DrSenbei on the Your-Japan Blog Network

Last time I lived in Japan on the Japan Adventure Program, my friend Mike used to keep tally on a whiteboard of Him VS Japan. Whenever one got the better of the other he’d add a tick mark. Get owned by the konbini clerk because you don’t understand that she’s asking to throw your burger into the microwave? Point, Japan. Remind the prick working behind the counter at RIGHT-ON that you speak Japanese and would like a point card like everyone else? Point, Mike. Think your train is stopped to change tracks when actually it’s getting ready to head back to your departure point? Well played Japan.

Last time the odds were unfairly stacked against us. Who knew that trains moved backwards and convenience stores do weird crap like heat up your food and that every store ever has a point card system? Well, we all know now. Look out Japan; this time around I’m going to shove all that BS into your snaggle-toothed grin.

Is what I’d say if there was any BS, but there’s not, really. People are generally very accommodating if they know you speak Japanese, so if you make small talk with the clerks it puts them at ease and opens the door for great service. There’s still miscommunication, but nothing as bad as going to the same shop for half a year without being offered frequent shopper coupons simply because the register clerk didn’t want to deal with the inconveniant possibility that you don’t understand Japanese. Everything was moving along just fine until the McDonald’s reopened.

The Katamachi McDonald’s has had its dining area closed off for the past month or so for remodeling. The new design is swank, with a glass wall separating the smoking and non-smoking sections. I had just bought “Ningen Shikkaku” (”No Longer Human” in English, highly recommended!) by Dazai Osamu and was raring to tear into it over some Mc Coffee when asininity struck.

The clerk asks me if this will be for here or to go, I tell her I don’t need a tray so don’t sweat it. Now this draws blanks from the automatons in America so you better believe I get slack-jawed responses in Japan on a regular basis. Finger hovering hesitantly over the register, she watches me, eyes quivering.

I ask for a hot coffee and she continues to stare at me with the same puzzled expression. I feel a little embarrassed but figure my Japanese is just not on the ball today and point at the picture menu. Yeah, one of these, a hot coffee. Small.

It looks like I’ve made my point and we complete our transaction. I wait, feeling slightly dejected as she hands out the order in front me, and watch as she begins to fill up a small Coke. My gaze falls back to the picture menu; The Coke is right under the Coffee. I wince. She brings me my Coke and I play coy. Can I have cream and sugar? She gives me a look like she just bit into a curdled crepe and hastily spins around to fix my order. I feel like such a tool. Was my Japanese that bad? Did my Whiteness frighten her deaf?

As I contemplated our communication breakdown I hear her chattering to her co-worker about how to change the order in the register. Except they’re not speaking Japanese, they’re speaking Chinese. I’m not surprised—I know some of the Chinese exchange students in the area and they all work part time jobs, though their Japanese ability is questionable. Here I had come full circle, from being linguistically spanked by clerks to administering to linguistic spankings. I don’t know if I should feel vindicated or villainous.

2nd floor emergency escape rope

One thing’s for sure: The redesigned dining area on the 2^nd floor lacks a fire escape, so if similar oral abuse drives the Chinese workers crazy and they blow up the place by throwing blocks of ice into the grease fryers, I’m gonna have to McClain my way to safety. Puchi Bruce, eat your homuncular heart out!

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