And now for something REALLY mundane… taking a bath in Japan.

The Japanese are among the cleanest people I’ve ever met. They head out to Japan’s many bubbling hot springs at every opportunity, and they’ve turned the nightly ritual of bathing into a fine art. They build deep, well-insulated tubs out of fragrant cedar and then sit and soak in them for hours. How divine. I can’t wait to try it.

Unfortunately, the Japanese also believe in discipline – even in their most relaxing activities. They accomplish this by turning up the heat. A Japanese bath is so hot that you have to inch yourself in, rubbing each newly submerged area like you’ve just banged it on the edge of the bed. Your skin actually itches after it stops burning. Once in, you sit absolutely still, waiting for your own body to cool down a thin, insulating layer of water to keep you from being boiled like a turkey. You watch the clock – the Japanese have rules for everything and you’re supposed to stay in no less than three minutes and no more than five. Has it only been thirty seconds? You’re kidding. You forehead pops with sweat. You can feel your eyeballs pushing out of their sockets. Twoandahalfminutes. That’senough. But in order to get out you have to disturb that thin layer of insulation you’ve built up around your body. This is like tossing yourself into the hot pot all over again. You brace yourself. You mutter "discipline". You then throw yourself, screaming, from the bath. You sit under a cold shower for as long as you can stand it, go straight to bed, and sweat all night.

But after a while a regular bath just doesn’t seem… disciplined enough. So the last time I was in Kyoto I decided to brave the infamous "denki furo". On the surface this looks not unlike any other Japanese hot bath, until you actually examine the surface. It’s chattering ominously with little standing waves. "Denki", you see, means "electricity".

I wait until no one is looking. I casually stick one toe into the water. Something shoots up the inside of my leg, like a case of rabies that’s working its way into my central nervous system.

This is going to be really unpleasant. Of course, now that I’m in Japan I don’t just have discipline, I have face, and that means I can’t back out, even if no one is watching. I lower myself into that furo one inch at a time, so carefully that I barely disturb those evil little ripples.

It’s one of those times that I’m truly glad I don’t have testicles.

And then, an eternity later, it’s time to get out. I wait until there’s a momentary pause in traffic and no one is in the room. I prepare to leap, screaming, from the tub. I leap. I scream. Nothing happened. My legs were completely and utterly asleep. No pins and needles. Just out like a light.

I’m glad my parents took me to Seaworld when I was little because dolphins don’t have legs either. I get out much the same way, beaching myself on my stomach and using my spindly arms to flop along the ground. I leave a long, slithery trail all the way to the shower heads. The electricity follows me like a bunch of hungry leaches. I prop myself up against a wall and wait for my body to come back to life. Then I put on my clothes and wobble out into the street, looking for all the world like one of those drunken Tokyo businessmen on the train after a sake-night with his buddies.

For my next trip I’ve decided to cross the Sahara, where they drink their water tepid and they’ve never heard about taking a bath.

Excerpted from Japanland © 2005 Rodale Press. To purchase, please visit japanlandonline.com