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I love Japan. It’s also one of the most rigidly rules-based societies I’ve 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 — a record-breaking 36.9 million international visitors came in 2024 — my husband and I spend our trip this March trying to avoid appearing like culturally clueless outsiders.

Fortunately, we’re in the capable hands of an expert who can save us from breaching decorum. I’m 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).

In addition to having the usual tour benefits (someone else figuring out train tickets and hotel bookings for us), we’re 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 “rules doula.”

Everywhere we go, Jane pauses, gathers our small group into a huddle so she doesn’t have to raise her voice (rude) and explains the local conduct. There’s a lot of minutiae, and it’s often not intuitive.

For example, there are vending machines everywhere, selling a range of things from hot coffee to frozen foods, but it’s impolite to eat on the street. It’s 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’s imperative to stand on the left side of the escalator; in Osaka, it’s the right side. And when we’re 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’m thrilled to discover that our hotel has a semi-public onsen (hot springs bath), and I scrupulously follow Jane’s instructions. Onsens are for communal soaking, not cleansing, so it’s important to wash first. I silently remove my clothes and take a shower, sitting on the small stool provided and making sure I don’t splash anyone else, before easing into the slightly effervescent bath.

But 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 — strictly forbidden.

I sit, paralyzed, torn between the busybody urge to tell her she’s 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’t stay long. And while I don’t 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.