When I was eight, I became an international streaker. And while this might sound exotic, I actually had more of an agricultural glow. My thin brown legs were covered with scabs from climbing trees and falling off bikes. My elbows were sharp, my fingernails bitten, and no amount of brushes could tame the recalcitrant brown hair that twisted around my shoulders.

When I stepped off the plane in Helsinki, Finland, my three cousins must have felt a twinge of disappointment. But I remember them as ethereal beings. At nine, eleven and fourteen, they were already a Scandinavian cliché. They stood in a semi-circle, leggy and well dressed. Their eyes were blue, their cheeks round and pink, their hair a blond halo. My cousins were adolescent inspirations for Baywatch.

My mom had brought me on this odyssey so that I could meet her family, become immersed in her homeland. I also suspect that she wanted to show off her American daughter; with a pug nose and a scattering of freckles, I was very American. But as fate would have it, I would be showing off more than anyone expected.

The catastrophe occurred during a trip to the pool. I can still remember my feet pounding on the cold tile floor as I ran toward the swimming pool. I was on my way back from the bathroom and eager to rejoin my cousins in a game of Marco-Polo.

About twenty feet from the edge, a large matron stepped in front of me “Mita sina teet?” She demanded. “Ala juokse?”

What had I done? I looked around for my mother to translate, instead I zeroed in on my three cousins draped over the edge of the shallow section. They held on to the ledge with one hand and covered their laughing mouths with the other. What could be so funny? The answer came to me with a punch in the stomach.

I was naked. Buck-naked. Stark-naked. Stripped. Exposed. Stunned. Totally nude. Embarrassed forever. I had left my little flowered bathing suit at the foot of the toilet. My mouth dropped open. I wrapped spaghetti arms around my bare eight-year-old body and fled. The last thing my cousins saw was my butt flapping in hasty retreat.

“Why are you so upset?” my mother asked me later. I shook my head and continued to sob. “She yelled at you because you were running, not because you were naked.” But I was inconsolable. I didn’t care that children were technically allowed to frolic naked in the pool. What mattered was that I was the only one who had tried, the only one exposed. I didn’t want to be a renegade for the naked people of the world.

For the last two weeks of my visit, my cousins waxed nostalgic about our trip to the pool. They giggled over breakfast and snickered over lunch. They fondly recalled the confusion, the nakedness, the look of surprise turned to horror. When I finally boarded the plane home, I felt no sadness, only relief. Of one thing I was certain, I would never again run naked in public.

* * *

I might have succeeded if I hadn’t come to South Korea. Here, I discovered a disturbing national pastime—-public bathhouses. It turned out that frolicking naked with strangers was considered a Sunday morning well spent. A trip to the local bathhouse was as natural as green tea, as common as kimchi. As much as I wanted to delve into Korean life, I was conflicted about bathhouses. Sure it would be a cultural experience. Sure everyone would be naked, but I didn’t want to be. I didn’t want to be stared at. Though I would be only one nude body in the midst of many, I would stand out.

I knew this to be true because ever since I had arrived, I had been noticed. On the streets, school children would point and shout, “Hello. Hello.” Adults would peer at me out of the corners of their eyes. Adjemas would squeeze my hand and smile. College students would practice English with me on the subway and high-school boys would try to take their picture with me. I could almost pretend I was a star. Being a naked star was not appealing.

My first experience with a public bathhouse only strengthened my determination to avoid them. It was my second month in Korea, and I had traveled with my co-worker Bryan and some hagwan students to Miriyang. We spent the day hiking trails lined with ginkgoes and pines. While we walked, three students nicknamed Jay, Jane and Green adopted me. They wore Capri pants and matching t-shirts. Their hair was dyed into various shades of browns, reds and oranges. They never drifted far from each other and normally linked arms. They spoke minimal English, so I mostly smiled. The only Korean I understood from their conversation was mi-nam, handsome. They used it whenever Bryan walked by.

We had planned on swimming, but the water was too cold. Instead, we threaded our way back to the main road and checked into a minbok. The sign by the entrance announced a sauna. I felt glad for my swimsuit, glad for a chance to relax, glad for the possibility of a pool. That evening while Bryan played cards with the students, I slipped down to the front desk and paid the entrance fee.

In the empty changing room, I put on my swimsuit and headed toward the sauna. It wasn’t until I opened the wooden door that I suspected this might be one of those public bathhouses I had heard about. Five showers lined one wall and three pools dominated the center. At the far end, I could see a sauna through a glass door. I knew that Koreans went to public bathhouses in the buff, but the sign had said that this was a sauna.

I paused in the doorway, wavering. Steam rose off the pools. I walked over to one of the tubs and tested the water with a big toe. It was warm, inviting. I went back to the changing room searching for hints. I was Inspector Gadget, Columbo, Magnum PI. I should have known. But what struck me instead was the eerie emptiness of the changing room. It was the kind of emptiness that seemed dependable.

I would stay, I decided. I would spend the evening lounging in one of those blue tiled pools. But just in case this was not a bathhouse, just in case someone came, I’d wear my swimsuit.

I rinsed off at a shower and plunged both feet into the nearest tub. I sucked in my teeth and would have yelped if anyone had been around. These tubs were not for wimps. The water was scalding. When my ankles finally acclimatized, I tiptoed down the steps like an elderly dancer. Water lapped around my scarlet knees. I slid farther into the water, until I was sitting on a wide ledge. I leaned against the wall and wiggled my toes. My eyes closed in bliss.

Bang. The outside door opened. Energetic voices and lots of footsteps entered the dressing room. I sat up straight. Someone said “mi-nam,” someone else giggled. Jay, Jane and Green!

I looked around the bathhouse. There was nowhere to go. I contemplated hiding in the sauna, but the glass door made it pointless. I hated to admit it, but my best bet was to stay in the pool. That and cross my fingers. Oh please let them be wearing swimsuits.

My back was toward the entrance, so I only heard the girls leave the changing room and enter the bathhouse. The showers came on one at a time. The girls gossiped and laughed while I stared at water trickling down the wall. Minutes ticked by and my stomach lurched. One thing I know to be true, people don’t take long showers in their swimsuits. Finally, one shower turned off and then another. Bare feet squished toward me. I slid further down. The girls abruptly stopped talking. I looked up.

Jay, Jane and Green stood together. Without their Capri pants and clunky shoes, they looked like they belonged in a painting of an ancient bathhouse. My Liz Claiborne swimsuit was black with two yellow stripes. I had chosen it because it was sporty, modern. Now, I wished I could blink it away like Barbara Eden’s character in I Dream of Jeannie. “Hey guys,” I said lifting one hand in an attempt at normalcy.

To their credit, Jay, Jane and Green didn’t laugh. Instead, they bit their bottom lips and gave each other amused looks. If I could have sunk down any further, I would have. Would it be better to flee to the dressing room and remove my bathing suit, or just stick it out? I wondered as the girls began to chatter in enthusiastic Korean. I chose to stay, but only long enough to be polite.

The next day everyone knew about my trip to the bathhouse. Students who had been too shy to speak with me before now barraged me with questions. “Why you wear swimsuit in public bathhouse?” “You no have public bathhouse in America?” One of my brash students strode up as we were packing. “Why you shy your body?” His voice carried across the crowded parking lot. Conversations stopped, bags were set down, all eyes turned to me. I longed to dive under one of the seats in the open van. Instead, I tried to explain that in America we wear swimsuits to the sauna. It was as simple as that. A cultural misunderstanding.

But of course, it went deeper. How do I explain that I prefer to keep my defenses and boundaries? That I prefer to choose how people perceived me. That I prefer not run around naked with a large group of women.

* * *

But now that I was about return to the States, little things began to seem important. Young-shil, a Korean friend and co-worker, had honed in on my weakness. She began to pester me to visit Hoshimchung—the Disney World of bathhouses. Just once.

“Let’s enjoy together,” she said sitting across from me in the small noodle shop.

“Bathhouse are kind of strange,” I told her picking up my chopsticks. “I can shower at home.”

“But how can you come back to America without true Korea experience?” Young-shil asked. Her eyes focused on my chopsticks as I reached for some mool kimchi. Every time I trapped a piece, I pulled up half the kimchi. It was like trying to take only one bite of spaghetti.

I set my chopsticks down and looked up. “Listen, if everyone wore a swimsuit I would go,” I said. Young-shil dissolved into giggles.

“You’re so funny,” she finally said. “Nobody wants to look at you. I think you have serious princess disease. You should come,” Young-shil added, her eyes serious. “At least think about. Okay?”

“Okay,” I told her. “I’ll think about it.” But I didn’t plan on going.

A day later, Young-shil and I were standing in the corridor of the institute. The morning classes had just finished and we were both waiting for the elevator.

“So, when do you want to go to Hoshimchung?” Young-shil asked.

“I’m not too sure,” I replied. Two students who were also waiting for the elevator exchanged glances. I bit my bottom lip and wondered darkly if they had heard about my previous bathhouse adventure.

“I think Tuesday is the best day,” Young-shil said. “There is a discount on Tuesday.”

“I really don’t think I’ll go,” I said apologetically.

“What?” Young-shil asked. “But you will always,” she waved one hand through the air. “How do you say?” She thought for a couple seconds. “Regret. You will always regret.”

We both fell silent and watched the numbers light up above the elevator door. I knew what she meant. I had spent the last few weeks determined to regret nothing. I had visited temples, climbed mountains, camped on the beach, lingered at coffee shops, taken an MT. I had even eaten beans with ice cream. What if this is my only chance and I don’t take it?

“You’re right,” I finally said, stepping into the elevator.

“So you’ll go?” Young-shil said, clapping her hands together.

“Yeah.”

* * *

Two weeks later, I was slipping my shoes off at the entrance of Hoshimchung. The bamboo mat leading into the changing room felt cold under my bare feet, and I had that feeling I always get when I’m standing in line for a roller coaster ride. Trapped.

“Ooh, I hate bathhouses,” Young-shil said, clutching her duffle bag.

“What?” I said. “You’re the one who wanted to come.”

“For you,” Young-shil replied. “You should experience before you go. I never like. People stare.” I dropped my jaw but refrained from answering.

We walked in single file down the narrow walkway and stepped into the dressing room. It was a maze of lockers, long benches and lounges with mirrors and blow driers. Naked women meandered around. Some had towels wrapped around their heads, some brushed their teeth. Others were nonchalantly chatting. I’d always thought Asians were so reserved, so modest—-so unlike me with my blustering American way. But here they were not caring a bit about something as personal as nudity.

I set my backpack on the long wooden bench and riffled through the clothes I had brought. Young-shil took off her glasses and carefully put them into their case. “My stomach is fat,” she wailed.

“I’m the foreigner,” I muttered devoid of sympathy. “You can blend in.”

With our backs facing each other, we undressed. I peeled off my jeans and then slipped out of my t-shirt. It felt like I was in one of those dreams where I’m standing in front of my class and suddenly realize that I’m completely naked. Except this was reality. I grimaced.

After picking up my locker key, I grabbed the shampoo. “Ready?” I asked. Young-shil nodded her head uncertain. Great. The only self-conscious Asian in the room is my host, I thought. Careful not to look directly at each other, we walked toward the showers. Our bare feet padded against the walkway.

At the entrance to the showers, a woman stacked washcloths. Young-shil and I plunged toward them. I grabbed two. They were small, scratchy, translucent, and made very skimpy towels. The only thing they offered was the illusion of a cover up. I draped a washcloth over one arm and walked toward the showers.

I plopped down on a squat plastic stool and tried not to think about all the bare bottoms that had sat before me. I poured soap on my washcloth and began dabbing at my calf. The washcloth was gritty. I attacked my legs, my ankles, my toes, my arms, my stomach, my shoulders. When I was done, I felt scoured and slightly less naked.

Which was good. It would be a shame to be too self-conscious to enjoy Hoshimchung. The interior was reminiscent of ancient Roman bathhouse. The rotunda ceiling was made of glass, allowing the sun to pour in. The center of the hall housed a fountain, around which were a multitude of pools, bridges, rivers. On the west wall, waterfalls nestled among ferns. On the east wall, wooden doors led to steam baths and saunas. It was a naked person’s nirvana.

“Come, I show you my favorite,” Young-shil said, leading me to a pool of yellowish brown water. When I stepped in, my feet disappeared. Young-shil explained that the bath was made from a special yellow dirt, the same dirt that “medical underwear” was treated with. I had seen the advertisements in the subway. It was hard to miss the poster featuring a pair of men’s underwear, stained camel brown. Underneath was the catchy slogan—Better than Viagra.

Young-shil was unsure what the yellow dirt actually was. I could only speculate that they were ashes from the fountain of youth, for the gurgling water was very popular with older women. We had barely settled in when seven tiny wrinkled bodies piled into the dirt Jacuzzi. The adjemas smiled at me. They asked Young-shil how old I was, why I came to Korea. They chuckled at her answers. What on earth is she telling them?, I wondered When the eighth lady entered I left.

For the next hour, Young-shil and I dipped into one tub after another until we both became pruny. There was the cold sea salt tub, the herbal pool, a ginseng pool, a charcoal bath, a citron tea tub, and even an outdoor pool. Somewhere between the charcoal bath and the ginseng pool, I misplaced my washcloth, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care that people were staring either. For right now, it didn’t matter.

“See you like,” Young-shil said. She sat across from me.

“You’re right. This is the life,” I agreed. Cool jasmine water lapped against the pool wall. Light streamed in through the glass ceiling.

“I wanted you to enjoy before you leave Korea,” Young-shil said.

“I’m glad I came,” I replied lazily, my eyes scanning Hoshimchung. Only three adjemas now sat in the gurgling mud bath. All I could see were their heads and shoulders—squared shoulders as if they too knew they had found the fountain of youth. Beyond them, a mother was scrubbing her young daughter, the child’s face crumpled as the shampoo stung her eyes. At the opposite end of Hoshimchung, a young woman stood on her tiptoes under a waterfall. Her face was raised toward the sky. Her arms hung at her side, but it seemed to me that she longed to raise them. Not to hold back the thunderous water, but to grab fistfuls in an effort to hold this moment forever.

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