I was standing semi-naked before of a completely featureless door with no handle and smelling of cat urine.
Perhaps I should back up this story a little.
My room in the hotel, with my suitcase still innocently closed on the right. I did remember to bring my poster (on bed) to the conference— hooray!
I had arrived in Kyoto that afternoon to attend a conference. My hotel room was nice but minimalist. Three-quarters of the narrow room was entirely filled by a raised platform that supported the double futon. At the end of the futon was a sink, and opposite this was a small rail with a handful of clothes hangers. Toilets were down the hall, and there was a traditional shared Japanese bathhouse on the ground floor.
As I flipped open my suitcase, an acrid all-to-familar smell forced me to rock back on my heels. The inside of the case stank of cat urine.
In truth, I had actually smelled this when I had closed the case that morning. But nothing had seemed wet, so I assumed it was just an odour from the litter box in the hallway.
Apparently. No.
Despite being an ex-stray, Norah is generally very good about using the litter box. But she does not like new items on the floor. I’ve previously left out cardboard boxes and wrapping paper under the misguided assumption that she would like to play or sit in them. Instead, she has opted for the more extra option of urinating on them. So perhaps I should have realised that a suitcase left on the floor risked meeting the same fate.
The fact remains I did not.
Fortunately, my suitcase was of the hard shell wheelie variety that had two fabric panels that clipped across either side of the inside halves of case to hold the contents in place. These turned out to be mainly waterproof, leaving the main casualties to be my clean underwear and the case itself.
The anti-cat-urine odour spray found for me by the very amused shop assistant.
I briefly considered that the undies could just be rinsed in the sink, due to humans not typically sniffing butts at meetings. Then I dismissed that entire train of thought for… so many reasons.
Instead, I opted to locate the hotel laundry. This turned out to be a self-service room with several washers and driers that could be used without charge. There was even detergent. I also googled the location of the nearest pet supplies shop for good measure. I explained the situation to the shop assistant who promptly doubled up laughing… and then went and found the spray product for exactly this situation. I consoled myself that my Japanese had at least been perfectly understood and that I was not alone in experiencing this pain.
Back at the hotel, I poured my soiled clothes into the washing machine and sprayed down the suitcase and all other items for good measure. Then, I headed for the bathhouse.
Hotels in Japan provide guests with pyjamas or a yukata that are often worn when visiting the hotel baths. I dutifully pulled mine on, grabbed a towel, and headed downstairs. It was therefore an exaggeration to say I was “semi naked” in front of the bathhouse door. I was covered… but I couldn’t enter.
Traditional Japanese baths (onsen or sento) involve unabashed communal naked time. They are however, usually divided by gender. Behind me was the door to the men’s bathhouse. A regular looking entrance with a big handle that seemed to be over compensating for the unperturbed surface of the women’s door opposite.
I tried approaching the door again to see if it would automatically slide aside. I touched the smooth surface. I tried pushing. I noticed a featureless box on the nearby wall and pressed my room keycard against it. Then I tried forcing the door to slide sideways, before deciding these were the kind of actions that got one arrested. Utterly baffled, I went to the front desk.
The bathhouse. A photo from the hotel website, because I’d done enough shady actions that day and did not need to add to the situation by bringing a camera into the baths.
The resulting conversation made me feel slightly deranged, both for my fumbled language skills and because I’d just asked how to open a door.
The unphased reply—in fluent English—was that I needed a code and a slip of paper was slid across the counter towards me.
I arched an eyebrow. Having read all the information in my room when investigating laundry options, I can safely say that the need to request a code for the women’s bathhouse was not displayed ANYWHERE in the hotel. Apparently, it was just assumed that all women would ask for directions. The reason for the simpler door handle on the men’s bathhouse became obvious.
The subsequent problem was the lack of an obvious keypad to enter the code. I returned to the forbidden entrance and examined the box I’d previously thought could be a keycard detector. I poked it. The surface lit up with a random pattern of numbers. I was to discover that the number order changed every time to prevent someone guessing the code from your finger movements. I entered the numbers on the slip of paper and the door slid magically aside.
It was like RPG game or maybe spy training.
I resisted the urge to eat the piece of paper with the code.