Rub a dub. With half the city.

Anyone who knows me can attest to my love for showers and baths. I’m sure it’s closely related to my love for singing extremely loudly in a tiled room, but wherever I’ve lived, I’ve always set up some sort of stereo system in or around the bathroom and generally rocked out.  

However, bathrooms in Korea are of a different breed than anything I’ve ever seen. I’m not sure if it’s a size issue or a plumbing issue or what, but most Korean bathrooms see no reason to separate the shower from the rest of the room. No wall, no curtain, and normally no fixed showerhead, which forces the tenant to hold the nozzle over them as they try to squeeze between the toilet and sink (and sometimes a washer machine) that are all jammed in a room most Westerners would use as a shoe closet. In fact, I’m lucky with the size and layout of my bathroom – my shower area, while lacking a curtain or wall, employs a fixed showerhead and is far enough from the toilet that I can almost forget its there. And true to form, shortly after I moved in I bought a pair of speakers for my iPod that are now perched on the cabinet and allow me to continue rocking out in Asia. A fact I’m sure my neighbors appreciate.

The only thing I’m missing is a bathtub, which to most people isn’t a big deal -- however, I’ve been addicted to taking baths for as long as I can remember. When I found out my apartment freshman year of college only came with a shower, I would show up at my best friends’ place (who didn’t realize how lucky they were to have a bathtub) with a stack of CDs, a towel and my rubber duckie at least once a month. Seriously.

Knowing there was no way I could possibly go an entire year without taking a bath (I’m not sure how anyone could), but also knowing that none of my newfound teacher friends had tubs at their places either (Hi, I’m Travis. Can I use your bathtub?), I was in a mild state of panic. Until I heard about the jjimjilbang.

Because most of the country didn’t have access to proper bathing facilities until the post-war buildup of the 1970s, people got the job done at public bathhouses called oncheon, hot spring spas which pumped in natural mineral water that’s apparently plentiful throughout the region. As people’s living conditions improved, they kept the bathhouses in operation, adding on different amenities including sleeping rooms, gyms, theaters and restaurants – these new and improved versions are called jjimjilbang. But the amazing part is they kept the “public” aspect of it by not really raising the price, and you can soak all day for around five dollars. I had found my bath.

Doing some research (i.e. asking my Korean teacher), I found out one of Busan’s biggest and best bathhouses was around the corner from the university where we take classes. After getting directions, I set off to see what this was all about.

Entering the giant complex situated behind a four-star hotel, I honestly had no idea what to expect, and while she had written down directions, my Korean teacher had failed to inform me of any etiquette that I should heed. As usual, I was pretty sure I was about to make a fool of myself in some capacity – but four months later, I’ve gotten used to it. After a short escalator ride I was greeted by a perky woman at the front desk who handed me a key and pointed towards the men’s locker room. Not mentioning the entrance fee, I wondered if I had gotten lucky and come on a free day. Do bathhouses even have free days? Like museums?  

I guess I should stop here and say that I’m not exactly a naked person. I’ve never been the guy at the party who suggests skinny-dipping or streaking – I’m usually the guy who is strategically on a beer run when such suggestions are made. It’s not like I’m the kid who went swimming with a turtleneck at the pool – I just think there’s a time and a place for nudity. You know, right after the shower and right before you get dressed. While I had been warned that the jjimjilbang was strictly nude, I hadn’t really processed what that meant in practice.

I found out it meant this place was basically a giant, Korean nudist colony. (And to stifle any snickering – mostly from my mother – there’s nothing all too appealing for me in an undressed Korean man. No offense.) Finding my locker, I stashed my clothes and tried to appear as nonchalant as possible as I quickly made my way towards the bath entrance, which was marked by a set of glass doors.

Not having any idea what to expect, I was floored when I entered the main room – a giant area the size of a football field filled with at least six large pools surrounded by bubbling hot tubs, waterfalls, trees, fountains and a juice bar, all under a magnificent atrium skylight that looked to me to be roughly the size of St. Peter’s Basilica. The far wall was covered in stones, complete with a bridge that led to a grotto area with yet more bubbling pools. The left side of the room wound up into a second level where you could get a professional massage, or just relax in two saunas, a steam room, a mud bath, and six more hot tubs. Done yet? Not quite. Another bridge on the second floor led to a patio area that had three separate pools (very hot, hot, and freezing cold) and one final outdoor sauna.

Getting over any shred of self-consciousness I was harboring, I quickly jumped from pool to pool. As if the natural mineral water wasn’t enough, almost every pool had a different herbal soak. Ginseng, lemon, rose, jasmine – and those were just the ones I could read. The list went on and on and I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to leave. Ever.

An hour later and sufficiently saturated, I made my way over to the juice bar, where I had seen people with yummy looking smoothies. Instead of simply pointing to someone’s drink, I decided I was going to read something aloud from the menu and impress the bartender with my Korean. After a quick glace – long enough for me to gather I didn't understand what any of the items were – I pointed to one and read the Korean aloud.

    The Bartender: (In Korean) Really?
    Me: (Mostly happy I understood his Korean) Yes, really.
    The Bartender: Uh, ok.
    
Pulling out what looked like a Capri Sun container, he jabbed a straw in the side and slid it across the bar. Turning it over, I discovered why he had double-checked my order; I had asked for a root juice, similar to the kind they give out at the pharmacies here when you’re sick. Far from the satisfying smoothie I had anticipated, I now had to choke down this brown liquid that tasted like a mix of actual tree bark and deer toenail clippings and for no apparent reason, was making me sweat profusely. Laughing directly in my face, the bartender brought over sugar chips to take the edge off; I had made it just over an hour before making an ass of myself. Not bad, actually. Paying with my locker key anklet (so this is why you pay when you leave…) I quickly got back to the pools.

Koreans take their bathing very seriously, and will miss no opportunity to distinguish themselves from the Chinese, who they decry as filthy. The room was lined with showers, at which men covered themselves in soap at least three times before they got anywhere near the baths. Once in the pools, they knew what they were doing. An older man who wanted to practice his English informed me the best routine for my “skin and well-being” was to jump from the extremely hot tubs into the freezing cold water. Really? Because I was pretty sure my Western well-being was doing just fine sticking to the warmer regions. Never wanting to appear rude, I took a deep breath and flopped into the cold pool – which is about the time I yelped like a little girl, causing the entire complex to turn and stare at the foreigner they had been trying to ignore. Good, Travis. Way to not be rude.

Humiliating moments aside, what struck me most about the day was how universal the place was – kids ran around with their friends while their dads joked from beach chairs next to business men talking deals and soaking their feet as monks quietly padded around; everyone thoroughly enjoying the time they were taking out of their insanely busy day to just sit and marinate. In a country where the population seems to be determined to work themselves to death in the name of progress, it was refreshing to witness an entire building of people taking a much deserved break. 

Thinking I was done, I made my way back to my locker and began to get dressed when I noticed people putting on matching shorts and robes and heading through another set of doors on the other end of the locker room. Not wanting to be left out, I found some shorts and a robe and made my way down a staircase into what apparently was the common area for men and women. Again – my jaw hit the floor as I wandered around and found a restaurant, a play area for kids, a movie theater with big, comfy leather chairs showing Finding Neverland (for free), and five or six sleeping rooms.

The sleeping rooms were large, igloo looking domes that could house 15 occupants sprawled out on the heated floors. I popped my head into one that featured charcoal purified air and having no intention of doing so, quickly passed out for a nice, hour-long nap.

After waking up and getting my bearings (where am I and why am I wearing patterned shorts?), I contemplated grabbing a bite to eat at the restaurant -- but then I got a nagging feeling this all seemed too good to be true. The perky front desk girl had to be waiting with a hefty bill for me by now – there was no way they didn’t charge by the hour, or by the tub, or by some other method that was going to leave me broke after my day at the spa. 

Close to five hours later, I sheepishly made my way back at the front desk to assess the damage. The bill? Seven dollars. The place was only missing some music for me to rock out to. Next time I'll bring my speakers.