The first time I went to Japan, more than twenty years ago. I stayed at a friend’s place.

That was also the first time I encountered what felt like alien technology disguised as a toilet. There was a tiny faucet on top of the tank. After you flushed, clean water flowed out for you to wash your hands, then drained back into the tank to be reused for the next flush.

I froze. Not because it looked fancy, but because it was so reasonable it made me slightly ashamed. No showmanship. No luxury flex. Just a quiet loop that saved water without asking for applause.

That was the first time I realized: Design isn’t about looking clever. It’s about not letting the world bleed unnecessarily.

The real shock came when I actually sat down. Before I could even study the buttons, the toilet started playing music, soft sounds of flowing water.

Later I learned why. Japanese homes are small, walls are thin, and privacy is fragile. That sound wasn’t for comfort. It was for dignity. The toilet wasn’t serving my body. It was serving my sense of being human.

But I didn’t read Japanese. All I saw was an icon of water spraying a butt. I pressed the button carefully, like defusing a bomb. The next second, a powerful jet of water shot straight up from below.

I literally bounced off the seat. Water hit the ceiling! There I was, standing in the bathroom, naked from the waist down, staring at the toilet with pure hostility.

At that moment, I thought: This isn’t advanced technology. This is a weapon.

Terrifying. Truly terrifying!

But humans adapt frighteningly fast. A few days later, fear turned into familiarity. Familiarity turned into pleasure.

In winter, I sat on a warm, heated seat, while gentle warm water delivered what can only be described as a deeply civilized, bottom-level spa treatment. That’s when I understood why Japanese toilet paper is so thin. It isn’t meant to wipe. It’s just there to softly absorb water, a polite closing gesture.

From then on, using the toilet in Japan became my favorite daily ritual. It wasn’t about necessity. It was about stepping into a tiny room where the world seemed to say: “I’ve got you.”

So when I returned home, something felt off. Sitting on cold porcelain, holding rough, soulless toilet paper, I realized: I had lived in a better version of civilization.

Later I heard that some Japanese people refuse overseas assignments
not because of salary, safety, or culture but because they can’t stand foreign toilets.

I completely understand.

Because once your expectations are upgraded, there’s no going back. That’s when I realized something brutal: Great design doesn’t just impress you. It ruins you for worse options. It doesn’t change a moment. It permanently raises your baseline for how the world should treat you.

I don’t just miss Japanese toilets. I miss a civilization that took human vulnerability seriously enough to design for it.



—— 🎐 XC Scribbles · 捌拾肆 LXXXIV 🚽