Long before our arrival in Japan, the members of The Japan Project, twenty New York City teachers of English and Social Studies, talked about the baths. The idea of bathing, naked and in public, provoked a variety of responses. So when the opportunity for our first public Japanese bath presented itself, the group, regardless of age and physical condition, forgot its inhibitions and concerns and in a spirit of adventure and educational discovery, took the plunge.

The Ladies' Bath in the modern hotel down the steep hill from our rooms, was large, attractive and invariably empty of women other than those from our group. During the week we frequented it, we saw few other bathers. I came to look forward to the nightly ritual of cleansing and soaking. It was the perfect ending for a long, hot day of touring. Seated on a small bench at an individual wash station, we would each cleanse ourselves thoroughly using the fragrant soaps and shampoos provided, free of charge, by the hotel. Conversation, like the water, flowed and continued non-stop, as we sat in the steaming pool and later cooling off in the outer room. I thought the bath a lovely custom but not much different from what one experiences in the locker room of a good health club. Being "Japanese" was easier and more familiar than I thought it would be.

Our bathing experiences continued as we traveled through Japan. The baths differed in size and luxury of appointment. There were outdoor baths and garden baths and rooftop baths and specialty baths with statues and water slides. Now we wore yukatas, the patterned cotton house-robes, to dinner and to the baths. We still generally found ourselves alone and the sound of our jokes and laughter filled the room. The bath had become an important and much longed for part of the day.

At Matsuyama, in Shikoku, we were told, was the oldest public bath in Japan. Steeped in Its literary associations with the writer Natsume Soseki and the great haiku poet Masaoka Shiki, Matsuyama was a small city of hills and narrow, winding streets. Dressed in our hotel's yukatas and gata (for those with feet smaller than size 8), we prepared to walk to the Dogo En Sen, the public bath. Stepping out into the softly lit evening we saw all about us, streaming quietly from every winding street and alleyway, Japanese people in yukatas. The streets shimmered with patterns of blue and white as people, singly or in pairs, strolled to the bath. As we melted into this scene, I could not shake the sense of having entered a traditional Japanese woodcut. For the first time since arriving in Japan, I felt part of a Japanese picture.

The bath at Matsuyama was small, simple, crowded and very quiet. Yukata-ed people flowed in and out. We paid our entrance fee and exchanged our shoes for towels. The changing room was filled with Japanese women of all ages. Although no one looked directly at us as we, ten in number, entered, I could sense that we were causing quite a stir. We were the only Westerners. We were larger and heavier than almost anyone in the room and even trying to be quiet, we were loud.

But we were ready to bathe. All our other Japanese baths had been out-of-town tryouts, rehearsals for this - our first really public, public bath. We undressed quickly and, in our studied, new-found, Japanese-inspired uninhibitedness, boldly entered the bath. By the time we left, cleansed, steamed and relaxed, we knew that we had somehow gotten it all wrong. Japanese people did not parade around naked, but held small washing towels in front of themselves to give the illusion of cover. We were gently instructed by fellow bathers on the proper procedure for washing: the order to washing; number of cleansing and rinsing; when to use water from the tap or the pool and - how to be quiet. The bath was no longer a locker room, but a temple. The bath cleansed not just the body, but the mind and soul. It was a private experience in every sense of the word.

And with these revelations, came another - that this probably wasn't the whole story either. Being in Japan meant trying to peel away layers and layers of meaning from even the simplest acts. I learned not to take anything for granted; to observe and reserve judgment; to not jump to conclusions and to enjoy the complexity of experience that is Japan. Yet, when I think about Japan, I think about the bath and I see the picture of Matsuyama. What could be more simple, or more Japanese, than a twilight walk down the winding streets of a timeless city to a very old bath house and a small, stone bathing pool.