I ran across this narrative from a trip to Japan a few years ago and thought it would fit in with this blog:
The first thing you notice about Japan is the all the people are Japanese. I suppose there’s no way to prevent this, unless you had the mind to import foreigners for the sake of variety. Personally, I don’t mind being the odd man out. But I do feel a little self-conscious at times, and whenever they look at me then whisper among themselves I wonder what faux pas I have just committed. More often than not, I think it is good-natured amusement, either at my very presence, or occasionally at my presumption of trying to fit in, whether it be eating the indigenous foods or struggling through the confusion of mass transit.
Fortunately, the Japanese are unfailingly polite and considerate. Their culture is ideally suited to the service industry, and Japanese hotels are the finest in the world. It is a matter of extreme embarrassment if a Japanese person is not able to perform a requested task, and they are willing to go to almost unimaginable lengths to help you. They are embarrassed if their English isn’t sufficient to help you, and will then search for someone else who is more fluent. Several times I asked for help from strangers in a train station, only to have them escort me through the entire passage. And had not I put on an air of false confidence, I suspect they would have accompanied me on the train to my intended destination, even if they were bound in an entirely different direction.
I suppose that if you wanted to drive a Japanese crazy you would ask them to assist you in an impossible task, like directions to a city that doesn’t exist, or to please bring me eggs with the yolk hard but the whites runny. This would be a cruel joke which I would never undertake, but I do think the very notion is a credit to the generosity and helpfulness of the people.
The Japanese are an honest and trustworthy people, by and large. They tend to follow the rules, and expect others to do the same. As a result, I too was on my best behavior. If a sign said not to walk, I didn’t, mainly to avoid embarrassing some innocent who would have to correct my malfeasance.
This natural honesty was a godsend as I dealt in matters of commerce. Unlike most denominations in the free world, the Japanese yen converts to the dollar at the most extreme of ratios—about 123 to 1. As a result, everything sounded expensive, and converting the value of yen to dollars in my head requires a degree of mathematical acumen that I haven’t held since junior high. For instance, a cab fare cost me 3500 yen, which seemed expensive even for New York, and I was sure the driver was taking advantage of my ignorance until I ciphered that it was only about $28.
Their paper currency is pretty straightforward, but the coins are hard to figure out. Most of them make sense, with the yen denomination on the coin. I think others are intended to be something of a mystery, with no number. Some have a hole in the middle, which I never figured out. However, if the amount needed for a transaction was a matter of coinage (the largest coin is 500 yen), I would just hold out my hand with a pocketful of change and they would take out exactly what they needed. And I never once doubted their integrity.
There is no tipping in Japan. Now in the United States tipping is a routine element of the service economy—not only because it’s inherent in the compensation scheme, but also as an incentive to provide good service. Think about the places where they don’t get tipped and the erratic levels of service you find—such as at fast food counters. Nobody cares about the quality of my service experience at Burger King. They don’t smile and ask me where I’m from, or how I like my fish fillet cooked, and they never leave me mints or little notes like “Have a Nice Day! Wanda” on the back of my receipt. No, that’s because there is no incentive for them to do so. They know that no matter what they do to the average French fry, no matter what kind of notes or comments on how cute the kids are or even if they throw in an extra patty on the hamburger, they are not going to get a tip.
This is something of a digression, but very relevant. In contrast, the Japanese view excellent service as a matter of course. To receive a tip for their efforts would suggest that you expected something less than the utmost of courtesy and consideration. And while no one wrote “Have a Nice Day” on my receipt, they did wrap up every purchase quite nicely and were always most accommodating to my every need.
The Japanese eat things that strike fear in the hearts of average Americans—eels, octopus, jellyfish, sharks and the like. Surely the average human would prefer to avoid these creatures altogether. It is one thing to face ones fear, but quite another to eat them—a most perverse and savage form of revenge.
Nevertheless, in my attempt to fit in, I tried a number of exotic foods. One such local specialty in Osaka is tokohaki (here I’m sure I am butchering the name), which is an octopus dumpling popular at public events, kind of like our hot dogs. Actually, there was all manner of octopus available on the street, including octopus chunks and octopus shish-kabob. Actually, the tokohaki was pretty tasty, once I got past the idea that I was eating a chewy suction cup, something like having a rubber-tipped toy dart in your mouth. But with a little dipping sauce, it was rather nice.
The Japanese people come in two varieties—sleight and sumo wrestler. I can understand the former. Were I forced to subsist on eel and octopus, I would be thin as well. I suspect the sumo wrestlers have a different diet entirely, maybe Teriyaki Big Macs.
All the people there speak Japanese. I don’t blame them and would probably do the same if I was raised like they were. But I found it a difficult to language to learn. Nevertheless, they all speak it in the most natural of ways. Even the children. I suppose it never occurred to them to start their kids with an easier language, like English or French. I would like to have suggested that idea, but unfortunately no one understood anything I had to say.
Language was certainly a barrier to communication. But I got over that in short order, mainly by not talking to anyone. However, I found my inability to read Japanese quite a handicap during my day of sightseeing in Kyoto. You see, not only do they speak the language almost exclusively, but they write everything in Japanese as well. Further, it is customary to write signs above the portals of their homes. And to completely confound the issue, they being a very private people, the merchants generally cover the windows of their stores, so you can’t see inside.
As a result, I was never quite sure what kind of place I was walking into. All the characters looked the same to me, the doors were often shut, and so I took to simply walking in. In the process I met some nice people, many of whom happened to be shopkeepers and restaurateurs, and the rest of whom were generally polite to the rather surprising intrusion of this curious American into their home.
I also accidentally found myself in a couple of Japanese taverns (they are very small, about the size of a pottery shop!), several nice artist studios, a silk shop and all manner of places I had no intention of entering or desire to stay. Of course, given my overwhelming desire to be polite, extricating myself from these situations was difficult. The owner would come up to me as I entered, saying something unintelligible in Japanese. On the spot, I felt it incumbent to make some gesture besides an about face, and so I would walk around a little bit, look intently and the goods, nod politely and leave. I still feel badly about disappointing them, but I was not about to buy a scarf just to be polite.
I would like to go back someday, maybe with an interpreter. There are a few things I’d like to ask. Like how they make those plastic plates of food that are in every window. And what sumo wrestlers eat.
