Japanese Tryptich, Part 2: Capsule.

I'm in a Japanese Capsule.
I put my shoes in the locker, step into the green
plastic slippers that are suspiciously too large, and make my way up to the ladies floor, where Danielle and I have keys to both 8011 and 8012. Who will be on top?

I'm in a Japanese Capsule.
The whitish plastic walls of the surprisingly spacious interior are postmodern, the control panel even more mid-century with giant knobs. I flip the switch, turn the lights up and down, then watch a bit of the Winter Olympic trials on my TV. Like dogs in a kennel, Danielle and I poke our heads out, barking hello and rolling our eyes at the surrounding fleet of SAS students.

I'm in a Japanese Capsule.
We drink warm Asahi from the vending machine and play Uno with Chris and Nate on the 9th floor, next to the laundry station. An older Japanese man hands us a pile of seaweed covered peanuts before stepping outside to have a smoke. He is wearing nothing but the standard issued smocks; I shiver at the mere thought. It is so cold out that I have been sneezing uncontrollably and wishing I that had brought even more layers.

I'm in a Japanese Capsule.
The female students take one look at the communal bath and guffaw at the mere thought of sitting on a plastic bench, as if it is any less clean than a public toilet seat. We have the entire bathroom to ourselves as we scrub, rinse, then soak in the delightfully warm water. Thankfully, the onsen police are nowhere in sight to issue a penalty, for Danielle has body art that soon starts itching. Nate remembered the tattoo cream from Hawaii. All is well as we check out and set off to find a Mister Donut.