The Sound of Geta

The train from Kyoto to Kinosaki Onsen took almost two and a half hours, and by the time I arrived, the sky was turning a soft orange. I stepped off the platform straight into a scene I had only seen in photographs before: a narrow canal lined with willow trees, wooden bridges crossing it every hundred meters or so, and small wooden inns glowing with lantern light on either side.

My ryokan — a traditional Japanese inn — was a two-minute walk from the station. Almost as soon as I checked in, the owner handed me a folded yukata, a light cotton robe, and a pair of wooden sandals called geta. "For the onsen town," she explained, showing me how to wrap the robe left-over-right. "This is how everyone dresses here."

I changed into it in my room, feeling a little like I was wearing a costume. When I stepped outside again, though, I realized I wasn't the only one. Up and down the street, other guests were walking in the same robes, the same sandals clicking softly against the stone path — clack, clack, clack — like a quiet rhythm the whole town shared.

Kinosaki Onsen has seven public bathhouses, and guests are encouraged to visit several of them in one evening, moving unhurried from one to the next in their yukata. It sounded wonderful in the brochure.

In Taiwan, we have hot spring resorts too, but almost always with private rooms, or swimsuits required in the shared pools. The idea of bathing completely undressed, next to strangers, in near total silence, was something I had only ever read about before this trip.

It also meant I had almost no more excuses. I had never been to a Japanese communal bath before, and the truth was, I was nervous.

Back in my room, I opened the small guide the ryokan had left on the table. The rules were simple, but there were more of them than I expected.

Wash your whole body at the small shower stations before entering the bath. No swimsuits — communal bathing means the water touches your skin directly. Tie up long hair so it doesn't touch the water. No photographs, ever. Speak quietly, if you speak at all.

I read the list three times. Even though I understood every rule, I still felt uneasy. What if I did something wrong? What if everyone stared at me the moment I walked in?

I almost texted a friend back home to ask if this was a terrible idea. But it was already morning in Taipei, and she would only worry.

I almost decided to skip the baths altogether and just enjoy the town instead. But I had traveled almost three hours to get here, and somewhere underneath the nervousness, I really did want to try it.

So at 5:50, still unsure, I gathered what courage I had, put on my yukata and geta, and stepped back out onto the street. The evening air was cool, and the canal reflected the lantern light in long orange lines.

I found Ichino-yu, one of the most famous of the seven bathhouses, with a tall, traditional gate at its entrance that made it look almost like a small shrine. A few other guests, in yukata just like mine, were walking in ahead of me, completely at ease.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I followed them inside.

Inside, everything was quieter than I expected. Steam rose gently from the water. A row of small wooden stools and shower stations lined one wall, and a few women were sitting on them, washing carefully and unhurriedly, the way you might wash something you actually cared about.

I copied them exactly, step by step, trying not to look like it was my first time. Nobody looked at me twice. That, more than anything, helped me relax.

When I finally lowered myself into the hot water and could soak properly, my whole body seemed to let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. The water was almost too hot at first, and then, slowly, perfectly warm. Above the low wall of the bath, I could see a strip of dark blue sky, just beginning to show its first stars.

Nobody spoke much. An older woman a few feet away gave me a small, friendly acknowledgment, just a slight nod, and then closed her eyes again, clearly somewhere completely peaceful.

I stayed until my fingers started to soften, then dried off, dressed again in my yukata, and stepped back out into the cool evening air, my skin still warm underneath the cotton.

Down the street, the canal lanterns were fully lit now, and the sound of geta on stone was everywhere — clack, clack, clack — dozens of guests like me, moving unhurried from one bathhouse to the next.

Two hours earlier, the idea of any of this had felt impossible. Now, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

I decided to visit one more bathhouse before the night was over. This time, I didn't hesitate at the door.