「Koufuku-yu」 Experience Story

Whenever I see the words "uses groundwater for cold plunge," an irresistible urge hits me — I have to go, right now. Because that's just how good a cold plunge fed by groundwater feels. At least, that's what every experience up to this point had taught me. On the second night of my stay in Wakayama, I decided to visit Koufuku-yu, a sento with a cold plunge bath running on natural groundwater. I checked into a hotel near the east exit of Wakayama Station around 4 p.m. I had a little time to spare, so I wrote a blog post in my room — and by the time I finished, it was 6 p.m. The perfect time to head to a sauna. Get in the sauna, grab a post-sauna meal, and sleep like the dead until morning. I took it for granted that a stretch of blissful time was just waiting for me. Forgetting, somehow, that moments of happiness aren't something you can create on your own. I left the hotel, drove a short way, and parked in the dedicated lot near the place. I can't exactly say it was filled with calm, respectable vehicles. A slammed Alphard with its suspension dropped to the absolute limit, a Crown with its tires angled outward in a aggressive stance, a beat-up kei car with dents from collisions all over — the kind of cars that, in polite society, signal a rough neighborhood. The thought that the owners of these vehicles were currently soaking inside gave me a flicker of unease, but I figured I'd just enjoy my bath. A little further on, Koufuku-yu came into view. I stepped inside, put my shoes in a locker, and tried to use the ticket machine — only to find it was out of order. Looks like I'd need to pay the attendant at the banya (the raised front desk typical of old-school sento) directly. I opened the door to the men's bath and paid for my entry and towel rental. The vibe from the other patrons in the changing room wasn't exactly reassuring. Rough around the edges, you might say. That was my impression. I stripped off my clothes at lightning speed and headed into the bathing area. Instantly, I wanted to leave. There were men covered head to toe in tattoos. More than one. They were talking loudly, filling the space with an atmosphere that said they owned it. I didn't even want to scope out the layout. I walked to the washing area without making eye contact and cleaned myself off, feeling like I had no choice. By that point, I couldn't have cared less about the groundwater cold plunge. Fear had taken over; this was not a place where I could relax. I slipped into the main bath and — sure enough — couldn't settle. Why not just go to the sauna? At least I wouldn't be in their line of sight. With that thought, I made my way to the sauna room. I peered inside before opening the door, and found all four spots in the tiny four-person sauna completely packed. Of course — when things go wrong, the timing couldn't be worse. Any motivation I had left for the sauna evaporated. Fine. I'd just try the cold plunge and head out. I slid into the water with a body that hadn't even properly warmed up. It was lukewarm. The temperature was probably above 20°C. Groundwater or not, you're not going to feel refreshed at that temperature. I thought about staying in a bit longer, but then someone came out of the sauna and launched themselves into the bath with enormous force — despite me already being in it. Give me a break. I got out immediately, went straight to the changing room, dried off, and left the sento. Total time inside: fifteen minutes. The quality of a sauna experience depends heavily on the kind of people who use that facility. When I visited Sauna Shikiji — revered as a sacred site among sauna enthusiasts — I read a book there about the place: Sauna Shikiji by Mikie Sasano. It was full of stories about how the facility became what it is today. Originally operating under the name Healthy Sauna Takamatsu, it was renamed Sauna Shikiji when the current owner — a regular at the time — took over management. The book described how much effort went into changing the clientele. Patrons with full-body tattoos or bad manners were met with a quiet but courageous request: "We won't charge you for today, but please don't come back." By gradually reshaping who came through the doors, Sauna Shikiji became a destination that draws visitors from all over Japan. Great facilities attract great guests. I'm fairly certain that's a universal truth. I felt the same thing when I visited Ogaki Sauna in Gifu Prefecture. For the record, I'm not discriminating against people with tattoos. It's a completely normal part of culture in many countries, and from an outsider's perspective, the question would reasonably be: "What's the problem?" But in Japan, the context is a little different. Tattoos, fairly or not, still carry an impression of danger here. A small tattoo might not register, but someone covered from head to toe in ink has a very high likelihood of being connected to organized crime. When you're already feeling afraid, there's simply no way to let go and relax — body or mind. I walked back to the parking lot and got in the car. I couldn't let the day end here. According to the peak-end rule, if the last moment of a day is a bad one, the whole day gets colored by it. I opened Google Maps and checked whether any of my saved places were nearby. And there it was — a super sento called Fukurou no Yu, about five minutes away by car. I recognized it; I'd seen it featured in a magazine about super sento spots across the Kansai region. This one, I could relax in. This one, I could reach totonou. And just like that, my next destination was decided. In all my years, I've never hopped between facilities between my first and second sauna set. But there's a first time for everything. I wasn't about to let the night end like this. To be continued.