By Michelle Woo Illustrations by E.C. Moran
I am lying face down and naked on a wet, vinyl-covered table. My body clenches as I prepare myself for what’s to come.
The plump, short-haired woman standing before me is dressed only in black undergarments, flip-flops and Brillo-pad-like scrubbing mitts. Without saying a word, she grabs my shoulder-length hair and ties it back with an elastic band. As she lifts up my leg, my fingers instinctively grasp the side of the table. She notices this and shakes her head in disapproval.
Clearly, this is my first time.
I am No. 51 on the assembly line of women who have flocked to Los Angeles’ Olympic Spa on this warm summer morning. Let’s just say I’m a bit nervous. Before my arrival, online reviews and a couple co-workers clued me in on a few basics: 1) This ain’t Burke Williams. 2) Everyone gets naked. 3) If you get the exfoliation treatment, you will be scrubbed. Hard.
I’m a rather modest person, the type who wears a cover-up right up until the moment it’s time to jump into the pool. And I’ve got a low threshold for pain. I’m starting to think I’ve come to the wrong place.
Still, I’m somewhat comforted by the fact that thousands have walked out of such establishments alive — and completely hooked. In cities like New York, San Francisco and Los Angeles, Korean bathhouses have been making a splash as spa-goers of all ethnicities are trading plush robes and waterfall soundtracks for a no-frills, no-nonsense experience that results in glowing, baby-soft skin.
“People come for the scrub,” says Susie Ellis, president of Spa Finder, a New York-based marketing company that researches spa trends. “It’s more vigorous than what most people are used to, but afterwards, you just feel squeaky clean. You see real results.”
I admit that I’m probably due for a good nook-and-cranny cleaning. My shower routine consists of a squeeze of vanilla body wash and a quick hand-lather. Those hard-to-reach places are usually, well, too hard to reach. And I can’t even remember the last time I took a bath. In an age of frantic scheduling and re-scheduling, who has the time?
In Korea, mokyoktangs, or public bathhouses, date back to the 16th century with their basic practices found in the ancient medicine book Dongui bogam. Up until the 1980s, when most homes still lacked reliable plumbing, they served as neighborhood gathering places. Ladies would stop in every few days to gab and gossip while sloughing away their dead skin cells under metal spigots. Men would branch off to their respective quarters to relax and soak in tubs of near-scalding water. While some traditional mokyoktangs went out of business with the rise of the modern shower, many continue to lure clients with added spa treatments and amenities.
Here in the U.S., mokyoktangs are often a similar mix of old and new. Olympic Spa, which has been in operation for more than 30 years, is said to be one of the more authentic Korean bathhouses in L.A. Of course, the place is no secret. In the past decade, the affordable, women-only establishment has been raved about by writers from Allure magazine to The New York Times. It’s even made fans out of big-time celebs such as Vivica A. Fox and Felicity Huffman.
I ask my most uninhibited friend, Desiree (who, like me, is Chinese), to join the Korean spa bandwagon with me. Even she’s a bit squeamish at first (“Do you think our friendship is ready for this?” she jokes). But she soon agrees and we both hop online to check out the spa menu. Olympic Spa offers everything from anti-wrinkle facials to aromatherapy massages, but we decide to stick with the mainstay: the Akasuri Scrub (akasuri means “red rub” in Japanese).
Driving along Olympic Boulevard, we spot the brick building with green awnings and big boxy signs. As we walk through the doors and up to the front desk, a lady in uniform smiles, hands us our locker keys and then turns to the next woman in line. I look at Desiree and shrug. I guess we’re on our own.
The lounge and locker area looks more like a Korean grandmother’s living room than a place of pampering. There are TVs, which I hear are usually turned on to Korean soap operas, maroon leather couches and an aluminum hot tea dispenser sitting on a table. Hanging on the walls are a couple of bank-sponsored calendars that are handed out for free at Korean supermarkets.
The scene is diverse. Surrounding me are a group of white women debating whether they’ll need their towels (one more experienced spa-goer assures the others that they won’t) and an African American woman resting with a quilted blanket on the heated jade floor.
Olympic Spa manager Jackie Lee says the clientele has changed dramatically over the years, mostly through word-of-mouth advertising. Before, you’d only see Koreans at the bathhouse. Today, non-Koreans make up about half of the client list.
“When Americans came for the first time, they were embarrassed to be naked,” Lee says. “For Koreans, it’s always been a part of life. But now Americans love the bathhouse, too.”
Los Angeles filmmaker Tajamika Paxton grew intrigued when an acquaintance, a middle-aged Korean liquor store owner, mentioned that he visits a Korean spa daily.
“I’ve been wondering how he smokes, drinks coffee, works 20 hours a day and his skin glows like a newborn,” says Paxton, who is African American. “I thought, ‘If it makes Jim look like that, I’m going.’”
Now, she’s an Olympic Spa devotee. She usually goes for the $15 Simple Soak, which includes use of all facilities. She says she’s never minded the nudity.
“Being nude is one of the most reaffirming parts of the experience,” she says. “You get to see that women come in a myriad of shapes and sizes and we’re all perfect just the way we are, especially when we’re comfortable with ourselves and our bodies.”
Still, as a Korean spa neophyte, I’m not quite able to share that sense of liberation. Hovering over my bright pink locker, I take a deep breath, suck in my mini-gut and nervously strip down. But as I tiptoe into the main bathhouse area, I’m instantly relieved. Paxton is right. There are women everywhere. Some are big. Some are small. Some are old and wrinkly. Yet whether wading in the Cool Waters Pool or sitting on pastel stools and scrubbing themselves raw, all seem to be in their own zones.
The bathhouse features a number of Asian-inspired amenities such as the Jade Steam Room, the Oxygen and Bichotan Charcoal Therapy Room, the Oriental Clay Sauna and the Oxygen Stone Room, all of which boast specific healing properties. Entering each of the rooms, I quickly remember that Koreans like it hot. As I step into the mugwort bath, which is supposed to help release toxins, regulate your menstrual cycle, clear acne and cure pretty much every ailment imaginable, I let out an audible gasp. (The spa recommends that you alternate between hot and cold rooms and pools to keep your body temperature at the right levels. You also shouldn’t stay in a hot room or pool for more than 10 minutes.)
Desiree and I settle into a manageably warm pool. Feeling more at ease, we chat and laugh quietly about how strange this all is. After a while, we just start talking about normal stuff — work, relationships, what we’re doing later that night. I start to forget that I’m sitting in the buff. Eventually, I close my eyes and begin to drift off. I feel calm and relaxed. I remember that this is why I came.
Interrupting the solitude, a bra-and-underwear-clad woman walks through the room and calls out my number. I raise my hand and follow her to a cramped corner where five other bodies are being scrubbed and massaged. All I notice is lots of red skin.
I spot an open table and a woman standing behind it. Her arms are like giant stuffed sausages. She doesn’t smile. She takes a glance at me, points to the table and says, “Face down.”
I hoist myself up, careful not to slip, and stretch myself out. Lying there, my view is of the backside of another spa worker, whose bare thighs jiggle as she works on her client.
The woman working on me takes a plastic bowl of warm water and douses my legs and back. She takes hold of one of my legs and begins to scrub. The intense pressure is surprising at first, but I quickly get used to it. This isn’t so bad. It feels kind of nice.
She scrubs my heel, my calf and everywhere in between. She then works her way up my leg. Yikes, is she really scrubbing me there?
After finishing my back, she blurts, “Side.” I think for a moment and then shift onto my side. She steps close to me and keeps on scrubbing. Her belly bounces against mine.
As she journeys her way up to my chest, I begin to tighten up. Are those supposed to be scrubbed?
“Relax, OK?” she insists.
She moves on to my armpits, stationing my arms above my head. I close my eyes and squirm.
“Relax, OK?” she says, this time more firmly.
I try, but it’s difficult. She mutters something in Korean to the woman at the next table.
After 25 minutes of turbo-charged sloughing, I look down at my body and notice a multitude of little gray balls of skin. Ew. That’s all me. I am disgusting.
In the final moments of the treatment, she washes my hair gently, just like my grandma used to do when I was a kid. I close my eyes in bliss. She then squeezes some white stuff in my hand for me to wash my face with, motions for me to sit up and then douses me again with warm water. “Take shower,” she commands and then hands me my keys and a tiny envelope stamped with the words “15-20 percent customary.” And just like that, we’re through. I stand up in a blur.
Later that morning, now fully clothed, Desiree and I reunite in the spa restaurant, where we trade notes over kimbap and bowls of miyeokguk. Our skin feels smooth and silky. Our faces glow.
“I loved it,” Desiree gushes. “It felt so good.”
“I liked it, too,” I say. “Except for a few parts. I couldn’t handle her scrubbing my chest.” We then discuss which friends we want to bring with us the next time we come.
I finally realize what I’ve been missing out on. For Koreans, a good bath is a natural rite. There’s a sense of community in the bathhouse. It’s a place where moms can bring their daughters. It’s a place where friends come to catch up. With no clothes, no makeup, no place to hide, it’s an equalizing zone. Everyone’s in the same class, everyone’s got flaws and no one’s too good to scrub someone else’s back.
As we walk out the door, refreshed and ready to face the rest of the day, I overhear two women chatting behind me.
“I’m never going to an expensive spa again,” one giddily declares.
“Why would you?” the other asks.
Good question.
FOR ONLY $28!
Featured Event
One of the the biggest Asian cinema events to hit Southern California opens on May 10. The Los Angeles Asian Pacific Film Festival, presented by Visual Communications, features the latest works by established and emerging filmmakers, along with seminars, panel discussions and symposiums on topics relevant to Asian Pacific cinema.
Opening Night features “Shanghai Calling,” directed by Daniel Hsia and starring Korean American Daniel Henney, who plays a Chinese American expat lawyer navigating his way through the mean streets of Shanghai (the picture above also indicates he is a raisin smuggler). But does he take off his shirt? Go watch the movie to find out! read more
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ny suggestion as to where I can find a spa/bathhouse? Had been going to Daengki Beauty Spa, Korea Town – Los Angeles.
Thank you for your time.