IRASSHAIMASE!
Regardless of which establishment you have entered, be it the reception desk of a business, the waiting area of a restaurant or the foyer of a supermarket, you will hear this phrase. Roughly translated it means 'how may I help you' / 'come on in' and, luckily enough for the perplexed tourist who hasn't managed to grasp the local language, it needs no answer. A simple smile and nod of the head will suffice.
The weekly shop is a daunting task in any circumstance. Not many people would admit to enjoying spending a considerable portion of their day heaving a large metal vehicle with the week's food around a brightly-lit, overcrowded maze with the mythological minotaur sat at a bleeping machine and asking if you would like help with your packing. Take this familiar situation and add to it the fact that you can't ask where something is because nobody speaks your language, you can't read the flavours or ingredients on the packets and so have to shop completely based on the picture, you can only just about remember the way home, and the Japanese world and his wife has chosen this particular hour of this particular day to also do their weekly shop. Welcome to my world.
The fruit and veg aisle in an Asian supermarket should be a tourist attraction in its own right. Similar to the Western sport of boxing, two fully-grown adults will tear each other to bits over who takes home a particularly prime Pak Choi. All I want to do is find the food I recognise and move on, but sadly that is not to be; instead I have to stand behind the matriarchal family while they load up THREE baskets of cabbage and bean sprouts and bicker about the price. To pass the time I engage in a staring contest with the Japanese toddler who can't seem to understand why a white man is in his country.
After refusing to pay the equivalent of around £35 for a single, solitary melon I accept the fact I'm never going to have fruit again and after deftly grabbing a pack of onions, I make my way to the next aisle. It's nice to know as I slowly veer into the shelf full of jars that the autonomy of shopping trolley wheels is universal. My eyes fruitlessly scan the shelves for anything I recognise so I begin to base my purchases solely on colour/font and the artistic quality of the picture.
Regardless of which establishment you have entered, be it the reception desk of a business, the waiting area of a restaurant or the foyer of a supermarket, you will hear this phrase. Roughly translated it means 'how may I help you' / 'come on in' and, luckily enough for the perplexed tourist who hasn't managed to grasp the local language, it needs no answer. A simple smile and nod of the head will suffice.
The weekly shop is a daunting task in any circumstance. Not many people would admit to enjoying spending a considerable portion of their day heaving a large metal vehicle with the week's food around a brightly-lit, overcrowded maze with the mythological minotaur sat at a bleeping machine and asking if you would like help with your packing. Take this familiar situation and add to it the fact that you can't ask where something is because nobody speaks your language, you can't read the flavours or ingredients on the packets and so have to shop completely based on the picture, you can only just about remember the way home, and the Japanese world and his wife has chosen this particular hour of this particular day to also do their weekly shop. Welcome to my world.
The fruit and veg aisle in an Asian supermarket should be a tourist attraction in its own right. Similar to the Western sport of boxing, two fully-grown adults will tear each other to bits over who takes home a particularly prime Pak Choi. All I want to do is find the food I recognise and move on, but sadly that is not to be; instead I have to stand behind the matriarchal family while they load up THREE baskets of cabbage and bean sprouts and bicker about the price. To pass the time I engage in a staring contest with the Japanese toddler who can't seem to understand why a white man is in his country.
After refusing to pay the equivalent of around £35 for a single, solitary melon I accept the fact I'm never going to have fruit again and after deftly grabbing a pack of onions, I make my way to the next aisle. It's nice to know as I slowly veer into the shelf full of jars that the autonomy of shopping trolley wheels is universal. My eyes fruitlessly scan the shelves for anything I recognise so I begin to base my purchases solely on colour/font and the artistic quality of the picture.
'No idea what it is or how to cook it, but the dragon on the front looks content so it must be nutritious and fulfilling.'
I'm also limited in my choice of foods (as if the other restrictions weren't choking enough) by the fact that I only have a one-ring burner to cook with. Everything must either be fried or boiled, so eggs are great! There is a microwave but again the language barrier defeats me.
Eventually, after meandering slowly through each aisle staring ignorantly at each product and generally getting in peoples' way ('sumimasen' - 'excuse me') I found some tins with pictures I recognised and stocked up on mackerel, tuna, sweetcorn and pineapple. I have no idea what to do with them, but it's nice to know what it is you are buying.
On to the fridges and in this cold section we find a tranquil peace. Even the most eurocentric mind, ignorant of any language save their own, would struggle to get lost in the meat and fish section of a supermarket. My eternal thanks go to Ralph Wiley for inventing Cling Film. In this, the final aisle, I was able to pick up chicken breast, diced steak, bread and eggs, and so begins the basis of my self-catered life.
As I tentatively made my way to the checkout, I passed what can only be described as a godsend. There in a small refrigerated unit sat ready-wrapped single portions of noodles for the equivalent of about 10p. A staple food and much needed source of carbohydrates had been found for an unbelievably affordable price. All I had to do now was find the things to go with it.
Japanese shopkeepers have a habit of endlessly talking at you while serving. They must surely be able to tell from my pale skin and blank face that I understand nothing of what they say, yet still they talk. In a wonderful show of Japan's unsurpassed mastery of technology I am passed from one machine to another. The smiling/talking cashier scans my shopping on one computer then puts it all back in the same basket and motions me to anoher bank of computers where I insert my reciept from his till, and pay the designated amount at this one. On the upside, these are automated so I have no guilt in offloading ALL my coins to pay the bill.
All-in-all, although overwhelming in places, my venture has ultimately been a success. My weekly shop came to ¥1745, the equivalent of around £16.
Sayonara!
Simon Birkmyre
Nisshin, Japan
That sounds truly horrific, Simon! Especially the payment method - we all know how I feel about self-service checkouts, after all...
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