Japan is a land of secrets within secrets, mysteries within mysteries. The casual tourist, following the wellworn path of the travel guide, may occasionally glimpse those secrets. But unless he or she boldly meanders off the trail of the traveler, into the world the Japanese keep for themselves, there's no real waste to taste and savor the real life of Nippon. One of the best, and most available, secrets is found within the world of the ryokan, the small inns that are beloved by the Japanese, but little known by those of us who come from the West.

            There are more than 80,000 ryokan in Japan, though not many of them are actually open to visits from Westerners. Not many are open to visits by Japanese either, for like the haute cuisine restaurants of Japan, exclusivity is the dominant motif; you have to be introduced by someone of sufficiently high status to get in. And in many cases, Westerners are not welcome because they don't fit well in ryokans. There is a ritual to staying at a Japanese inn that must be strictly adhered to; these are not Japanese versions of Motel 6. If an analogy needs to be made, it might be with the bed & breakfast inns that have sprung up all over America. Ryokans are small, personal, select and not for everyone. They are wholly inappropriate for conventions of widget salesman.

            As accommodations go, ryokans are unlike anything else in the world. At most hotels, the way things work is that you check in, spend the night, then check out. At a ryokan, you enter an experience, which you carry away with you after you leave. And indeed, since many ryokan are situated in the countryside (there are strikingly few ryokan in Tokyo though there are a large number in far more traditional Kyoto), that experience begins as soon as you start your journey in the direction of the ryokan. Consider, for instance, the very first ryokan I ever stayed at, memorable for its elegance, its simplicity, its beauty...and for sitting at the base of Mt. Fuji.

            Mt. Fuji is 12,388 feet high. Between the middle of July and the end of August, some 300,000 Japanese ascend to the top of Fuji-san, the sacred mountain. Those 300,000 include the lame, the halt, the blind, the very young, the very old and, on one recent occasion, me. To climb Mt. Fuji, I took a train from Tokyo to the affable hamlet of Fujinomiya, then took a bus to the Fifth Station (Shin-Go-Gome), about two thirds of the way up the mountain. The Fifth Station sits at the very top of the tree line, which ends abruptly, as if someone had come along with tweezers and removed every tree, bush and blade of grass above. Below the Fifth Station, all was green and lush; above, the earth was black and grey slag, ascending into the clouds.

            It looks like an anthill looking up from the Fifth Station, with thousands of climbers wearing running shoes, hustling up the mountain in groups of 30, 40, 50 and more. For hours, I struggled up Fuji, gasping for breath, as octogenarians and children strolled by me, with the ease of a person strolling down to their local 7-Eleven. At one point, a man with one leg, on crutches, lurched past me, though I wrote that off to the fine traction of his rubber crutch tips. Some small distance from the top, I finally poured the cinders out of my shoes, turned around and half walked, half slid my way back down the mountain, soaked with sweat, and anxious to take the long soothing bath that's at the heart of any stay at a ryokan.

            The inn I stayed at that night in Fujinomiya, with Mt. Fuji looming above me, was called Ryokan Ogawaso, an inn on a quiet side street just a few blocks from the train station. Though I lurched down the street to the ryokan, my legs throbbing with exhaustion, I paused half a block away to collect myself, for one does not enter a ryokan like a bull charging into a pen full of cows. A certain decorum is called for, a certain calm. And when one speaks almost no Japanese, a certain willingness to be patient as well.

            As is the tradition, upon entering the simple, plain doorway that was the entrance to the ryokan, I removed my shoes, leaving them on a shelf with many other pairs of running shoes and boots. I donned slippers, identified myself, and was guided up a narrow flight of stairs, and through a sliding screen into a room that was at once peaceful and spare, in about equal measures. There were no locks on the doors, no security of any sort. It was, as I said, like no other hotel I've ever been to.

            In one corner, there was a small ornamental alcove called a tokonoma, containing a small wooden table on which sat a vase with a single fresh, bright red rose. At the back of the alcove was a scroll with some lovely calligraphy on it. For all I know, it said "No Smoking." It didn't matter; it was very pretty to look at. It was part of the experience.

            I was guided into the room by a lovely, slightly giggly young woman dressed in the traditional Japanese kimono and obi. I don't think the proper term for her would be geisha, though her function was clearly to make me as comfortable as possible, to establish the serenity of the room, and to serve meals. She handed me a lightweight cotton kimono to wear, called a yukata, a piece of clothing which is not only worn when within the confines of the ryokan, but which is also considered proper dress for ryokan guests when going out on the street. The idea is that wherever you go, while you're a guest at the ryokan, you take the mood of the ryokan with you. It's a natural extension of the Japanese concept that what you wear defines who you are at any given moment. If you dress in business clothing, you must be a business person; if you're wearing golf togs, you're a golfer; if you're attired in a yukata, you must be on vacation, staying at a ryokan, and should be treated accordingly.

            A friend who spent many years living in Japan, pointed out that there's a theory behind the ryokan, an underlying concept based in the simple fact that Japan is so overcrowded that people are rarely able to enjoy the luxury of privacy, of being away from either the crowd, or from their own family. What the ryokan offers if one of the few refuges of genuine privacy in Japanese life. Once in the single room accommodation of a ryokan, few Japanese leave. They spend their time there bathing, sleeping, reading, watching TV--not doing very much at all, except being in the exquisite privacy of the ryokan.

            And there's no denying that, within the simple world of Ryokan Ogawaso, that I was pampered and cared for in a way I've never been at any major hotel. In my room was a throwaway razor, a toothbrush with toothpaste already spread on it, and all the towels and soaps and shampoos I'd need for a dozen long, luxurious baths.

            While I changed into the yukata, the young woman filled a Japanese bathtub with a large dose of exceedingly hot water. I walked in my slippers to the bathing room, where I changed slippers again. Then, after washing myself under a low shower (to use the shower, I had to sit on a funny little stool, and do a lot of bending over, reminding me that Americans do tend to be a bit taller than most Japanese), I eased my way into the clouds that billowed from the tub, almost a toe at a time, groaning with the pleasure and the pain of the hot water. The tub was square and deep, and after about 15 minutes, all the knotted muscles and tired flesh caused by my day on Mt. Fuji began to loosen and stretch. I studied the mountain scene painted on a silken scroll over the tub, and found my mind wandering down the path into the hills, and the clouds above them.

            After the bath, dinner was served in my single, all-purpose room, with its tatami mat floor. The meal was served on a low polished wood table, at which I sat cross-legged, cool and comfortable in the light cotton of my yukata. The meal was a modified kaiseki dinner, many small courses, interrupted by cups of tea, and porcelain thimbles of sake. I remember a small broiled fish, sitting on a glazed rectangular plate, the fish bent into an elegant S-shaped pattern. With a giggle, my server showed me how to bone the fish, using only chopsticks, and some rather fancy wrist gestures. I remember as well a plate of funny-looking little fish, pickled and sweet, that bore a striking resemblance to tadpoles, and crunched vigorously when I bit into them. I recall the most sublimely fresh slices of tuna, the fatty cut from the belly, which is called toro, and is so highly prized for its goodness. And I remember a small order of tempura, at the center of which was a batter-fried shiso leaf, as delicate as the rice paper walls of my room. And far more tasty.

            After the meal, she removed the table, and spread out a futon (a folding foam rubber mattress) for me to sleep on. On top of the mattress was a thick, downy shikibuton, and the sort of billowy pillow you tend to get lost in. Before falling asleep, I did one more highly Japanese thing. I didn't meditate on the meaning of the tokonoma, nor stare out my window at the clouds that now covered nearby Mt. Fuji. Instead, I flipped on the room's TV set, discreetly hidden away in a small low closet. And I fell asleep watching a Japanese baseball game.

            That particular experience cost about $60 per person per night (ryokan prices are always given in per person, rather than per room, rates), which included the meal. It was particularly reasonable when you consider that it included both dinner and breakfast. This particular small country ryokan, of course, costs a good deal less than one of the more prestigious inns, like the legendary Tawaraya in Kyoto, where the guests have included such notables as the King of Sweden and Marlon Brando, and where prices come closer to $300 per person per night.

            The second ryokan I stayed at was actually just a few blocks away from Tawaraya in Kyoto, which was both far too expensive for my budget, and booked up many months in advance (unless, I assume, you happen to be lucky enough to be sufficiently well connected to secure a reservation as a person of high rank and office). I stayed at a ryokan that was a near duplicate of Tawaraya called Ryokan Ikumatsu. It sat on a small sidestreet in the middle of Kyoto, close to the ancient Samurai Hotel (the Ninja Dera), which was just that several hundred years ago--an overnight accommodation for visiting samurai, complete with a complex set of traps and warnings (like floors whose boards made sounds like crickets when they were stepped on) to keep out marauding enemies of the guests.

            A night at Ikumatsu cost about $125 per night per person, and wasn't significantly different from what I had experienced at Ryokan Ogawaso. The screens might have been a bit finer, the slippers a bit more lush, the rooms somewhat larger. But beyond that, the ritual was exactly the same--the bath, the dinner, the futon, the robes. It was a curious experience wandering around a city as large as Kyoto wearing a yukata. I felt odd going to see the many temples (including the Moss Temple, open only by request, where more than 200 mosses grow on the perfectly manicured grounds), and shopping in the various department stores, dressed in a black and white cotton bathrobe. Yet no one paid me the slightest mind--I was simply a salary man, on vacation, staying at a ryokan. My robe announced that for all to see, and to treat me accordingly.

            Eventually, I found myself back in Tokyo, staying at an American-style hotel, with lots of pillows and a large bed. There was room service, and a view of the city. But it wasn't the same to me. The lobby was too crowded, I didn't have to wear slippers, I missed my yukata and bath. After staying in a ryokan, it's very hard to return to the distanced, remote service of even the best European-style hotels. The final secret of the ryokan is that it spoils you forever.