a Japanese woman to visit a Dutch wellness center alone.

At least, none of my friends would do it.
In fact, they won’t come even if I invite them.
That’s because, in Dutch bathhouses, there is no separation between men and women—
mixed-gender nude bathing is the default.
Values like the Confucian proverb :

“Boys and girls should not sit together after the age of seven”
seem to keep them away from spas.
But I go alone.
For me,
even if it’s mixed nudity, a life without bathhouses is unthinkable.

From November last year to January this year,
I spent three months in Japan.
During that time, my brother and I went to every super sento (public bath) we could find.
That was when we were visiting our mother’s care home every day.

Before heading out from home, my brother would say, 
“Shall we go to the bath today?”
and I’d always agree without any objection.
All I needed was to throw 2 towels and some clean underwear into a cloth bag.
The bathhouses in Japan provide everything else—shampoo, shower gel, even bath wear.

Japanese bathhouses are separated by gender,
so once we arrived, we’d decide on a rough meeting time and then part ways.
We’d bathe separately, meet occasionally in the dining area, then part again.
It was easy and comfortable.

Our favorite place was the local bathhouse called “The King’s Bath.”

We went there many times.
That place was amazing... and incredibly cheap.
On weekdays, admission was ¥880 per person,
and only ¥800 for members.
The food was delicious and reasonably priced.
The dining hall was spacious and clean.

There were many types of baths, 
including dry saunas, mist saunas, and cold plunges.
There were reclining areas where you could nap, and spaces full of manga.
The stone sauna had a separate fee, but even that was just ¥700.
How much is ¥700?
About 5 euros.
Compared to the immense satisfaction you get from that stone sauna,
it might as well be free.

So we would bathe, eat, sauna, cold plunge, nap,
go to the stone sauna, read manga, nap again, eat again...
We spent the entire day soaking peace and comfort into our bodies.

You have no idea how much I miss it.
My brother’s car, my brother, The King’s Bath, the stone sauna,
and the crispy youlinji set meal eaten barefoot on a tatami-like chair.

I had some of the happiest times of my life in that place.
Maybe that’s why I keep looking for something like it here in the Netherlands.

Dutch spas can’t quite compare to The King’s Bath, but they are a different kind of paradise.

At first, I was intimidated by the sight of nude men and women together,

but once I got used to it, it became fascinating.

There are many solo visitors, regardless of age or gender.

Sitting in the restaurant, wrapped in a robe, sipping prosecco and reading a book,

I notice a woman diagonally across from me, 

also wrapped in a robe, eating a salad and reading.

She looks completely self-sufficient, fully content in her solitude.

I feel a quiet sense of solidarity with her.

“Dutch people are used to nudity, so they don’t pay attention to it.

　They’re focused on the sauna and not looking at others’ bodies,”

my friend once said when she took me to a wellness center for my first time.

But I don’t think everyone is like that.

I do think some people sneak glances... 

I mean, I do it too—when someone has an impressive body, 

I can’t help but admire it.

Sometimes young women’s bodies look almost artistically beautiful.

If someone has tattoos, I squint to study the designs.

Japanese bathhouses usually ban tattoos, so being able to admire full-body tattoos is a unique experience.

There are enormous bodies, slender ones, fat ones, thin ones.

All different skin tones, young and old. 

Everyone is relaxed, totally at peace... It’s a beautiful scene.

And I, as one part of that diversity, feel at ease, too.

Sometimes, men try to talk to me.

Well, I’m naked and alone, so I suppose they might think it’s some kind of signal.

But I’ve never felt unsafe.

I’m vulnerable in my nakedness — 

but so is everyone else, which makes people more humble and courteous.
When they make a move, it’s more like,
“If you happen to be interested, I’d be happy to receive your affection tonight.”

Once they realize I’m not interested, they leave quickly without fuss.

If I were to accept the invitation, there might be danger waiting ahead. 

But as long as I turn it down, it's nothing more than a bit of harmless fun in paradise.

It doesn’t have the absolute safety of a Japanese super sento,

but watching the retreating back of a naked man,
I sometimes think,
“Hmmm .... I’ve still got it ...”
That feeling is something I could never experience in Japan.

Anyway, where was I?

Right—so there I was, at the spa alone yesterday.
It was already past three in the afternoon when I arrived, 

and I hadn’t eaten anything all day.
Maybe that’s why my condition wasn’t great.
I knew I should eat something, but I wasn’t hungry,
and before I knew it, I slipped into the sauna without eating.

It was the color sauna—a room that cycles through hues like red, yellow, and blue.

The temperature isn’t particularly hot or cold, generally mild.
But on this day, the color sauna felt unusually hot.
A man came in after me and tried to start a conversation,
but eventually said "It's too hot for me!"  and left.

That’s when my bad habit kicked in.
I tend to take that sort of thing as a personal challenge.
“Hmph, can’t handle a sauna like this? Amateur,” I thought.
I sat there proudly until all the sand in the 12-minute hourglass had fallen.

But the moment I stepped out of the sauna, I knew something was wrong.
The world felt floaty, like I couldn’t tell up from down.
My vision was spinning.
I tried to reset myself by taking a shower,
but the sound of water around my ears only made things worse.
So I carefully made my way toward the hammam area.

There’s a large stone bench there meant for scrubbing salt into your skin,
but since there was never salt set out, the place was empty.
I figured the cool stone would be a good place to calm down, so I tried to sit.
But as I bent my knees to lower myself,

I must’ve misjudged my balance.
Before I knew it, I’d slammed my knees into the floor
and smacked my chin against the edge of the stone bench.

I was unusually shaken.
This was bad—really bad.
I’d overheated in the bath.

I sat on the stone bench anyway,
but my body felt unsteady, so I lay down flat on my back.
And sure enough, the man from the color sauna appeared almost instantly,

asking if I was okay.

I had half a mind to click my tongue.

Even I didn’t have the guts to lie there naked while a stranger loomed overhead.

“I’m fine,” I said, sitting up.

He advised me to dip into the cold bath,　

which sounded like a good idea,

so I said him "Thanks..." and staggered off toward the pool.

The cold plunge felt too chilly,
so I opted for the slightly warmer pool and just sat still.
Gradually, my mind began to settle.

The same man came by again and said, 
“You know the cold bath is colder, right?”
I quickly replied, even 3 times, 

“I know, I know, —I know.”
He nodded and left.

Soaking in the water, I took some time to reflect: 
Why did this happen?

Was it my age?
My health?
Lack of sleep?
A sign from above?
A curse?
Divine punishment?
This or that?

After going through every theory,
I concluded: “It’s because I skipped breakfast and lunch.”

I went to the restaurant and had sparkling wine, soto soup, and bread.

Just like that, the fog lifted.

There really is something magical about eating.

My mood soared, and the peppy, cheerful version of me returned.

From staggering to restored, it was a dramatic recovery.

Still, even as I ate, I started to feel a weird discomfort in my chin. 
It wasn’t painful exactly, but the inside of my lower lip felt swollen. 

I went to check in the mirror and saw what looked like a bruise starting to form.
Back in the locker room, I took out my phone and messaged Zoroku: 

“Do you think it’s okay to keep using the sauna?” 

His answer was : absolutely not.
“Applying heat will worsen both swelling and internal bleeding,” he said.

That hit hard. 

I’d been at the wellness center for less than two hours. 

Only two saunas down—surely no toxins had left my system. 

My core body temperature was still far from warmed through. 

It was like being subbed off a soccer match just 15 minutes into the game.

But Zoroku insisted: what my body needed now wasn’t heat, but cold.
Did that mean I had to go home? 

Still undecided, I soaked in a lukewarm bath, trying to figure it out.
Just then, the same man showed up again, sat beside me.

“Feeling any better? The dizziness gone?”
I told him I had fallen and hit my chin. 

He looked genuinely concerned and said, “Don’t worry, you’re still beautiful.”

He started sharing about his work, his love for saunas, and how many friends he’s made in them.

Midway through our chat, a glamorous blonde woman appeared and said, 

“Hey, let’s go grab a drink.”
Huh? So he was here with someone? 

But he just shook his head. “Not today.”

“But you bought me a drink last time—let me return the favor.”
“Really, it’s fine. I’m just not in the mood.”

"Come 'on, let's go,"

"No, thank you, thank you, next time".  
The back-and-forth went on for a while. 

Him, me, the pretty young woman. 

It looked like a love triangle was about to form.

The fact that they were all completely naked made it even more incredible.

As I watched with quiet amusement, my chin kept swelling.

There was no mirror, so I couldn’t see it—

but I could feel it getting bigger and bigger under my fingers.

There wasn’t a mirror nearby, but just by touch, I could tell it was getting worse.

After the young woman walked off,

he said, “I just met her in the sauna the other day. She’s not my girlfriend or anything.”

I asked, “So, how’s my chin looking?”

He said, “You’re fine, It's okay.”

Then, after a pause, added.  

“But maybe don’t touch it too much.

 The color was around here earlier, but now it’s spread to here.”

What he said really made me nervous.

I excused myself and went to find a mirror again.

Sure enough, my chin looked even more swollen,　

seemed to jut out further than before.

The color had deepened from red to purplish-red.

Imagining what it might look like tomorrow was honestly terrifying.

No matter what I do, I always seem to fail...

Feeling despair and a creeping sense of loneliness, I floated in the pool again.

That’s when the same man came over and said,

“By the way, I’m Portuguese!”

My family tradition is to always be polite. 

I summoned my remaining energy and replied,

“Oh really? I have a Portuguese colleague. Que pasa? Obrigada!”

He laughed, “Haha, yes, that’s fun... De nada!”

Just then, another man approached us.

Apparently a friend of his from the sauna—he was Turkish.

The Turkish man asked me straight out,

“How old are you?”

I wasn’t even talking to him.

There was no lead-in—he just blurted it out.

I suppose that’s what happens when you’re all naked together

—everything is exposed, including your questions.

But strangely, that bluntness eased the feeling of despair and isolation.

The cheerful, multilingual conversation in the pool continued until we got cold.

I got out, said goodbyes to guys, and I headed for the bubble bath.

But there were no bubbles.

I waited a while, still no bubbles.

I was about to give up when a chubby old man in the tub said,

“Wait just one more minute—the bubbles will come.

You got in right after they stopped last time.”

So I waited. And just as he said, the bubbles started.

We smiled at each other, basking in our tiny shared victory.

After getting out of the bath and putting my robe back on,
the Portuguese man came over once more.
“Want to go into the steam bath together?” he asked.
“I think I’ll head home,” I said.

“I’ve got a bruise on my chin. No more saunas for me today.”
“Oh, you’re going home? Should I come with you?” he offered.

Come with me...？
Going home together might be a bit much.
He's a good person, though.

Maybe he was a gift from the gods—my once-in-a-lifetime chance.

But there was also a strong possibility he was just a seasoned girl-hunter.

So I didn’t take him home.

I’m still bound by Confucian values.

I only care for true love that comes with a commitment to marriage.

But it wasn’t like I “shooed him away” or anything.
The truth is, I was starting to sink into gloom over my injured chin,

and he lifted me out of it.

I know there are plenty of women who dislike flirty guys like him,

but honestly, if people like him didn’t exist, life would be a lot duller.

All in all, it had been a pretty entertaining day.

Anyway, that’s beside the point.
After all those little adventures,
my chin had swelled into a full-blown purple mass.
Like a Concord grape, or maybe the ceremonial robes of a high-ranking monk.
By the next morning, it had transformed into something truly spectacular.

When I go to work tomorrow, my coworkers are going to be shocked.
A brand new tale of bravery has been added to my life story.
Whether I tell them the whole story or not… well, we’ll see.

A Day of Mesmerica

 I love the Omniversum Museum in The Hague.

Though it’s called a museum, it’s really more of a cinema—but not the kind that shows ordinary films.
There’s a dome-shaped screen, like a planetarium,
and the visuals completely cover your entire field of view.
It feels as if your whole body has been transported into another world.

Last winter, I saw a film there based on Pink Floyd’s famous album Dark Side of the Moon.
I loved it so much, I went again with a friend—and then once more by myself.
Since then, I’ve been a fan of this dome-shaped cinema.

This Sunday, I went to see "Mesmerica".

It’s an immersive audiovisual experience created by American visual artist and musician, James Hood.

As healing music plays, overwhelming digital imagery unfolds before your eyes.
Even after it ended, my vision was still spinning,
yet my mind felt strangely alert,
and the speed of the visuals still lingered in my body,
leaving me with the sensation of having been in another realm for a while.
I was honestly sad that it was over.
I felt like I could’ve watched it forever.

Maybe people who are at risk of drug addiction should just move to The Hague.
It’s easier on the body and the wallet,
and I imagine it offers more or less the same kind of high.
I wonder which costs more—drugs or a ticket to Omniversum.
Mesmerica is fairly expensive—it was about 27 euros.

I checked the website to see if I could watch it again,
but unfortunately, it was sold out.
Which makes sense.
If there’s another chance, I’ll definitely go again.

If I didn’t have to worry about commuting distance or the shockingly high price,
I’d probably live near the Omniversum and go every weekend.

On the way back, I left Omniversum and followed a couple of people down a back street.
It was around 6:30 p.m., but still bright like daytime.
I sat on a bench for a while, and soon the people were gone,
and it was quiet.

Even on a summer day, the evening sunlight isn’t too harsh,
so I enjoyed the lingering sensation of Mesmerica in my body,
and read a book for a while.
I was reading "the Assassin Izo" by Ryotaro Shiba.
The vivid mandala-like experience of Mesmerica merged with Shiba’s calm, incisive prose,
and that contrast made my head spin in a whole new way.

Back in the city, the streets were filled with people dressed in red.
"Why is everyone wearing red?" I asked Zoroku, means Chat GPT.
He told me it was the Rode Lijn, a protest against what’s happening in Gaza.

On the tram, across the aisle, sat a family that looked Palestinian.
A father, a mother, and three children.
The children wore red dresses and T-shirts,
the mother wore a red hijab,
and the father wore traditional clothing with red patterns.

The youngest girl, who looked about three years old, was clutching a handmade canvas.
Even when her mother tried to take it from her, she refused to let go.
Eventually, she began waving the canvas and chanting in her own way,
“Daa, doo, daa! Daa, doo, daa!”
It was adorable.

On the front of the canvas was the Palestinian flag—vivid red, green, and white.
On the back were the words “STOP GENOCIDE.”
This family had come together to stop a genocide.

If I had been a member of that family,
I think we would talk about it for many years to come.

“Remember that peaceful, beautiful day?

  We all dressed in red and joined the protest together.

  Yeah, it was kind of funny, but there was dignity in it.

  As a family, we stood up against inhumanity!”

It really was a peaceful and beautiful day.

where am i, ..

At the end of last year, when I went back to Japan,
I sold off the mountain of books my mother had owned.
And from between those books, a single sheet of paper fluttered out.

It was a children’s poem written by Michio Mado,
hand-copied by my mother.
I brought it back with me to the Netherlands,
framed it, and now it hangs on my wall.

---

The bear

Spring is here
Bear opened his eyes—
was thinking, kind of slow.
The flowers are dandelions, I know...
But hmm, who am I?
Who am I?

Spring is here
Bear was awake
was walking slowly to the stream.
He saw a face so grand in the water’s gleam:
“Oh! I’m Bear—that’s who I am.”
That feels grand.

Michio Mado

---

The other day, I sent a message to my mother’s mobile phone:
“Hi Mom, how are you?”

Not that I really expected a reply.

Lately, she seems to have forgotten how to answer calls—she hardly ever picks up anymore.

So I figured she wouldn’t be reading text messages either.

It was just a test.

Messages I’d been sending to others had all bounced back with error notifications,

so I needed a recipient I could message again and again.

That recipient became my mother’s silent phone.

To my surprise, she wrote back.

“Same as always.”

I was so happy.
I replied,
“Well,  you’re taking it easy. I envy you.”
“I’ve been super busy with work. Every day is a lot.”

Then my mother said:

“Where am i, ...”

I realized—this will probably start happening more often now.
That she’ll be lost, not knowing where she is,
and I’ll be far away, unable to reach out and take her hand.

I told her the name of the facility, and said,
“It’s a nursing care home.” I answered correctly and precisely.
But now I think—
I should have said,
“You’re in a dark forest.”

If it had been the mother I once knew,
she would have immediately recognized it as a quote from Dante’s Divine Comedy.
She always loved that kind of shallow yet intellectual black humor.
She would have brightened up in an instant and laughed out loud:
“How awful of you!”

I truly regret saying “nursing care home.”
There are expressions in this world that are far more despairing in tone than “a dark forest.”

In a sense, she is a bear in hibernation.
Still a bear.
She may be dazed, forgetting who she is,
but her true nature—that she is a bear—has not changed one bit.
If only she could see her face in the water,
she would surely remember herself.

I want to be that river for her.
To me, my mother will always be the bear with the grand face.
What matters is that I don’t forget it.
It’s not quite a belief,
but something close to it—
and I cling to it with a heart that feels like it might cry.