Todd Cheng
Google
I am an English speaker with only a handful of Japanese words at my disposal—“hello,” “thank you,” “yes,” “delicious,” “no,” and “excuse me”—yet I had no trouble enjoying this uniquely historic Japanese hotel. Although I initially considered a more budget-friendly option, the extra expense here was truly worthwhile, thanks to the many added touches and graces of the experience.
If you choose to stay, I suggest spending at least two nights to fully appreciate the subtle cultural norms and rhythms of the property. It may be a bit challenging to book as an English speaker, but it is absolutely worth the effort. Traveling from Tokyo is straightforward: the train ride is easy, and the bus journey up the mountain isn’t difficult either. The hotel shuttle is a pleasant bonus, though the walk from the bus station in Zao is only about seven minutes if you prefer to stretch your legs.
Once you arrive, the surroundings feel precious. The food is extraordinarily delicious, and every interaction I had with the staff was perfect. I also loved the enchanting paper charms, handwritten calligraphy notes, papier-mâché birds, and other delicate foldings that adorn your space and table settings. There is so much thought and creativity in each tiny detail.
Spending two nights here makes me think I could have happily stayed three—one day never feels like enough. I’m profoundly grateful to have visited and will try to return in the future, perhaps for three days always during winter, as the atmosphere is magical.
Lastly, the onsen configurations change daily, which adds another layer of delightful discovery. Every morning feels like a fresh invitation to immerse yourself in the warm, mineral-rich waters. Overall, I couldn’t recommend this experience more—and I encourage anyone, regardless of language skill, to take the leap and savor this unforgettable slice of Japan.
A small moiety of my journal there.
A Morning ablution. There is a hush in the dark that scrapes along the spine of dawn. No light on any horizon. I remove my layers and stack them, each piece a pale flag in the basket, as I have watched others do many times. Denuded, I scurry to the shower.
The spigot snarls—blackened and worn, I assume, by the spring’s acidity—and the water rushes cold against my palms. It bites while I stand naked and already chilled, a tiny cruelty of contrasts that prefaces the onsen’s warmth. The air is a mix of chill and steam.
The water’s hue is a muted blue-gray. I smile. If it were not gray, it would resemble dark green tea with cloudy depths. These sediments are not fine leaves, though, but rather smooth siliceous sinter from deep within the earth—this is Zao spring water. A milky, mirroring veil devours my thighs, hips, and belly; it is a deep tub. In the shadows, the waters appear light blue-gray, while in its depths, they turn silkily turbid. I cannot see my knees or the bottom. Yet on the surface, silhouettes of light and shadow reflect the scaffolding’s lines, like beams filtered through a clouded window.
Submerged.
I let my mind unravel in these inky depths, aware that I am sharing in another culture’s long-held tradition—one so intimately tied to a single family. It’s healthy to pause and absorb that perspective. This ryokan has outlived my own nation by fifty years: three centuries of footsteps, ritual, breath, steam, customers. Families born into these walls, generations warmed by the same springs, and countless visitors seeking solace here. Each embraces these practices not only to honor long-standing etiquette but also to heighten one’s sense of renewal. How brief a single life can seem amid such constellations of time. Drop. Humbling.
I lose myself in this timeless ablution. I meditate in the soft haze, the bath’s blue-gray waters faintly acidic, reflecting light and shadow in gentle ripples. The heat is immense, but the darkness and quiet bring me calm and introspection. Still, I cannot remain long.
Breakfast. And the scurry and rush to catch the bus to lower mountain town and train station.
