Convenience creates its own patrons: just as demand for a new product is created via
advertisement, that sudden craving, that unforeseen hankering may rear its not-that-ugly head
all of a sudden, in a city paved to saturation with supermarkets of all scales.
Be it competition on prices, a carefully differentiated range of goods or the air-conditioned sanctuary on offer, more often than not one finds himself inside a mini-market or convenience store without even perceiving the decision process taking place in his own head.
For those of the ethylic persuasion it may have been booze, while those provided with a whole set of sweet teeth shall be drawn by the endless iteration of kashi-pan, sweet buns in a cornucopia of often daring fillings and toppings.
Whatever the reason may be, it is definitely the superfluous that is longed for, accompanied by
the sense of unfulfillment consumerism rests upon: that feeling which have one listlessly bump from aisle to aisle, like a shark in an always-too-small aquarium pursuing an ever unfocused prey.
To pace this wandering along the stations of inconspicuous consumption, the background sonic texture is an interpolation of j-muzak and the machine-like formulas of politeness store clerks
carpet-bomb customers with.
For the first-time visitor of Japan these may be amusing, a slightly extended stay in the country will then contribute to make the ubiquitous manners-mantra quite annoying to most foreign ears.
It is only when living steadily here that this mechanical and purely vocal urbanity eventually
settles into one's nervous system: suffices for a foreign resident to briefly visit his home-country
to notice how much all those over-zealous "welcome", "thank you" and "please, come again"s
are suddenly missed.
While in Japan though one hardly notices the clerks looping through this cultivated routine, it takes some extra effort by one of the cashiers, a more personal take on this mandatory chanting of pleasantries, to draw the attention of the absent-minded customer.
My back to the register, eyes frantically looking for the discounted goods, a high-pitched chirping
of super-polite and formal salutations shakes me from the cheapo shopping trance.
Magical creatures of the woods seem to have a hard time making ends meet, it occurs to me,
if a fairy is working the late shift at a convenience store. More likely than that, some high-school
girl is practicing her cartoon-grade cuteness skills while earning some pocket money on top of it.
Face the register now and reality appears to be suffering a case of very poor dubbing: a barely teenage voice lip-synched by a woman who looks well on her way into her fifties.
Working the register has one's hands become sore, swollen and red but this doesn't manage to cast a shadow on her bright smile. She is fast, efficient and polite: were it not for the eerily squeaky voice she would have been quite the incarnation of Japanese cashier etiquette.
Lest this woman ends up being thought of as a freakish specimen, it must be stressed how changing voice register is very common practice in everyday life here. Men too will climb a few tones up the pentagram when talking on the phone, the locals maintain it makes the voice more understandable, while women pitch-shift in order to boost cuteness and femininity, sometimes with undesired results akin to the ones mentioned before.
On the workplace too the voice changes according to the rank of the addressee: the manager and the temp will hear a notably different intonation coming from the very same employee.
Is this due to the relational nature of the Japanese language itself, or to the dichotomy between tatemae (public stance) and honne (true feelings) which permeates all of Japanese social life,
I couldn't say.
It seems like in every Japanese person there is a little bit of an actor though, promptly into
character whenever social life demands.
Change of perspective and it is me now manning the register: sore, swollen and red hands notwithstanding I greet and thank each and every customer in full compliance with local etiquette.
The high-pitched middle-aged clerk this time a customer, she puts a way overfilled basket of groceries beside the cashier, waiting for the barcodes to complete their procession towards the
final check.
A bright, serene smile beaming from her face, the size and nature of her shopping suggests she is a mother and wife planning the family's next few meals. Her voice, though acute, moves into a more regular, adult-woman-like range; her kindness and friendliness unchanged show how her working persona isn't then that far from her real everyday self.
Overthink cultural differences and you end up overlooking the people around you, I tell myself as she heads back home leaving a heart-warming "thank you" behind.
I hold tight to that warmth and try to infuse it in my greetings to the customer next in line.
