Before moving to China, I naively assumed that, like the Japanese, the Chinese treated the act of defecation with a kind of sacred reverence—an experience deserving of clean, high-tech bathrooms and maybe even some relaxing background music. I imagined smart toilets in every public building, stocked with lavender-scented toilet paper and Zen-like serenity.
I was, to put it mildly, mistaken. As it turns out, Chinese and Japanese bathroom cultures are as different as dim sum and sushi. In my nine months here, I’ve experienced both the absolute pinnacle and rock-bottom depths of the human defecation experience. Let’s start, naturally, with the high point—Deji Plaza in Nanjing.
Deji Plaza, Nanjing’s foremost luxury shopping mall, boasts six stories of bathrooms, each with its own theme, ambiance, and escalating sense of grandeur. They are less mall restrooms and moreso curated exhibitions of toilet decadence. One floor feels like a Dr. Seuss fever dream, while another resembles the kind of greenhouse where billionaires might take their afternoon tea.
There’s a grand piano, adult bonsai trees, and mirrors with lighting fit for a Hollywood dressing room. Beyond aesthetics, the amenities are equally over-the-top: nursing rooms, handicap-accessible stalls, parent-child lounges, and even wireless charging benches.
The facilities are on par with the interior design as well. The toilets have all the bells and whistles: heated seats, a retractable bidet, self-washing and drying features and a self-opening, motion-activated toilet seat. Most of the toiletry equipment is in fact Japanese (Toto), but some of the washrooms have a distinct Chinese style, with one including classical Chinese scrolls and calligraphy.
After the euphoric glow of the opulent bowel movement wore off, I was left thinking: why invest so much in these mall bathrooms? The answer came quickly—more bathroom tourists mean more foot traffic, which means more sales.
Deji Plaza began its luxury bathroom renovations in 2021, and each one has gotten more extravagant than the last, with one costing over $2.5 million USD. The investment has worked well, with Deji’s luxury vendors reporting almost 14% revenue growth from 2022 to 2023. Indeed, the water closets are so breathtaking that they’ve become an unavoidable itinerary item when my friends and family come to visit, in between the Presidential Palace and Xuanwu Lake.
On the other end of the spectrum lie the latrine pits of China’s less affluent southern and western regions—places like Hunan, Yunnan, and Tibet—where bathroom experiences become less about comfort and more about character development. These setups often amount to nothing more than a hole in the ground, though some feature porcelain or metal foot grooves to help prevent a catastrophic slip-and-slide.
I remember how foreign they were when I first arrived— intimidating and unhygienic. But after a few successful missions, I found myself adapting, and these days, as long as it’s clean, I honestly don’t mind a squatter. They’re efficient, they build up my quads, and they keep me humble. My advice to first-timers: zip up your pockets and bring your own toilet paper!
The worst bathroom experience was in Tibet at a roadside stop on the way from Shigatze to Everest Base Camp. The initial wall of vomit-inducing odor was a mere overture to the whole symphony of disgust that waited inside. The main chorus consisted of a mountainous pile of fecal matter that had risen triumphantly from the latrine hole, reaching altitudes only rivalled by the surrounding Himalayas. The foothills of the alpine abomination were a chaotic composition of poorly aimed offerings and discarded toilet paper, forming what could only be described as a scatological Jackson Pollock. My only consolation was that it was winter – the summer stench would surely have been something of a biological weapon.
As my year in Nanjing comes to an end and I reflect on the spectrum and spectacle of my porcelain pilgrimages, I’m left oddly grateful. China has taught me that bathrooms are more than just utilitarian—they’re intangible and olfactory cultural artifacts, economic tools, and occasionally a character-building experience.
I’ve gained a newfound appreciation for architectural ambition, the limits of human tolerance, and the simple joy of a standard, Western toilet. In the end, every squat and flush was a lesson in adaptation. And as Kelly Clarkson once said—while likely not waist-deep in a Tibetan latrine—what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger!
Edited by: Jordyn Haime