Emperor Yomei, ruler of Japan in the 6th century, was dying. Hopeful that Buddhism, a new religion recently arrived from Korea, could cure his ailments, he ordered the construction of an elaborate temple to show his devotion. Despite the fact that he died shortly thereafter, his wife and son spent the next 20 years completing the project, which strikes me as awfully nice of them.

Horyuji was drastically different from every other temple we went to, even before we got there. For one thing, it takes a half-hour bus ride through fields and tiny townships to get there. So it wasn't mobbed with tourists like the other places.

Horyuji, you see, is the only surviving temple from the era in which Nara was the capital of Japan. Thus it's not easily accessible like all the Kyoto and Tokyo monuments. The fact that it's still standing, 1300 years later, is nearly incomprehensible. It's the oldest wooden building in the world, and believe me, it commands respect.

It's hard to explain why this, of all places, is the temple I'd most recommend making the pilgrimage to see. It's not covered in gold. It's not guarded by cool statues. It doesn't have its own lake or elaborately landscaped garden or even a nice view.

And you know what? It doesn't need 'em.

To stand on the sandy ground in the shadow of these immense pagodas, the wood bleached to a dull slate-gray by centuries of sunlight, is to touch the edge of history.

There were no loudspeakers, no shops selling snacks. Visitors instinctively spoke in a hushed voice. Monks scurried around corners, performing their caretaking duties.

To say it was like another world wouldn't do it justice. Prince Shotoku, son of Yomei, was instrumental in spreading Buddhism across the land, intermingling its beliefs with Japan's animist Shintoism, which in turn changed the form of Japanese government forever.

That's whose temple we've just wandered through.