Discovering intimacy and community in Japan’s public bathhouse culture.

Bathers at Komae-yu, a revitalized sento in the western suburbs of Tokyo. (Photo: Yu Jeon Lee)

Another bath? Isn’t it bad for digestion if you go right after dinner?” my mom fussed as soon as we stepped into the alley outside the yakiniku restaurant. She was probably right. But with only five days in Kyoto, time was not on our side. Never mind that it was the tail end of summer and still sweltering hot—I’d been craving fatigue-relieving hot baths ever since being bitten by the public bathhouse bug during a South Korean ski trip some years ago, and on this family trip to Japan’s cultural capital, I wanted to fit in as many soaks as possible.

While many visitors to Japan will be familiar with onsen, the mineral-rich hot springs typically enjoyed as part of an indulgent ryokan experience, I prefer their utilitarian counterpart, sento, which use heated tap water. There’s something refreshingly egalitarian about this no-frills bathing experience, even if getting naked with a bunch of strangers takes some getting used to. I’m still learning to politely avert my gaze and not be self-conscious. It is a different story, however, for my two young daughters, newly introduced to the joys of communal bathing. At the sento that night, my eight-year-old was already speed walking toward the bathing area before I could even disrobe.

While Japan’s bathing culture has been around for centuries, with roots in Shinto purification rituals, sento as we know them likely emerged during the reconstruction of Tokyo following the Great Kanto earthquake of 1923. Subsequently, they enjoyed a burgeoning popularity in postwar Japan, where the new urban housing was cramped and unequipped with private baths. At their peak in 1968, there were upward of 18,000 sento across the country, with more than 2,600 in Tokyo alone. But growing affluence in the 1970s saw more homes equipped with bathing facilities of their own, eroding the demand for public bathhouses. Rising maintenance costs, aging operators, and the Covid-19 pandemic accelerated the decline in later decades. Today, only about 1,600 sento remain, with fewer than 450 in the capital.

Yet against this backdrop, recent years have seen a number of sento rebranded in a bid to appeal to a new generation of bath-goers. In Tokyo, Schemata Architects has led the revamp of the once-humble Kogane-yu and Komae-yu, where industrial-style design elements and craft beer on tap draw a hip young clientele. (The yu tacked onto bathhouse names simply means “hot water.”) Others, like Denki-yu, have expanded on the concept of community. Featured in the 2023 Wim Wenders film Perfect Days, this Sumida-area sento has been successfully revitalized by its fourth-generation owner, Katsuhito Okubo, and is now active on social media and regularly hosts music and cultural events such as SentoSensations.

Eight years ago, the last of seven sento closed in Gose, a sleepy, picturesque Edo-era merchant town about an hour by train from Osaka. In 2022, Narrative, a firm that specializes in urban development projects involving historical buildings, spearheaded a joint venture that reopened one of the bathhouses, creating a sustainable business model around it with a goal to revitalize the entire community. Today, Gose Sento Hotel—an albergo diffuso–style property comprising the restored Takara-yu (with original baths from 1916) alongside boutique accommodations, a restaurant, and a co-working space—has breathed new life into the area’s age-old bathhouse culture, bringing fresh vibrancy to the historical townscape.

The bathing area at Takara-yu in Gose. (Photo: Yuta Togo)

Back in Tokyo, American urbanist and longtime resident Sam Holden is the co-founder of Sento & Neighborhood, a nonprofit dedicated to saving the country’s disappearing sento. He has worked closely with the fifth-generation owners of a rare prewar sento called Inari-yu in Tokyo’s Kita ward to restore the property as well as build a community salon in an abandoned Edo-era rowhouse next door. The project received the highest recognition in the 2024 UNESCO Asia-Pacific Awards for Cultural Heritage Conservation.

“I believe that different strategies of revitalization can coexist. While it is important to preserve a public bath’s character as a community commons where everyone feels welcome, at the end of the day, baths are businesses and need to increase customers in order to remain viable,” Holden said. “In some neighborhoods, especially ones close to entertainment districts and big stations, going for a younger clientele makes the most sense. In those with more elderly people, like the area around Inari-yu, it is important to have a lighter touch.”

For generations, more than just ensuring public hygiene or championing the restorative qualities of a warm soak, sento have long functioned as community centers where people mingle and catch up. They also serve a more practical purpose for the elderly. Those who live on their own who are afraid of falling in the bathroom can take a bath safely and chat with other sento-goers.

Furthermore, many Japanese adhere to hadaka no tsukiai, the idea that being naked together brings about social bonding. As Yasuko Okuno, a “sento ambassador” for the Japan Sento Cultural Association, explained, “Regardless of age, occupation, or hometown, we greet each other and bathe in the same bath—that alone will make you feel like you are friends. At the public baths I go to, there are many customers I get along with even though I don’t know their names. There are days when we all worry if one of us doesn’t turn up.”

It hadn’t been difficult finding a bathhouse near our Airbnb in a lively working-class neighborhood close to Saiin Station. A quick search for “sento” in kanji (銭湯) on Google Maps did the trick. There were a handful scattered around us. They had few reviews and were all ordinary-looking, but for me, that’s where the appeal lies.

My sister and I visited a different establishment each night we were in Kyoto, sometimes with the kids in tow. Every visitor remembers the city’s majestic temples, but the humble sento is what truly stands out for me—almost forgotten spaces in the backstreets that reveal a tiny glimpse into everyday Japanese life. Going to the sento after a long day of sightseeing became a ritual for us, a subconscious imitation of everyman protagonist Hirayama’s daily wind-down routine in Perfect Days. Afterward, with the cool summer breeze in our wet hair, we would walk home through dimly lit residential alleyways, crossing tram tracks and making pit stops at convenience stores along the way.

The author’s eldest daughter exiting a modest Kyoto sento; outside Tokyo’s updated Kogane-yu. — *Left to right*: The author’s eldest daughter exiting a modest Kyoto *sento*; outside Tokyo’s updated Kogane-yu. (Photos: Wee Ling Soh (left); Yurika Kono)

At our third night’s bathhouse, my daughters were the first ones to spot the denki buro, a hot bath fitted with electrode plates to allow a mild electric current to pass underwater. I gingerly put my fingers in. Not even recognizing the kanji for “electric” could have fully prepared me for the split-second tingle. We gave it a wide berth. But the next evening, my curiosity got the best of me and I gave the denki buro a go. It was borderline bearable, seeing my fingers stiffen and twitch uncontrollably with each electrical pulse. When the lower back spasms hit, they were oddly reminiscent of labor contractions.

I also finally mustered enough courage to try a cold bath. I was so lightheaded getting out of the water it felt almost imprudent to walk the short distance across the wet tiled floor to the wash station. One final cold rinse later, I was a convert, stepping out of the sento more refreshed than I’d ever been.

For the first-timer who might be unnerved by the sento experience, Holden has a few tips. “Watch other bathers and take cues from how they do things. Don’t be surprised if others tell you you’re doing something wrong; they’re just making sure you follow the formal and informal rules. Sento are part of neighborhood life, so enjoy walking around the area before or after a bath, and visit a local restaurant. That’s what sets the experience apart from more tourist-oriented hot springs.”

At a recent TEDx event, Sanjiro Minato, who operates 10 bathhouses across Japan with a team of young, energetic staff and a quirky merchandise range, talked about the unspoken sense of community in the sento that is being lost with the closure of each bathhouse. It’s a connection even an outsider like myself can be privy to, however briefly, witnessing the delicate overlapping of private and public spheres.

On our last night in Kyoto, a young mother with a horimono (full-body tattoo) and her daughter, about the same age as my eight-year-old, walked into the near-empty sento after us. Unlike at onsen, tattoos are usually allowed in neighborhood bathhouses. In one surreal, fleeting moment, we both sat on plastic stools at the faucets, silently scrubbing ourselves, as our girls exchanged furtive glances before climbing deliberately into the same tiny bath.

Visitors to a sento must first soap up and rinse off before getting into the communal baths. Pictured here is the men’s washing area at Tokyo’s Komae-yu. — Visitors to a *sento* must first soap up and rinse off before getting into the communal baths. Pictured here is the men’s washing area at Tokyo’s Komae-yu. (Photo: Ju Yeon Lee)

Sento: What to Know
Admission to public bathhouses in Japan is kept low by local governments to make them accessible to all; expect to pay less than US$4. Shoes are left at the entrance, and visitors can buy soap and rent towels as needed. Before getting in the bath itself, everyone washes thoroughly at one of the faucets—cleanliness is de rigueur here. Keep your hair out of the water, and dry off before heading back to the dressing area. In Tokyo, Sam Holden organizes a sento walking tour once every couple of months. Join the mailing list at samholden.jp for dates.

This article originally appeared in the March/May 2025 print issue of DestinAsian magazine (“A Clean Break”).

Sento Bathing Offers an Immersion in Japanese Life

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