I pushed aside the fusuma, the rectangular sliding doors characteristic of Japanese architecture, and peered inside the room. I was overcome, especially after a night of karaoke, by the peace and stillness. The walls of the expansive bedroom were beige. Two pairs of blue slippers for me and my friend rested by the door. A tiny brown table with two white square mats sat in the middle. I heard the gentle flow of a little waterfall and walked to my window where I gazed at a school of white and gold carp swimming leisurely in a pond. The room’s light fragrant scent reminded me of the times I spent lying on the couch in my grandmother’s living room as she rubbed her Chinese body oil, which always felt minty to my skin, into my back. I suddenly felt a sense of calm and familiarity in this room that had housed many strangers and was thousands of miles away from home.

I was in the mountains of Hokkaido, Japan, for my first hot springs experience. It was time for dinner, and my friend and I looked forward to changing into our yukata (soft cotton kimonos) for the first time. The word yukata refers to “bathing clothes,” and they were designed for wear before entering and after leaving an onsen (hot springs). We stripped out of our shirts and jeans, and then dressed in matching white and blue yukata with black sashes. Since my yukata resembled my taekwondo uniform, I tied my sash like I always did for my taekwondo belts, but loosened it for greater comfort.

Wearing the yukata was liberating as I realized how effortless I felt moving around without the nuisance of rough jeans, constricting bras, shoes that pressed my toes together and the itchy tags on most of my shirts. I felt as if I were enveloped in a huge, warm blanket, and exposing my body to a new culture.

I felt strange walking into the dining room, a larger version of our own room with many low brown tables, wearing just my yukata and no undergarments. My skin felt as bare as an oyster without its shell. As my friend and I sat on our knees in front of our tables eating shabu shabu (Japanese hot pot), I began to feel more comfortable in the yukata like all the other diners around me. The name shabu shabu was the Japanese onomatopoeia for the soft swishing of the chopsticks in our pot’s water. One by one, I grabbed vegetables, fish balls and thinly-sliced pieces of marbled beef with my wooden chopsticks and plunged them into the water, for a few seconds until they had cooked. Before each anticipated bite, I dipped my food in a soy sauce and then savoured the juicy flavours.

Next came the visit to the onsen. Upon entering the changing room, we carefully undressed, put our yukata into cubbies, and each grabbed a towel. It is disrespectful to be loud, to run and to tread around with outdoor shoes once one enters the changing rooms. Even the children who were hyper at dinner understood. We entered through glass doors that led to the onsen. To my left was a wall with a row of shower heads, each next to its own mirror, bathing products and a small stool. It is important for guests to clean themselves before entering the onsen, a place of rest and serenity.

I stepped into the 40 degrees Celsius water. Steam was drifting into the air and I felt as though I were a wrinkly piece of cabbage in a shabu shabu pot. At first, the water was too hot, so I lowered myself gradually. Once I was fully immersed, I folded my towel into a little square and placed it on top of my head as the other women did – to let my hair or towel touch the water would be rude. I feared making a mistake since I had learned all these rules last minute and felt that it would be easy to offend the Japanese people around me. But as no one was staring at us, my friend and I quickly began to unwind as the warmth of the water washed over us. Being naked in the onsen felt as freeing as being naked under my yukata. I had never felt so comfortable with my nudity. We blended in with the women around us; many had their eyes closed, some were sitting on rocks and everyone’s faces were slowly turning pink and sweaty from the heat. I felt as though I were truly becoming a part of the culture.

After the hot springs, I was glad to be back in the yukata; I had never felt more relaxed. I soon fell asleep on the thin cotton futon on the floor of our room, which was surprisingly a lot more comfortable than my own bed at home. I almost forgot that I had spent an entire day without wifi or any technology, far from the busy and packed city.

Wearing my yukata permitted me to welcome another culture. I had opened my body and mind to a side of Japanese culture that differed greatly from the nightlife of the brightly-lit cities and their prominently advancing world of technology. I realized that although the strict rules rooted in the tradition were initially daunting, they ultimately allowed me to feel a greater sense of peace and freedom that I had never experienced in my own culture.