Japanese inns of great simplicity

JONO DAVID enters a traditional Japanese ryokan and finds within its rice-paper walls the proof that less is so much more.

Frank Lloyd Wright said, "At last I had found one country on Earth where simplicity is supreme."

The American architect's commentary on traditional Japanese design was an astute observation on a country known for its crowds, clutter and chaos. Contrary to the sad, even inevitable, diminishment of the ryokan, the traditional-style inn, the Japanese still revere these simple retreats as necessary diversions from the daily commotion and cacophony of their lives.

Historically, the Japanese have worked diligently at relaxation, and the ryokan is evidence of this: a place where the body rests and the mind and spirit renew.

For the Western visitor, however, whose idea of luxury usually involves exquisite fixtures and an unabashed show of opulence, a top-grade ryokan with its no-frills-no-weights-room compound and exorbitant price tag may seem like daylight robbery. But Western expectations, like shoes, have to be left at the door.

From the instant your feet slide into the waiting slippers and the Okami-san proprietress bows in welcome, your senses are treated to a kind of metaphysical massage. For nearly all visitors, a stay at a ryokan will be their most intimate encounter with Japan's ancient traditions.

These simple structures started life as rudimentary lodging along the Kyoto to Edo (now Tokyo) highway during the Edo period (1603-1867). As their popularity grew, the Japanese view that spartan simplicity is no less appealing than lavish ornamentation directly contradicted the Western notion that more is always better.

Visit any mokuzo-kaoku (old wooden-style) ryokan, historic house or temple in Japan and you will find only the plain and modest, a far cry from the cluttered home of virtually any modern Japanese family.

But a ryokan's simplicity must not be confused with a dearth of guests or the absence of a television, oversized wardrobes and a grand, busy lobby.

In historical terms, simplicity is the pursuit of nirvana. In architectural terms, it is the materials: the wood, the paper doors. In spiritual terms, it is the resonance of silence and stillness and the pond's trickle. In design terms, it is the clean, straight lines of the straw tatami mats and shadows fluttering on rice-paper doors. In aesthetic terms, it is the minimalism of a solitary flower arranged in the tokonoma, or alcove, and the curious pull to admire its beauty.

The genkan, or entrance, is often little more than a sliding door at the end of a cobbled path in the shadow of a bamboo. The greeting from the naikai-san (maid) is quiet. You admire her plain kimono as she leads you to your suite, where she serves green tea and perhaps a sweet presented on a simple porcelain dish. The crouching, lacquered table in the centre of your room is flanked by cushions and brocade armrests. As you sink to the floor, realising there is no bed, the scent of the tatami matting fills your nose and you breathe deeply as the maid slips behind the closing rice-paper doors, leaving you to the sanctity of the chamber.

You turn to the window and are treated to a view of a perfectly pruned garden or a sweeping vista down some sun-soaked valley, or even a sight of the sea. A calm descends.

It is soon time to bathe, either in your own room or in a communal room. You go to the cedar bath, disrobe, and crouch upon a little wooden stool on the tiled floor. You eye the steaming bath but remember to wash first, rinsing off the lather with pans of water. At last, you immerse yourself in the fiery bath, slowly, convinced you will blister all over. You rise in defiance, but soon fall again into the grip of the heat, surrendering your body and its aches and pains.

Afterwards you rinse with cold water and shrink into the crispness of a cotton yukata robe before heading back to your room for the evening meal.

When you slide back the unlocked shoji door, you find the nakai-san ready to serve you. She brings a seemingly endless assortment of vegetables, rice and other locally grown treats from the set course determined by the chef: slices of raw fish or perhaps a more familiar steak prepared teriyaki style. As you take up your chopsticks, she invites you to taste each dish with a slow, deliberate mull across the palette. Your eyes fall on the numerous tiny dishes and you admire each for its colour, and art.

When at last you are finished, a steaming towel is provided for your face and hands as the maid clears the dishes and removes the table, making way for a futon mattress laid out neatly in the centre of the tatami floor. You are feeling rested, pampered, and the sake you have drunk is weighing down your extremities. You want to resist the drowsiness, which feels like a drug, for to give in is to relinquish this nirvana, and sleep only brings on the morning and a regrettable departure.

The next day, after a breakfast of raw egg, rice and seaweed, you collect your belongings and slip back into your shoes. The nakai-san sees you off just as she greeted you, quietly and with reverence and a deep, long bow. She stays there, lingering, till you are firmly out of sight.

You remember her even now, at home among your own clutter and chaos, not as your maid but as your angel.

The experience described is generally limited to top-grade ryokan, mainly in Kyoto, the heart of traditional Japan. Most modern ryokan are large, concrete edifices with traditional interiors and are combined with hot springs. Still, the experiences are memorable.

Better deals are had by booking a ryokan through a Japanese tourist office rather than directly contacting the ryokan.

* Contact:

Japan National Tourist Organisation (JNTO)

2-10-1 Yurakucho, Chiyoda-ku, Tokyo 100-0006

ph 00813 3216, fax, 00813 3216 1846