Wow - what a great question! I don't know the actual number, but what I remember most is the variety and specialness in each one.
As I reflected more on the question, two wonderful descriptions come to mind, no matter the art style.
The first is from Richard Strozzi Heckler in his book Holding the Center: Sanctuary in a Time of Confusion.
"...layers of memory that take me through thirty years of training in dojos spread over a dozen countries. They've ranged from the traditional dojos of Japan with meticulously hand-crafted designs and highly polished wood to converted garages that were so small you had to wait against the wall for your turn. Dojos whose surfaces ranged from the classical fiber tatami mats to wooden floors, tire filings under canvas covers, rugs over cement, straw mattresses, and one that was laid out on hard-packed dirt beneath a flowering mango tree.
There were dojos dedicated to preserving the traditions of ancient fighting systems with the air of formality and erudition that one finds in the archives of great universities. Others were word-of-mouth dojos that collected tough guys and those in the profession of arms-special operations soldiers, secret service agents, bodyguards, law enforcement tactical units, street fighters looking to test themselves. In the small changing rooms you could hear the sound of boot knives handguns being unstrapped.
In one particular dojo I was unexpectedly gripped at the entrance by the luminosity that emanated from it. It was a work of art in its physical beauty but it was visceral feeling of the sacred that moved me. That evening a profound mood of reverence was present in the training. I felt like a small child holding a rare and priceless vase, and an emotionally charged sense of responsibility guided me. As I bowed out at the end of class, tears filled my eyes. I felt connected not only to those who had made this place possible, but to something weightless and eternal. In this dojo I understood the words of the poet, John Keats, when he said, 'Beauty is truth and truth is beauty.' And there was everything in between."
The second is from Dave Lowry in his book Persimmon Wind: A Martial Artist's Journey in Japan.
"The community dojo nearest Sensei's house was called the Genyokan. It was about four miles away by foot or car, along a narrow prefectural road, then another three-quarters of a mile after that by a seriously vertical hike. The first time I visited it, before I'd even reached the dojo itself I had already decided that if any martial artist came to Japan looking for the ideal training hall, the dojo of his dreams, there would be no way he could be disappointed in the Genyokan.
More gracefully rendered in Japanese than in an English translation, the kanji characters for 'Genyokan' mean 'the hall of the source of evening's twilight.' It was an entirely appropriate name if ever there was one. I am certain that only the most determined or lucky or badly strayed beams of sunlight could ever have filtered their way through the evergreen canopy that enveloped the dojo. The forest around it was so intense that it was quite invisible from no more than fifty feet away from its front gate. At that distance, there were only the great round pillars of cryptomeria trunks, their piney scent tinting the shadowy, motionless air. The dojo was approached by a path of set stones that ran through the gate, its wood whitened with age. There was no fence, only this gate with its thick oak panels and above it, a Shinto torii arch. When the gates were closed, so was the dojo. Opened, they signalled that training was going on and members passed through them to the dojo structure itself.
The Genyokan was built in the shindenzukuri style of architecture, as are most traditional dojo in Japan. The walls were low, topped with wide-eaved roofs. The roof was hipped and fluted upward at the corners where it met the underhang. Roof-tiles, once shiny blue were now a rich azure that showed through here and there where the moss and fallen rusty cryptomeria needles had not completely covered it. The outer walls were creamy plaster and supported by a framework of dark, age-stained wood. There were no windows, just ventilation openings set high up on the walls and covered with wooden shutters. When the shutters were slid back, there were thin slats that protected the windows and kept birds out. These openings were also far up enough along the walls to frustrate any view in from the outside. In the old days, matters in the dojo were private. It would not do for an outsider, possibly a spy or enemy, to learn the secrets of the arts being taught within. This concern for secrecy is reflected in the architecture of all traditional dojo."
What is the best memory you have of training or the most unique dojo you've trained at?
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