These are what come to mind when I think of Noboribetsu Onsen, a small resort town off the east coast of Japan, in Hokkaido prefecture (think the USA’s Pacific Northwest). Amy and I spent two nights here at a Japanese onsen spa called Dai-ichi Takimotokan. Noboribetsu Onsen is like Hot Springs, Arkansas. Natural sulphur hot springs in the area (dubbed “the Valley of Hell”) helped create a resort area built around the healing effects of the mineral springs. And I assure you the entire town smells of sulphur, just like Gary, Indiana, or certain parts of Pittsburgh. So we checked it out.
First, to explain the “onsen.” If I have this correct, it’s the Japanese bathing ritual. I was unfamiliar with this, and it’s got a lot of rules, so much so that they give you a little rulebook with explanations when you check into the hotel.
First, you sit on a little stool, 100% naked as the day you were born, and you lather yourself up. Start with the shampoo. Make a big afro out of the suds, this is meant to indicate to the other two dozen naked men seated around you that you intend to get very, very clean. Then rinse off in dramatic fashion, but not enough so to splash your neighbor (rude!). Now lather up your body — all of it. Publically. Arms, legs, torso, and yes, the undercarriage. Stand up when working on the undercarriage part, too – let everyone know that you will be spotless and unblemished in all nooks and crannies.
Rinse off again, fully, with sprayhose and washbasin. Scrub your feet with the brush provided. Clean your face with the facewash. Use the little towel to clean out your ears and nose. BUT DO NOT HOCK A LOOGIE! Refrain from all spitting of any kind, gross American. Discretion is key. Now that you’re fully clean and fully rinsed, everywhere, you may proceed to the hot baths.
There are several different kinds of mineral springs, one for whatever ails you. One for the bad skin, one for old age, one for rheumatoid arthritis, one for anemia – whatever you’ve got, they’ve got the bath for you. Hot baths, excessively hot baths, tepid baths, and cold dunk tanks. Walk around the large, open bath area (like a big gym full of little swimming pools) and try out the different baths. As you walk, realize you are:
A. The only white guy.
B. The only guy under 50.
C. One of two dozen men walking around fully naked with your wang hanging out like the tag on Minnie Pearl’s hat.
You get used to it fast. And you know what? After a while, it’s all sort of relaxing. Throw modesty out the window. It’s just you, the hot baths, and full body cleanliness as nature intended it (which, as we know, is next to Godliness, so this is all very spiritual, isn’t it?).
Amy tells me her women’s bath area was very similar, but with more sag.
After we had our baths, we were on to the buffet dinner. All kinds of local Japanese cuisine, much which we didn’t recognize, and the translations didn’t help. This is a big seafood area, but I’m not much for Salted Squid Guts or Cancer, boiled or not.
The crab legs were very popular, as was the tempura shrimp. I also had some roast beef and very grapey grape ice cream. Not much more to say about dinner. If you’ve been to a buffet dinner in 1973 or a high-school cafeteria in 1983, you’ve been to the Genshirin room at the Dai-ichi Takimotokan in 2013.
And if you know Amy, you know what she wanted to do after dinner. It was Karaoke time again. For the third time in Japan.
Let me pause here to tell you about a fantasy I think every teenage boy had (and perhaps many adult men still do). It’s you, surrounded by swooning women, and you get your pick of the bunch. Well, it may have taken me nearly 30 additional years since being a teenager, but the dream came true. There were about ten Japanese women (and two other guys, I should add) already in the Karaoke bar when we got there. Trying to find a song with universal appeal, I opened my set with “It’s Now or Never.” Now get your mind straight – imagine yours truly, 100% cleansed, stuffed full of crab legs and grape ice cream, and dressed in the hotel-provided kimono, doing my best version of The King.
I tell you this – I killed it. You know the last part, where Elvis goes, “it’s now or never…(pause)….my LOOOOOOOOVVVVVEEEE won’t wait!” I hit that high note to perfection. And that’s when every one of these women, who were already on the dance floor, SWOONED with delight, one fanning herself to calm the lustful effects of the romantic depth charge known as Kid Delicious. They surrounded me and shook my hands. I was a hero among men, a walking Adonis. Did I fail to mention that these women were all over the age of sixty? Perhaps I did…
After a few more songs, Amy and I went up to our room, and had a very clean, albeit sulphurous night’s sleep in our Japanese-style guestroom.
Noboribestu Onsen. One moment you’re scrubbing your junk, then you’re letting it all hang out for the world to see, and lastly you’re using it to sing like the King. Immodesty takes balls. Very clean ones.
werefinemom.com 
I am disturbed by some of the imagery presented in this story.
Amazing. Thank goodness your undercarriage scrub went more smoothly this time around in Japan.
OMG, I can’t stop laughing.
I’m still laughing a day later…You guys should publish !
mmmmm boiled cancer is my favorite. yum!