I slip down an alley off a quiet Kyoto street and into a boutique that I鈥檝e identified as a paragon of contemporary Japanese fashion. Inside, the dim lighting and quiet jazz soundtrack emphasize the cool elegance, but as my gaze extends past the silk scarves and structured blazers, it lands on an object of sheer terror: a pair of slippers at the base of a tatami mat.
Frozen in place, I have no idea what to do. I want to gingerly paw the delicate and expensive fabrics, but I don鈥檛 know the protocol. I think back to what I鈥檝e been told: no shoes on tatami mats. No luggage or anything heavy. But am I supposed to take off my shoes in a store? Are these slippers for me? How do I get to the hand-dyed cashmere just 10 feet away?
I love Japan. It鈥檚 also one of the most rigidly rules-based societies I鈥檝e ever visited. There are instructions posted everywhere, depicting what to do with your dripping wet umbrella at a storefront (put it in a plastic bag or leave it in an umbrella locker) or how to use a toilet that comes with a remote control (depends on the, uh, situation).
Still, many customs can be utterly opaque to travellers, inspiring the Japan National Tourism Organization to publish a .
As the country grapples with concerns about overtourism 鈥 a record-breaking 36.9 million international visitors came in 2024 鈥 my husband and I spend our trip this March trying to avoid appearing like culturally clueless outsiders.
Fortunately, we鈥檙e in the capable hands of an expert who can save us from breaching decorum. I鈥檓 here on an eight-day, rail-based tour with , and grasping Japanese customs is on the itinerary as we travel both popular cities (Tokyo, Kyoto, Osaka) and more remote, pastoral towns (Mishima, Kawane).
Spring blossoms frame Osaka Castle, one of the city鈥檚 most recognizable聽landmarks.
Sean Pavone/EnvatoIn addition to having the usual tour benefits (someone else figuring out train tickets and hotel bookings for us), we鈥檙e led by an earnest and organized guide, Jane, who immediately becomes the one person keeping us from acting like idiots. My husband affectionately ordains her our 鈥渞ules doula.鈥
Everywhere we go, Jane pauses, gathers our small group into a huddle so she doesn鈥檛 have to raise her voice (rude) and explains the local conduct. There鈥檚 a lot of minutiae, and it鈥檚 often not intuitive.
For example, there are vending machines everywhere, selling a range of things from hot coffee to frozen foods, but it鈥檚 impolite to eat on the street. It鈥檚 also rude to eat or drink on the subway or local trains, but not on the bullet train. Jane introduces us to ekiben, the bento boxes sold in high-speed rail stations across the country.
In Tokyo and Kyoto, it鈥檚 imperative to stand on the left side of the escalator; in Osaka, it鈥檚 the right side. And when we鈥檙e dispatched to overnight homestays in Kawane, located in a pretty tea-growing region with just-burst cherry blossoms, Jane texts the group guidelines for staying in a private home (white people bowing is acceptable; Japanese walls are thin so be mindful of noise).
When we arrive in Kyoto on a grey drizzly day, I鈥檓 thrilled to discover that our hotel has a semi-public onsen (hot springs bath), and I scrupulously follow Jane鈥檚 instructions. Onsens are for communal soaking, not cleansing, so it鈥檚 important to wash first. I silently remove my clothes and take a shower, sitting on the small stool provided and making sure I don鈥檛 splash anyone else, before easing into the slightly effervescent bath.
Japanese etiquette governs many activities, including how to properly use a hot springs bath.
EyeEm/iStockBut my relaxation gives way to alarm when another woman enters. Though she appears to have showered, she immediately dunks her long hair in the water 鈥 strictly forbidden.
I sit, paralyzed, torn between the busybody urge to tell her she鈥檚 doing it wrong, and concern that she might get me in trouble, as if some onsen enforcer is going to bust through the door (presumably naked and freshly showered, per protocol).
Fortunately, she doesn鈥檛 stay long. And while I don鈥檛 report her to the hotel, I do tell Jane, who seems satisfyingly troubled.
At that shop in Kyoto, I eventually discover the tatami protocol the easy way: an Australian woman does it wrong, taking off her shoes (correct) and putting on the slippers (huge mistake).
While she apologizes profusely, her head hung in shame, I tiptoe in my socks over to the very last deep red, luxuriously soft Suzusan cashmere sweater, embarrassing no one. I think Jane would be proud.
Sarah Treleaven travelled as a guest of Intrepid, which did not review or approve this article.
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