The ad had me at “lovely tropical feeling.”

On my last morning after three weeks in Japan—a time when I’d discovered that I was more in love with the country’s pop culture than its cherry blossoms and temples—I came across a brochure for Spa World, an eight-story resort located in the Shin-Sekai section of Osaka, which, like traditional Japanese spas, or onsen, promises relaxation and rejuvenation through peace, quiet and very hot water. But that’s just the start. Spa World also aims to transport its visitors to far-off countries and continents and, sometimes, back through time via re-creations of spa and bathing experiences from history.

I never planned on visiting a spa in Japan, and my flight home departed in a few hours, but I couldn’t resist a quick spin around the world. I stuffed the brochure in my pocket and jumped on the next train to Spa World.

Flags from Greece, China, Italy, Japan, the United States and other prominent bathing nations lined the ramp leading to the entrance. The lobby, however, screamed Japan, from the high-tech ticket vending machines with flashing lights to the cryptic signs and instructions. Since my Japanese consists of only a few words, and nobody on duty spoke English, I was given instruction sheets written in what, at first glance, seemed to be my native language. Upon further review, many lines appeared to be Zen koans.

“Please put the 100 yen,” one read. “but you can get it later.”

After meditating on that, I bought my ticket, traded it for an electronic wristband—purchases made within Spa World are recorded electronically and paid for in total at departure—stowed my shoes in the locker and took the elevator to the men’s floor. Men are isolated on one floor and women on another, which means each gender has access to only half of Spa World’s spas each visit. The floors rotate each month and, this time around, the men controlled the European fourth floor.

I wanted to immerse myself immediately in Europe’s bubbling baths but, despite its worldly theme, Spa World is still a Japanese spa. Customs and etiquette had to be followed. The Japanese soak nude, so I stripped. Then, holding only a standard Spa World-issue towel—the size of a newspaper, folded in half—I stepped through the sliding glass doors and into ancient Rome.

Ancient Rome, it turns out, has very high ceilings. And the decor brought to mind a high-end Las Vegas casino. Marble statues of muscled men and winged horses loomed over a pool of hot water. Several Japanese men sat at the edge, scooping water in cups and pouring it over their backs and arms. A few did double takes when I walked in—I was the only gaijin in the place and, at 6’4”, a relatively large one—but soon resumed pouring.

I could have stayed in Italy for a long while, but with so many countries to visit and just three hours to see them, I moved along. Water content and temperature differ in many of the countries and, in Greece, I found three options, including two spice baths. I was immediately drawn to them. They were deep and thick and I couldn’t see to the bottom. After a 10-minute soak, I smelled a bit like a gyro.

For two hours I bounced from country to country, each a not-quite-right idealized representation of the real thing. In France, I sat in the fountain beneath the Arc de Triomphe, where a gentle waterfall soothed my shoulders and traditional French music played on the sound system. In Spain, the only European country located outdoors at Spa World, I waded through a raging waterfall and studied the daring ceramic matador in battle with an angry ceramic toro. In the German-style bathhouse, I rested in a massage recliner and sipped vitamin-enhanced juice bought from a vending machine. In Finland, I dipped my foot into a lake of cold water, which sent me shivering back to Rome and the civilized comfort of its wooden, three-tiered sauna.

All visitors are given a set of matching softball uniform-style half-sleeve shirts and knee-length pants—blue for men, pink for women—for walking around the non-spa areas. After primping with the industrial-sized vats of complimentary powders, mouthwashes and other toiletries in the “makeup room,” that’s what I wore as I explored the rest of Spa World.  My blue outfit precluded a visit to the Asian spas on the women-only sixth floor, though I saw pictures of the Japanese, Chinese, Persian, Indian and “Islamic” baths laid out Japanese restaurant-menu style in the lobby. On the eighth floor, though, I found the swimming pool. Surrounded by palm trees and twisting waterslides, it inspired more of a “children running around feeling” than a “lovely tropical feeling.”

Before the kids could neutralize my relaxation buzz, I stumbled upon the “rest room.” Dozens of beige recliners, all with speakers built into the headrests, were aligned in perfect rows. At the front of the room, a series of large-screen televisions was embedded in the wall. Japanese men filled almost every chair, all, like me, wearing the matching two-tone blue softball uniforms. Eventually I found an open spot near the back of the room, where I pulled a blanket to my chest and turned down the sound.

Nothing else I had experienced in Japan—not sake-fueled karaoke, not the smiling mechanical crabs suspended on restaurant walls, not the “Three Minutes Happiness” store—has matched the strange magic of Spa World. I had traveled around the world in less than three hours, naked. Incredibly, I was fully relaxed for my 12-hour flight home. In fact, I almost fell asleep right there, but the man in the next recliner over distracted me. He was snoring, and he smelled a bit like a gyro.

Michael Yessis is the co-editor of World Hum.