J-BLOGGERS - jibtv

By Martin Faynot


        Around Kanda-Jimbocho: a gyoza restaurant with (only) a few people in line. Like most people I hate waiting in line, but in Japan it is part of the culture.  For any famous video game or new console hardware, people would line up even from the day before it's launch. In front of restaurants, some people start to stand in line... even if they don't know anything about the restaurant. It's like "Oh, people are getting in line! This restaurant must be famous, I should stand in line too!"

By Emily Connor

Customer service in Japan is phenomenal.

I've never really been anywhere in the world besides the US, Canada, and Japan-- but let me tell you, I highly doubt that any other country in the world can beat Japan when it comes to the etiquette of service workers. Staff at every store greet customers with a proper 'irasshaimase' and a smile, be it truly sincere or not. Everyone's helpful, prompt, and polite to the degree that it can almost feel as if you're communicating with a robot instead of a living breathing being in  certain situations. I'm astonished. No matter how long I live in Japan, it never fails to impress me.

Back in the US, if the barista at your local cafe has had a bad day you will, without a doubt, be able to tell. Maybe you'll be given some sass, be given the stink-eye, have some spit mixed into the bottom of your cafe mocha or be told a sob story-- no matter what it is, you will in one way or another know. Or in the case of the exact opposite scenario in which your barista's sister has just gotten married and she just can't keep her mouth closed and make your latte as she's fumbling with her apron in search for the wedding photos to accompany her heartwarming story, fear not as something like this would never, ever happen in Japan. Any ounce of personality or individuality is automatically squeezed out of every person as they enter the workplace, and you will be greeted with almost the exact same 'irasshaimase' and 'mata okoshi kudasaimase' in every convenience store in Japan.

One of my favorite examples of amazing customer service in Japan is when I was staying at a hotel in Osaka, and there was a pretty suspicious sewage smell coming from the hotel room as soon as I checked in. A bit weary that there might be a sewage leak, I called the front desk and told the receptionist about the smell, and within two minutes the actual receptionist was at the door to my room, examining the bathroom and almost breaking a nail to rip the top of the toilet off so that she could see if anything was out of place. Did you read that? The actual receptionist came and checked out my room-- not one of the cleaning service people, but the little receptionist woman came and sacrificed her manicure in order to examine the plumbing mechanics of the hotel room. After confirming that something was a bit fishy, she apologized profusely and upgraded me to an even better room within five minutes, personally toting my luggage. In your average business class hotel in the US, just waiting for someone to come and check out a problem in a hotel room usually takes at least thirty minutes and getting a better room would probably take another twenty minutes of negotiation. Not in Japan, though. Everything is proficient and done properly the first time.

There are times when I miss the informal ways of Americans, though. Back in the US people might not always be as proficient, but a lot of people really bring their own personality to the workplace which can be memorable and fun. Instead of reciting prices out loud like in Japan, cashiers in America will give you their opinion about the stuff that you're buying, be it annoying or not. I'll never forget the time when I was buying some malted milk balls at the supermarket in Florida and the woman working the register froze in mid-scan, looked me in the eyes and said in her Southern drawl: ''I just can't get enough of these things, they're soooo good''. I crave knowing useless information about complete strangers sometimes; don't we all? There is no denying that customer service in Japan is top-notch, though. You really have to experience it for yourself to even begin to grasp how phenomenal it is. 

By Kevin Cooney

I am not a voyeur.  Neither am I an eavesdropper.  I don't listen in on others. I have never been a peeping tom.  I do not, generally speaking, interest myself in the lives of others.  But in Tokyo where you can't throw a rice ball without hitting somebody, it is nearly impossible not to be acutely aware of everything being said nearby.  Largely because, in Tokyo, nearby is about twenty centimeters... at best.  It's a great feat of design that fits one hundred coffee tables in to a space meant for 50.  If this were the US, most people couldn't fit between the tables to get to their seats without moving furniture.  But the Japanese are, well... aerodynamic.
    On the train you are almost literally sitting in the lap of the conversation next to you.  My first few years in Tokyo I was but a lapdog listening to the musical "Sou desu ne." ("Yeah, right.") and "Sou ka?" ("Really") going on all about me.  I would catch words here and there and imagine it must be something terribly interesting they were discussing.  After all, there were a lot of "Sugokunai" ("Isn't it fantastic.") being bandied about.   
    Now I'm somewhat conversant in the local lingo and I've discovered, no... it's not actually that fantastic.  Ninety five percent or so of conversations I've overheard are exactly the same banal and formulaic conversations I'd learned to tune out on the New York city subway, or the London Tube, or in any crowded hutch of my fellow english speakers.  
    I've learned now to tune out all the conversations around me in Japanese, just as I once had to do sitting in the orchestra seats of a vapid English conversation playing with gusto.  I can squelch out either language and find some small Zen bit of peace even in the most cramped and chatty of situations. That is with one exception.  When it is only one language or the other being spoken nearby.
    Sitting in a Tokyo cafe, trying desperately to focus on the words coming from my Japanese friends mouth, all I can hear is the conversation by two English speakers on the other side of the room.   I'm really really really trying not to listen to them but it enters my brain-space anyway.  My eyes dart over and they catch me looking.  Now they know I'm listening.  I try to be extra engaged in my own conversation, which my Japanese friend reads as me being overly caffeinated.  I try to focus, but the English words keep coming.
    Is that an Australian accent.  No... New Zealand maybe.  What? I just missed the last two minutes of what my friend was saying.  I take a chance with "Sou desu ne." He looks at me quizzically. I should have said "Sou ka?"  I look to see if the English speakers still think I'm listening.  Doh! They caught me again.  Their stare says "Why in a room of a hundred people are you listening to us?"  Because, I can't filter out more than one language at a time!  I'm not eavesdropping, I swear!  They see the guilty expression on my face.  
    So I ask my friend if he's in the mood for Chinese.

By Emily Connor


I recall someone once warning me about this before I ever moved to Japan...

''The Japanese love mayonnaise. It's on everything.''

And while it's not on everything, and not everyone in this country is a fan of the condiment, I do see it appearing in the strangest of places. On potato chips, omelets, chicken, breads, okonomiyaki-- it's even commonly found on pizza! There is a lot of mayonnaise in Japan. I think that mayonnaise to the Japanese is like Ranch dressing to Americans-- then again, a lot of people back home like it, too.

I never was a fan of mayonnaise. Not much of a fan of the substitute low-calorie alternatives, either. Not even the vegan version of mayonnaise. I wouldn't refuse to eat it, but I wouldn't ever put it on anything voluntarily. That was until I moved to Japan.

Let me tell you-- Japanese mayonnaise is delicious. Fantastic, even. Superb. It comes in small plastic bottles with a happy little anime character on it, and it's great. Not even comparable to your average American mayonnaise. Maybe this is because food tends to be more natural in Japan. Maybe it's because the produce here is fresher, and not everything is soaked in chemicals before hitting the supermarket shelves. I really have no idea, but let me tell you-- after trying the stuff, you can't blame the Japanese for loving mayonnaise.

On the news a few weeks ago I saw a special about some new restaurant in Tokyo that specializes in mayonnaise-based cuisine. While I can't say that I'll be visiting the rumored restaurant anytime soon, I can kind of understand the appeal of it. I can also imagine it being featured on some sort of FoodNetwork television program.

This blog post probably makes me sound really strange. Think of me as you'd like! Come to Japan, try the stuff for yourself, and then try to tell me that you don't understand my feelings.

By Anna Kunnecke

    It will be Girl's Day soon, or The Festival of Princesses.  Koto music plinks through every department store, and sandwiched between holidays requiring the purchase of sugary goods we get one that involves a set of traditional ohimesama dolls that ring in at four figures.  (And still plenty of sugar: diamond-shaped rice cakes, arare puffed rice, and sugar stars in pink, green, yellow, and white.)  But it's a sweet day, when girls are honored and made much of, and there is merriment and a great excess of pink. 
    Now in general, I'm not a fan of the pink.  I resent that myself and my girlchild are habitually "hosed down in pepto-bismol," to quote from Steel Magnolias, and the branding aspect is crass and, more urgently, ugly.  I resent the mind-meld that the prettified Princesses exert over our girls.  (How about these perky woodland creatures?  No, she wants the sparkly lady in the pink dress.)  I don't mind the ball-gowns.  I mind the vacant eyes and the fluttering eyelashes.  I definitely mind that in their own movies they sit prettily, pouting, passive and helpless, until some strong savior arrives.  I mind that there is instant love, and a quick marriage, and I mind how the story always shamelessly ends there, because it's hard to write a good second installment about a teenager who runs off with the first beefcake to make her heart go pitter-pat.  The makers of the pink rot have recently made some attempts to make the stories slightly less patronizing, but as the mother of a smart and feisty girl, this stuff sticks in my craw.  
    So I am watching Girl's Day here with great interest.  Maybe it will be a subversive symbol of the power of women; after all, that's how they do it here.  No out-and-out revolt, just a firm and gentle chokehold.  But here is the thing.  Every display of Princess dolls comes as a matched set.  You don't get a Princess without a Prince.  No matter how many tiers you add (the full set sits on a small staircase) of noblemen and ladies-in-waiting and musicians and whatnot, you always come out even on the top.  Now this could be lovely, see, a nice balance, yin and yang.  There is only one problem.  That princess perched there, swathed in her hundred layers of kimono, couldn't vote.  She couldn't hold property, or choose her husband, or pass anything on to her children.  Recent fictional imaginings of what it might be like to be an actual Princess have included depression, melancholia, catatonia, and suicidal longings.  They're fiction, but they're pulled straight from the tabloids.  This is what we're glorifying for our daughters?  No thank you. 
    When I was in a fit of fury about the pink passive princesses, a wise and seasoned mother told me not to worry.  She predicted: "The princesses will pass through your house like dysentery."  I trust that she is correct.  And in the meantime, we're countering the pink with plenty of red, purple, green and gold--regal colors all.