[Originally published 5 December 2008. Updated 2 November 2010.
Sometimes I wonder if I was better at writing a couple years ago than now. That thought saddens and confuses me.]
Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about objectivity. Is it a trait able to be possessed or an ideal we’re meant to strive for and never attain? Do one’s experiences (upbringing, for example) determine one’s opinions, or can truth be seen from information alone – can we say something is better even if we’re not used to it? Is it possible to cut through the dark, hazy, swirling clouds of glass shard opinions to cold, hard, complete facts, or is this refractive mist untraversable?
But that’s a rather lofty plane to start from, seeing as the eye of the storm is only for those who’ve first flown through the storm. A more realistic goal would be to look at one type of opinion – the kind formed by cultural upbringing – and determine if it can be brought around to acknowledge another culture’s way of doing something as superior. Taking the questions of life in manageable slices – for that purpose these swirling waters of half-truths from the sea of knowledge are, in this case, contained neatly in a bowl, so that rather than plunge through them, we can observe safely from above as they are slowly flushed away to reveal a clean conclusion (although there has still been much plunging done on many an occasion, and assuredly unclean remnants). I’m sure you catch my drift, although the scope of this note is intended to cover more hygienic utilities than merely the toilet.
I’ve seen a lot of bathrooms. On home services we would travel around the country (the US, that is) visiting supporting churches and relatives, staying in either motels or people’s homes. This was always interesting as it would usually be fairly soon after we’d arrived from Japan. For those of you who don’t know, Japanese and American bathrooms are vastly different, and since cultural differences give rise to multifarious clashes of opinion, an exposition of the topic should be quite informative. Not to mention that I’ve been meaning to get this out of my system for years.
So does my growing up in Japan predispose me to preferring that style? Will I, even after my experiences with both cultures, always say that I like what I’m used to? Is it truly impossible for me to judge objectively which style is superior (in terms of comfort, convenience, cleanliness, etc.) or even that there is a ‘better’, not just personal preference? I’ve been against that word ‘personally’ ever since the debacle with Miss South Carolina, but I concede that some things are matters of preference, ignorance being one of them. Bathrooms, on the other hand, are not – certain aspects are measurable and, more importantly, indicative of deeper realities.
In fourth grade a girl in Kansas asked me if it was true that Japanese toilets are holes in the ground with pigs at the bottom that eat what comes down (alas, such questions are an inevitable element of home service trips). Now, I have seen some veritable holes in the ground on both sides of the pond – usually in the form of porta-potties, with all too vivid contents and absolutely no telling what’s at the bottom (forgive the toilet humour, this really is meant to be a clean analysis) – and I suspect filthy public toilets are a staple of just about every culture. But I intend to discuss home toilets, the fact that most Japanese homes now have Western-style toilets making comparison possible.
Now to be perfectly candid – and this could be a result of pride, despite my best efforts to purge it – I believe I can say objectively that the Japanese bathroom style in general is better than the American. The real test, though, is whether I can convince you of that, or if we are all simply products of our time and places.
The most apparent difference upon entering an American bathroom (mid-FOB state) is the toilet sitting right next to the sink. For me this is about as strange as having it in the living room. How is anyone else supposed to use the sink or shower during that time, or for a while afterward, seeing as the atmosphere is most likely unbreathable? Japanese toilets have separate rooms, next to or off of the sinkroom. One doesn’t have to wait for the shower if another is using the toilet or sink, and vice versa, but I suppose Americans avoid queues with multiple toilets. More cleaning.
As for the actual device, one neat contraption on the Japanese toilet that allows it to have its own room is a spigot on top of the toilet that runs automatically with the flush (the water runs down into the toilet to be used in the next flush). The top is shaped like a sink, and with a bar or bottle of soap and preferably a towel, no separate sink is even necessary. Saves space and water.
On to usage. I don’t mean to be rude (and I hate it when people say that, because it immediately becomes clear that they intend to be just that), but I don’t think it’s stretching the truth to observe that the girth of the average American is somewhat larger than that of the average human. So how is it that their toilet seats are smaller? Not all, of course, but a surprising number are small enough to make me worry while sitting that I’ll lose my balance and fall off. Could this be the end-product of cramming the toilet into the same room as the sink and shower? I want my space, on the seat and between the walls.
It’s almost winter. How many times have you gingerly eased onto the seat because you know it’ll be frigid? None, if you live in Japan. No, I’m actually not talking about their fully-mechanised, fifty million sex-specific functions-equipped robot toilets. Those make good conversation but honestly are kind of intimidating, especially when the lid opens automatically as you open the door and a voice rumbles, “ENTER INTO MY LAIR…I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU”. No. I’m referring to an ingenious accessory far cheaper and compatible with all U-shaped toilet seats (the O-shaped ones are just a mistake, and whaddaya know, that’s what we get at university, otherwise I’d have someone in Japan send me said object). It looks like two socks partially attached at the openings, and slips nicely onto the seat. And there you are, dead of winter, broken heater, but no piercing nether chill. Another thing toilet socks have over heated seats is that they never get too hot, like when someone leaves the seat heater on high and the next user gets a bold behind branding. Toilet socks even come in different colours, so you can match it with your toilet rug, which of course you have because the floor’s cold too, you know.
Temperature could be called a matter of preference. I like my Arctic Chill in my gum, not my buns, but maybe you’re not so particular. I haven’t researched what is most conducive to irrigation (although apparently squatting is the best position, which is what traditional Japanese toilets require. Funny how function has largely been replaced by comfort – or in the case of American toilets, as I hope you’re slowly coming into agreement with, all-around lameness), so if you insist, we can leave that one in the realm of preference. However, I don’t think anyone prefers a half-hearted flush. Clogged toilets are high on my list of things I would go to great lengths to rid the world of, up there with the word ‘just’ in prayers and sentences ended with ‘so’ or ‘but’ (or, God forbid, both!).
There are techniques for avoiding stoppage – or clearing it – that I’ve picked up over the years (which I believe are cross-cultural enough not to necessitate me going into detail, though they do at times require a master’s hand – not ‘hand’ literally, gross! You people tell the most disgusting stories, by the way. You know who you are). But who wants to be worrying about that with all the other concerns involved in the process (like, why didn’t I check before now if there was any toilet paper?). I want a toilet that does its business after I’ve done mine, and to that end having it sound like a rocket launch is entirely okay with me. Gives me a feeling of satisfaction, to be honest. But a wimpy gurgle followed by a stall (in the stall)? That’s just not fair. I’m not saying that Japanese toilets don’t clog, it just seems to happen much more frequently in America. That again confounds me when considering demographics, although diet could play a part in both issues. Exit the scene, exit the scene.
Interestingly, all my complaints tend to fly in formation. There are anomalies, but generally the performance of an excrementary implement can be accurately predicted with not but a cursory glance. I see it in my mind; the pockmarked white, squat, small, cold, O-shaped seat, with a flush that would make a leaky tap seem like a flash flood. As luck would have it, this type is the most common kind in American homes. I simply do not understand how a society so well-off could settle for a standard so low. Is it possible that the East does Western-style better than the West? It is true that what Japan is best at is taking everyone else’s ideas and making them better. But I wouldn’t want to push the line of cultural egotism.
Moving on (and this would be an apt place to take a bathroom break), American showers are anything but standard. Unfortunately, nearly all do have one thing in common: the curtain. I hate the curtain. If I want a separate room for cleaning out my insides, how much more would I want the same for my outside, a much more splashy affair? Obviously the American experience improved when I realised you have to keep the bottom of the curtain inside the tub, but that doesn’t change how cramped it is. Some are large than others, but still being a tub there is never much room to maneuvre. And that’s exactly what I want, a room to maneuvre, with a proper door, waterproof please, and the tub separate from the shower.
Japan’s big on hot baths (a tradition originating from natural hot springs), so even the smallest homes (and they do get small there) have, in a room separated from the sinks by a glass door, a space for showering next to the tub. You take your shower, get clean, then get into the tub of hot water. Since everyone is clean getting into the water, multiple people can use the same bathwater, and if it’s equipped with a water heater it can even be reused the next night. If you’ve never experienced this you might be thinking that it’s gross. Tell me that after you’ve done it, especially in the winter. Better yet, go to a hot springs and soak, then get out and lie in the snow. If you can get over the nakedness.
But the curtain is about where the uniformity ends with American showers. Somewhere along the line in our great bathing history, someone decided that a knob for hot water and a knob for cold water was old-fashioned; inadequate. It’s the computer age, after all; the utilities must match. So I’m stuck trying to use this joystick thing (with no two alike in the country) to elicit hot water from the pipes and having minimal success…wait, oh, I get it, nosedive increases power while stall decreases – piece of cake for gamers. Barrel roll to the left for hot, right for cold. Then – get this – once you have a satisfactory temperature flowing from the tap at the bottom (because that’s where it always comes out of first), you pull the choke, hear the sound of a laser charging up, then PSSSHHHH it spews out from the showerhead. We are a generation hooked on immersive entertainment.
At least, I hope it spews – and immerses. And in a reasonably wide spray. Too often the result is far less exciting. In this day and age, everything must have settings, and a shower head is no exception. Which is no problem, unless the ‘normal’ setting is missing. Seriously, I really don’t care about all these neat-o patterns and alternating rhythms, just give me the regular wide, consistent stream. Somewhere between the single, powerful-enough-to-carve-your-crush’s-name-in-your-arm jetstream and the evaporates-before-it hits-the-floor drizzle, the cheapest single-mode showerhead-type spray got left out. Talk about experiencing coexistent furious opposites, though the only paradox here is how such a wealthy nation could have such unmanageable cleaning facilities.
We’re old-fashioned in Japan, we still use hot and cold knobs, usually an off-white plastic, not the crystal and gold bejeweled joysticks that are all the rage here in America. Works pretty well for me. If separate hot and cold knobs are too difficult, there’s also the type with a numerical temperature setting on one knob and the power on the other. And the showerhead doesn’t come straight out of the wall, it’s attached to a hose. There’s a high notch and a low notch for the hose, so you can get the temperature right with the head on the low or holding it, then hang it on the high to shower without messing with a switch unless you really want to.
I didn’t actually know this was a cultural difference until recently; I thought America had hoses too. Maybe they do, but I haven’t seen them, and the odd silence I received from Dave my suitemate (that’s short for the-guy-who-lives-across-the-toilet-from-me) seemed to indicate that he had not either (I didn’t press him on it as he was rather engrossed – emphasis on the ‘gross’ – in the biology experiment growing in our shower). And that’s where the hose really comes in handy. There’s not a huge difference when actually showering, although by holding the showerhead you can shower without constantly rotating. But a hose is certainly useful when cleaning, as Dave was attempting to do when he discovered an uninvited pet. I won’t go into the gory details, but suffice it to say that with a hose it’s possible to get the stream right to the mess.
One more thing, kind of an integral part of the experience – the water. Whoever knew you could have ‘soft’ or ‘hard’ water? Now, I really don’t know if this is a cultural difference, and this section could be labeled tangential, but what I do know is that I never experienced any of this weirdness until my ninth grade year, here in America. I’m talking about rinsing and rinsing and never feeling like the soap is coming off. That’s soft water. According to Doc Wiki, hard water contains calcium and magnesium cations which react to form precipitates (commonly known as ‘scum’) that clog pipes. Therefore sodium chloride is added to replace these ions and prevent buildup. Seeing as hard water shortens the life of a toilet and tangles hair, I’m all for softening it up (unless the toilet in question is the very kind described above or the tangled look is what I’m going for). Just don’t overdose on the softener, because sodium doesn’t rinse well, hence the inescapable slippery feeling. So it’s a balance, although a case could be made for furious opposites here; keep it hard, make it soft. But I won’t make that case, and you’re free at this point to remark, “What a pointless paragraph.” Likely. I miss junior year chemistry.
However, it does to a degree perpetrate the increasingly and distressingly popular notion that regular water is no longer good enough. Just look at how many varieties of bottled water there are for sale at the store. “Fresh spring water”? No healthier than the water out of your toilet (PRE-use), plus it consumes plastic made with oil, which is not exactly abundant. I do applaud the financial genius of the person who came up with the concept, though, for successfully convincing consumers that they need to buy something they can get for free. Marketing at its finest. Next it’ll be oxygen. In fact, next is now. Ever been to an oxygen bar? Good, neither have I and I don’t intend to.
Where does this leave us? Precariously perched on cold toilet seats, unsure if all our waste will go down, or rinsing repeatedly and ineffectually under a shower too strong and too weak, cramped and barely concealed behind a flimsy curtain. The affluent experience leaves us unable to get rid of the filth or even separate it from ourselves or even hide it. But is this only a concern of interior design?
Telling, isn’t it, the places in our houses that we put the most time and money into, such as the entertainment centre. I have nothing against widescreens and recliners. But I do find it a little unnerving that we invest so much more in letting the muck into our lives than cleansing ourselves of it.
Ultimately, these are only symbols. Your bathroom should be whatever floats your rubber ducky. I am curious to know, now that hopefully you are ignorant of cultural toiletry no longer, what you consider to be the best. To see whether you are regardless nothing more than a product of your surroundings, in which case I probably am as well, or if there can be something better than what we know, above and beyond this downward spiralling torrent of disaster.
Something that replaces rather than filters, erases rather than shelters, and sends further away than the already clogged drain.
Something solid, objective; intangible, untaintable; scarred, personal.
Inspiration's Waiting Room 