curb. A Buddhist temple? I wondered how long it had been there—from the style and grandeur of those graceful, tiled curves, probably since at least the turn of the century. The word for “roof” in Japanese is yane —literally “house root,” implying the importance of the roof as the basis for everything else. Whoever had designed this structure had taken that philosophy seriously, and I felt an odd sense of respect for and even connection with the architect, unknown to me and probably long since gone.
I came closer. A blue noren curtain with the name Daikoku-yu was stretched across the entrance, the three kanji meaning Great Black Hot Waters, and there were several dozen shoes placed in cubbies inside a small vestibule. Interesting. Whatever purpose it might have served originally, the place was obviously now a sentō —a public bath. Though they’ve been gradually disappearing since the war, back then the sentō —literally, “hot water for a penny”—served a vital function, fostering both a sense of community and good hygiene, and Tokyo still had several thousand, ranging from tiny no-frills neighborhood places to grand ones like this.
I thought about Ozawa’s house again. It was impressive, but it looked fifty years old at least. Newer places were being built with their own baths, but there was a decent chance the Ozawa residence wouldn’t have one. If that were the case, I imagined Ozawa would visit the neighborhood sentō regularly, perhaps every night. Or even if the home had its own bath, it would be a shame to live so close to a sentō as spectacular as this one and not make use of it. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that of course Ozawa would be a frequent visitor. Japanese politicians always mixed with their constituents. They had to show their humble origins, demonstrate they were of the shomin , the common folk. And though Ozawa’s house was better than average, a guy in his position easily could have afforded more. That he chose to scale back was another reason to expect I might find him at the sentō . After all, it wouldn’t do to be living aloof in that better-than-average home and to never engage in a little old-school hadaka-no-tsukiai —naked bonding—with the hoi polloi. My gut told me the sentō was the opportunity I needed, either the place itself or somewhere between it and his house. I just had to find the right way.
I parked Thanatos and wandered the neighborhood on foot. There were two routes Ozawa might use—one along the neighborhood’s little shōtengai , or shopping street; the other something of a shortcut along several much narrower roads. No way to know which he’d prefer, or whether he would consistently use one or the other. And even if I could know, neither potential route offered a way I could loiter inconspicuously. I decided to try the sentō itself.
I walked inside, placing my shoes in one of the cubbies at the entrance. The interior was old but well kept: sturdy-looking pillars ascending to a lovely, carved wooden ceiling; leather couches for anyone who wanted to relax before or after a bath; good lighting and immaculate lacquered floors. I walked over to the mama-san , who was seated behind a desk between the women’s entrance to one side and the men’s to the other, and along with the entrance fee paid for soap, shampoo, a towel, and a washcloth. No question the place would be popular in the neighborhood, but the fact that they were selling toiletries and renting towels suggested they also attracted visitors from farther away—maybe because of the grand old structure itself; maybe because in addition to the sentō , they offered an onsen or rotenburo , natural spring or outdoor bath. Certainly the mama-san evinced no surprise at the sight of an unfamiliar face—another good sign.
I walked into the men’s changing area, undressed, and put my clothes and bag in a locker secured with a charmingly inadequate lock. Then I went
I came closer. A blue noren curtain with the name Daikoku-yu was stretched across the entrance, the three kanji meaning Great Black Hot Waters, and there were several dozen shoes placed in cubbies inside a small vestibule. Interesting. Whatever purpose it might have served originally, the place was obviously now a sentō —a public bath. Though they’ve been gradually disappearing since the war, back then the sentō —literally, “hot water for a penny”—served a vital function, fostering both a sense of community and good hygiene, and Tokyo still had several thousand, ranging from tiny no-frills neighborhood places to grand ones like this.
I thought about Ozawa’s house again. It was impressive, but it looked fifty years old at least. Newer places were being built with their own baths, but there was a decent chance the Ozawa residence wouldn’t have one. If that were the case, I imagined Ozawa would visit the neighborhood sentō regularly, perhaps every night. Or even if the home had its own bath, it would be a shame to live so close to a sentō as spectacular as this one and not make use of it. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that of course Ozawa would be a frequent visitor. Japanese politicians always mixed with their constituents. They had to show their humble origins, demonstrate they were of the shomin , the common folk. And though Ozawa’s house was better than average, a guy in his position easily could have afforded more. That he chose to scale back was another reason to expect I might find him at the sentō . After all, it wouldn’t do to be living aloof in that better-than-average home and to never engage in a little old-school hadaka-no-tsukiai —naked bonding—with the hoi polloi. My gut told me the sentō was the opportunity I needed, either the place itself or somewhere between it and his house. I just had to find the right way.
I parked Thanatos and wandered the neighborhood on foot. There were two routes Ozawa might use—one along the neighborhood’s little shōtengai , or shopping street; the other something of a shortcut along several much narrower roads. No way to know which he’d prefer, or whether he would consistently use one or the other. And even if I could know, neither potential route offered a way I could loiter inconspicuously. I decided to try the sentō itself.
I walked inside, placing my shoes in one of the cubbies at the entrance. The interior was old but well kept: sturdy-looking pillars ascending to a lovely, carved wooden ceiling; leather couches for anyone who wanted to relax before or after a bath; good lighting and immaculate lacquered floors. I walked over to the mama-san , who was seated behind a desk between the women’s entrance to one side and the men’s to the other, and along with the entrance fee paid for soap, shampoo, a towel, and a washcloth. No question the place would be popular in the neighborhood, but the fact that they were selling toiletries and renting towels suggested they also attracted visitors from farther away—maybe because of the grand old structure itself; maybe because in addition to the sentō , they offered an onsen or rotenburo , natural spring or outdoor bath. Certainly the mama-san evinced no surprise at the sight of an unfamiliar face—another good sign.
I walked into the men’s changing area, undressed, and put my clothes and bag in a locker secured with a charmingly inadequate lock. Then I went
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