I'm 23 years old. My husband and I are at a dinner hosted by my Japanese boss. He invited another Japanese colleague and his family. The eight of us, three couples and two children, sit around the dining room table dipping into pots of boiling stew. I remember this night vividly for what happened next.
The little boy, maybe four years old, burned his tongue and started to cry. His father scolds him saying, "Stop crying. Boys don't cry." Immediately, I react. Spouting off righteous 23 year old rhetoric I just learned during my four years at university about how "boys should be allowed to express their feelings" and "we shouldn't stifle our children" I go on about how this boy should be allowed to "express his feelings." My boss's wife shoots me a look. It says, "You don't get it. Shut up." I do.
Thinking back on this now, I'm proud of the fact I knew to keep my mouth shut after being given the look that told me I overstepped my bounds. I'm also embarrassed by my arrogance. Convinced what I learned at school about what is right, I superimposed an idealistic way of thinking onto another family's cultural values. Shame on me.
It's this notion of "real men don't cry" so prevalent here in Japan that has been on my mind over the past six months. To date, more than ever before, I have seen Japanese men cry, choke up, and lose control over their ability to keep their tears in check. Certainly, there has been plenty to cry about. Those whose lives are still affected by the tsunami, earthquake, and nuclear reactor fiasco still struggle to find ways to express their frustrations, dissatisfaction, despair, and grief. The rest of the country, feeling helpless, continue to watch and rewatch television footage, hoping new ideas on how to help will emerge on cue.
Today, I'm less concerned about whether real men should or should not cry, especially in a country like Japan where strong men are considered stoic and silent. What's more important is that this pain, the basis for all these tears still exists in Japan, and will continue to exist for many, many months. It's not up to me to tell men whether it's okay to cry or not. I will share their pain if they let me. If they don't, I will stand by and let them shed their tears, hoping they know with me, their tears are safe.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Friday, September 23, 2011
Dear God, I hope you saw what I ate today.
Humor me a moment. Please.
I spent a long time in Iwate in the spring shortly after the tsunami hit almost 300 miles of coastline in Japan. The memories I have will take a lifetime to tell. One memory, however, can be explained very quickly.
Since returning from Japan in late-May, I have not eaten fish. To clarify, I have not eaten fish that stare back at me. I eat sushi and sashimi. Hands down. No questions asked. If it doesn't look like a fish I'm fine. Anything with a face, body, and tail, however, I have to skip. There's a reason for this. I saw, stepped on (guts spewing onto my boots), and smelled black, dead, rotten fish for months. These fish washed up into homes, on the street, on top of cars, inside of cars, and simply put, could not be avoided. Having seen and smelled these, eating anything that resembled these creatures has been a no-no. I just can't.
So, today as I made my way to the Ofunato Sanma (saury) Festival held at the foot of Tokyo Tower, sponsored by the City of Ofunato, attended by 12,000 people, I wondered how I would avoid having to partake in eating this one-foot long fish that resembled those dead things I stepped on months ago. I was pretty sure there would be no way to avoid having to eat one. I was right. (Not that this makes me happy, mind you.)
I ate it.
I avoided looking at the eye socket. I picked at it, not looking at how black it was. All this to say, Dear God, I really hope you saw what I ate today. And, if there is such a log as "good deeds done today" and "bad deeds done today" I hope you put a big gold star next to my "good deeds" column for the day.
Thanks.
I spent a long time in Iwate in the spring shortly after the tsunami hit almost 300 miles of coastline in Japan. The memories I have will take a lifetime to tell. One memory, however, can be explained very quickly.
Since returning from Japan in late-May, I have not eaten fish. To clarify, I have not eaten fish that stare back at me. I eat sushi and sashimi. Hands down. No questions asked. If it doesn't look like a fish I'm fine. Anything with a face, body, and tail, however, I have to skip. There's a reason for this. I saw, stepped on (guts spewing onto my boots), and smelled black, dead, rotten fish for months. These fish washed up into homes, on the street, on top of cars, inside of cars, and simply put, could not be avoided. Having seen and smelled these, eating anything that resembled these creatures has been a no-no. I just can't.
So, today as I made my way to the Ofunato Sanma (saury) Festival held at the foot of Tokyo Tower, sponsored by the City of Ofunato, attended by 12,000 people, I wondered how I would avoid having to partake in eating this one-foot long fish that resembled those dead things I stepped on months ago. I was pretty sure there would be no way to avoid having to eat one. I was right. (Not that this makes me happy, mind you.)
I ate it.
Thanks.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
In defense of good manners
I will admit my bias upfront. Raised on books like "Good Manners Make People Nice To Know" and "What Do You Say Dear?" the importance, nay, insistence upon proper behavior and good manners was drilled into me from an early age. This means, unfortunately for me these days, I am finding myself more and more annoyed by the lack of said manners by those around me. Increasingly, I see behavior I can only shake my head to.
It's universal. Bad manners are not reserved for wealthy, fat, North Americans. To my shock, I am coming across Japanese who simply put, should be smacked once or twice, sent to their room with a copy of "What Do You Say Dear?" which they are expected to memorize before they can come join society again.
Case in point. I mentioned several months ago how Japanese taxi drivers personified the best in people here. I said they were polite, their cars impeccably clean, and knew how to toe the line between when to be chatty and when to to stay quiet. Allow me to back pedal. On my first day here several weeks ago, I lugged my four giant, heavy, suitcases into and out of a taxi, by myself as the driver stood next to the open trunk and watched. I didn't fare well. Up until this point, I had assistance with my bags. I barely had to lift any of them. This driver offered no assistance. Nothing. Nada. So shocked by this, I even forgot to ask for help. In the US, drivers would help put anything into the trunk regardless of whether the passenger was male or female. Do they do this because of tips? Perhaps. It's also expected. I will gladly tip to not throw my back out.
Then there's the men-first-always mentality. Standing in front of an elevator, five men come up behind me. They chat away as we all wait for the car to reach our floor. I'm the first in line, if there was actually a "line" per se. The doors open and from behind me the five men rush the door. I kid you not. No "ladies first" here. It's as if they were afraid the elevator had a mind of its own and if they didn't get in right away they were going to some how be left behind. They really rushed that door. I actually stood outside of the elevator, let the men go past me, looked at them with what I hoped was a "did you just do what I think you did?" look and then got in. I'm quite capable of being passive-aggressive. Yes. Did they get my point? Who knows.
This sense of "rushing" is also seen when getting onto trains. The doors open, the passengers get out, and in the past the queue waited to get on until everyone was off. Now there's barely a semblance of a queue and there's no real expectation that we are all to wait for the passengers' exit and then get on.
What's going on here? Seriously. What has happened to Japan? All this talk (accurate, mind you) about how orderly people were both during and after the earthquake on March 11th is hard to believe at times. Allow me to back pedal again. Yesterday's typhoon hit Tokyo right at rush hour. From around 5:00pm until midnight, millions of Tokyoites cram trains, subways, buses, and taxis for their commute home. Last night, the trains stopped running. Stations were crammed with people waiting. There was no rioting. No serious complaining. I was one of several hundred who stood in line for several hours waiting for a taxi. So, see. People here are capable of being patient. Of letting others go first. Sometimes. What used to be "always" is not just "sometimes." Where has this change come from?
To prove that good manners are a thing of the past here in Japan, I offer these photos.
They are all over train stations in Tokyo.
That these posters
need to be put up in the first place, this is a shocker. Then again, it's not. I've seen such behavior over and over. I'm saddened. This bothers me. I'm accustomed to Americans behaving badly. From the man who asked why I don't mention him in my blog to the screaming matches at political rallies to those who feel the need to cut others off in traffic to the utterances of "Do you know who I am?", America is, unfortunately, filled with people who believe their time is more important than yours. That those who share this sentiment now also are on the rise here in Japan, this is truly sad.
There are some things not worth importing, people.
It's universal. Bad manners are not reserved for wealthy, fat, North Americans. To my shock, I am coming across Japanese who simply put, should be smacked once or twice, sent to their room with a copy of "What Do You Say Dear?" which they are expected to memorize before they can come join society again.
Case in point. I mentioned several months ago how Japanese taxi drivers personified the best in people here. I said they were polite, their cars impeccably clean, and knew how to toe the line between when to be chatty and when to to stay quiet. Allow me to back pedal. On my first day here several weeks ago, I lugged my four giant, heavy, suitcases into and out of a taxi, by myself as the driver stood next to the open trunk and watched. I didn't fare well. Up until this point, I had assistance with my bags. I barely had to lift any of them. This driver offered no assistance. Nothing. Nada. So shocked by this, I even forgot to ask for help. In the US, drivers would help put anything into the trunk regardless of whether the passenger was male or female. Do they do this because of tips? Perhaps. It's also expected. I will gladly tip to not throw my back out.
Then there's the men-first-always mentality. Standing in front of an elevator, five men come up behind me. They chat away as we all wait for the car to reach our floor. I'm the first in line, if there was actually a "line" per se. The doors open and from behind me the five men rush the door. I kid you not. No "ladies first" here. It's as if they were afraid the elevator had a mind of its own and if they didn't get in right away they were going to some how be left behind. They really rushed that door. I actually stood outside of the elevator, let the men go past me, looked at them with what I hoped was a "did you just do what I think you did?" look and then got in. I'm quite capable of being passive-aggressive. Yes. Did they get my point? Who knows.
This sense of "rushing" is also seen when getting onto trains. The doors open, the passengers get out, and in the past the queue waited to get on until everyone was off. Now there's barely a semblance of a queue and there's no real expectation that we are all to wait for the passengers' exit and then get on.
What's going on here? Seriously. What has happened to Japan? All this talk (accurate, mind you) about how orderly people were both during and after the earthquake on March 11th is hard to believe at times. Allow me to back pedal again. Yesterday's typhoon hit Tokyo right at rush hour. From around 5:00pm until midnight, millions of Tokyoites cram trains, subways, buses, and taxis for their commute home. Last night, the trains stopped running. Stations were crammed with people waiting. There was no rioting. No serious complaining. I was one of several hundred who stood in line for several hours waiting for a taxi. So, see. People here are capable of being patient. Of letting others go first. Sometimes. What used to be "always" is not just "sometimes." Where has this change come from?
To prove that good manners are a thing of the past here in Japan, I offer these photos.
They are all over train stations in Tokyo.
That these posters
need to be put up in the first place, this is a shocker. Then again, it's not. I've seen such behavior over and over. I'm saddened. This bothers me. I'm accustomed to Americans behaving badly. From the man who asked why I don't mention him in my blog to the screaming matches at political rallies to those who feel the need to cut others off in traffic to the utterances of "Do you know who I am?", America is, unfortunately, filled with people who believe their time is more important than yours. That those who share this sentiment now also are on the rise here in Japan, this is truly sad.
There are some things not worth importing, people.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
The green field of silence
I went back to Rikuzentakata for the first time since leaving Iwate in May. I chose not to go there when I returned in late June. At that time, I didn't need to see it. Ofunato was where I wanted to go. There, I left my past behind. Or, so I thought.
I'm with three very good people. They're all safe, and I can be myself with them. We have spent the last 48 hours laughing until we cry, and enjoying each other's company. They're all important to me. We were in Ofunato to cook for people living and volunteering there. Between trips to the supermarket to buy supplies, we drive through Ofunato to see how well the recovery process is going. I see their shock. It's palpable. Our laughter is gone. We're now serious, taking in destroyed buildings, boats washed up ashore, and the remnants of houses. We park the car near the Port of Ofunato. I point out the high tide that now comes ashore from under our feet as opposed to the shoreline. We're all again speechless.
"There used to be a house here," I say, pointing to the concrete foundation.
"How do you know?"
"Look." I point to the only piece of "furniture" left in the house. A commode. It sits naked, exposed, surrounded by a low concrete wall.
"Look next door." The only part of the house left is the one meter high stone fence. The name of the family is sealed into the stone pillar on the right on a porcelain plaque. More silence.
We head to Rikuzentakata. I warn them of what they will see. Rikuzentakata essentially no longer exists. Several concrete buildings remain where once a vibrant town stood. We head down the hill and I say, "Around this corner. That's where the town was."
"Where?"
"There," I point.
"Where?" I hear again.
"There. See those two white things? Those are a few of the remaining buildings left. They're apartments, five stories high. You'll see when we get closer that all the windows on the first four floors are all blown out, front and back."
"Oh my God...." We drive in silence for a very long time.
As we near what used to be Rikuzentakata I see green. Weeds grow everywhere. Where rice paddies were before are now fields of weeds. Everything is covered in tall, green grass. If I didn't know this used to be a town, that people lived here, that here was life I would think we were driving through a part of Iwate previously uninhabited. Except for the several buildings left standing, the hotel, hospital, apartment buildings, and what remains of city hall, Rikuzentakata is now a field of green silence. I see a front end loader here and there. Cars are few and far between. Gone are the Self Defense Force men and cops in uniform.
Rikuzentakata still exists, albeit in a completely different way. I'm bothered by the green grass, the weeds and the semblance of normalcy. "I need a break," I say and ask them to stop the car. The tears come. Here, over 1,000 people are still missing. People died here. The city is essentially gone. How will this town survive? Will it?
The green field of silence is filled with pain.
I'm with three very good people. They're all safe, and I can be myself with them. We have spent the last 48 hours laughing until we cry, and enjoying each other's company. They're all important to me. We were in Ofunato to cook for people living and volunteering there. Between trips to the supermarket to buy supplies, we drive through Ofunato to see how well the recovery process is going. I see their shock. It's palpable. Our laughter is gone. We're now serious, taking in destroyed buildings, boats washed up ashore, and the remnants of houses. We park the car near the Port of Ofunato. I point out the high tide that now comes ashore from under our feet as opposed to the shoreline. We're all again speechless.
"There used to be a house here," I say, pointing to the concrete foundation.
"How do you know?"
"Look." I point to the only piece of "furniture" left in the house. A commode. It sits naked, exposed, surrounded by a low concrete wall.
"Look next door." The only part of the house left is the one meter high stone fence. The name of the family is sealed into the stone pillar on the right on a porcelain plaque. More silence.
We head to Rikuzentakata. I warn them of what they will see. Rikuzentakata essentially no longer exists. Several concrete buildings remain where once a vibrant town stood. We head down the hill and I say, "Around this corner. That's where the town was."
"Where?"
"There," I point.
"Where?" I hear again.
"There. See those two white things? Those are a few of the remaining buildings left. They're apartments, five stories high. You'll see when we get closer that all the windows on the first four floors are all blown out, front and back."
"Oh my God...." We drive in silence for a very long time.
As we near what used to be Rikuzentakata I see green. Weeds grow everywhere. Where rice paddies were before are now fields of weeds. Everything is covered in tall, green grass. If I didn't know this used to be a town, that people lived here, that here was life I would think we were driving through a part of Iwate previously uninhabited. Except for the several buildings left standing, the hotel, hospital, apartment buildings, and what remains of city hall, Rikuzentakata is now a field of green silence. I see a front end loader here and there. Cars are few and far between. Gone are the Self Defense Force men and cops in uniform.
Rikuzentakata still exists, albeit in a completely different way. I'm bothered by the green grass, the weeds and the semblance of normalcy. "I need a break," I say and ask them to stop the car. The tears come. Here, over 1,000 people are still missing. People died here. The city is essentially gone. How will this town survive? Will it?
The green field of silence is filled with pain.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Why manners still matter
In a country where rules exist on how deep one bows, when, and for whom, and where protocol is clear on when to give gifts, how, and why one would think tradition rules. Saying it doesn't is misleading. Truly, manners matter in Japan. Rather, manners have mattered in Japan. Change is in the air.
When the earthquake hit on March 11th, Tokyoites walked home hours on end. I am blessed for having heard story after story of random acts of kindness during the seven or eight hours some people spent walking. This side of Japan always impresses me. This side of Japan I love. This is what I want people to know about Japan.
I will not, however, sacrifice the whole truth for the sake of a good story. Day after day, I see more and more cases of what I can only call obnoxious behavior in Tokyo. Evidently, the Japanese are just as capable of being rude and horribly behaved as they are of having impeccable manners. What's going on? Has Japan always been like this and I'm just now noticing? I think not. The Japan of my childhood is slowly disappearing. Certainly Japan has always had its share of rude people. To say otherwise is naive and irresponsible. As a society however, en masse, I have been blessed with seeing incredibly generous people with manners a society can be proud of. Which is why when I see such flagrant changes in Japanese behavior, I can only stand back and take notice and cringe.
In the past several years in Japan I have seen every emergency vehicle have to ask for cars to move. There is no automatic pull-over-to-the-side here. I don't quite see how this can be but I saw it again today. Three bright red fire trucks had to wait for people to cross the street in order to move through an intersection. A fire fighter in full gear is in the front passenger seat saying into the microphone, "Excuse us. We're coming through." Pedestrians trump firetrucks? Really?
I feel quite entitled to point out how selfish those are who will not move out of the way for vehicles on their way to save people. Why? I drive in Massachusetts. Massachusetts drivers are ranked 49th out of 50 in terms of the country's worst drivers. We (and I must add myself to this list) are affectionately referred to as "Massholes." I know bad driving. I really do. Then there is our wicked neighbor. Immediately south of Massachusetts is Rhode Island where the worst drivers in the US move to/live/breed/congregate. Survey after survey ranks those from Rhode Island as the worst drivers in the country. I couldn't agree more. Which is why when there is never a question for terrible American drivers to always and consistently move out of the way of ambulances, police cars, and fire trucks, and yet the generally-known-as-incredibly-polite Japanese can't seem to make way for these same vehicles, I cry foul.
What's going on here? Where has this general acceptance of bad manners come from? Come on, Japan. You can do better.
When the earthquake hit on March 11th, Tokyoites walked home hours on end. I am blessed for having heard story after story of random acts of kindness during the seven or eight hours some people spent walking. This side of Japan always impresses me. This side of Japan I love. This is what I want people to know about Japan.
I will not, however, sacrifice the whole truth for the sake of a good story. Day after day, I see more and more cases of what I can only call obnoxious behavior in Tokyo. Evidently, the Japanese are just as capable of being rude and horribly behaved as they are of having impeccable manners. What's going on? Has Japan always been like this and I'm just now noticing? I think not. The Japan of my childhood is slowly disappearing. Certainly Japan has always had its share of rude people. To say otherwise is naive and irresponsible. As a society however, en masse, I have been blessed with seeing incredibly generous people with manners a society can be proud of. Which is why when I see such flagrant changes in Japanese behavior, I can only stand back and take notice and cringe.
In the past several years in Japan I have seen every emergency vehicle have to ask for cars to move. There is no automatic pull-over-to-the-side here. I don't quite see how this can be but I saw it again today. Three bright red fire trucks had to wait for people to cross the street in order to move through an intersection. A fire fighter in full gear is in the front passenger seat saying into the microphone, "Excuse us. We're coming through." Pedestrians trump firetrucks? Really?
I feel quite entitled to point out how selfish those are who will not move out of the way for vehicles on their way to save people. Why? I drive in Massachusetts. Massachusetts drivers are ranked 49th out of 50 in terms of the country's worst drivers. We (and I must add myself to this list) are affectionately referred to as "Massholes." I know bad driving. I really do. Then there is our wicked neighbor. Immediately south of Massachusetts is Rhode Island where the worst drivers in the US move to/live/breed/congregate. Survey after survey ranks those from Rhode Island as the worst drivers in the country. I couldn't agree more. Which is why when there is never a question for terrible American drivers to always and consistently move out of the way of ambulances, police cars, and fire trucks, and yet the generally-known-as-incredibly-polite Japanese can't seem to make way for these same vehicles, I cry foul.
What's going on here? Where has this general acceptance of bad manners come from? Come on, Japan. You can do better.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
A new kind of honesty
At the risk of making a controversial statement bordering on a gross generalization, I believe this strongly: Japan has always allowed for a delicate dance around truth-telling. I say this without judgment. It is what it is. I'm in no position to critique such a broad cultural phenomenon.
Multiple television commercials I've seen since arriving in Japan a week ago have given me pause and make me reconsider whether Japan is entering a new stage in truth-telling. One such commercial was from a construction company.
"At xxxx, we destroy nature." Whoa. That caught my attention. "Because we destroy nature to build our homes, we do everything we can to give back to nature by planting trees." They go onto to highlight the projects the company is involved as they attempt to offset their environmental destruction.
I find myself impressed. I'm not accustomed to this level of honesty in Japan, much less on television. Then there is the open and frank mention of menopause. The product advertised is specifically for menopausal women. All women go through menopause. Nothing shocking there. Today's Japan, evidently sees no shame in offering products to these women, even though in my life in Japan to date I have never heard of menopause ever being discussed openly. I'm both surprised and pleased by Japan's ability to showcase this publicly. I see this as a new attempt at telling the truth.
Then I see it: "Who lied?" A magazine advertisement on a train blatantly implies a cover-up about the nuclear disaster in Fukushima. The assumption is not insinuated as much as it is stated. Someone lied. Many people lied. The question is who? Who will reveal the truth? What will be done about those who lied?
What I take away from all this is a new appreciation for the truth and a lesser tolerance for lying. In today's Japan, it is okay to talk about things previously not discussed. It's okay to be honest. It's also okay to call out those who tell lies with consequences that are no longer acceptable.
This should be interesting.
Multiple television commercials I've seen since arriving in Japan a week ago have given me pause and make me reconsider whether Japan is entering a new stage in truth-telling. One such commercial was from a construction company.
"At xxxx, we destroy nature." Whoa. That caught my attention. "Because we destroy nature to build our homes, we do everything we can to give back to nature by planting trees." They go onto to highlight the projects the company is involved as they attempt to offset their environmental destruction.
I find myself impressed. I'm not accustomed to this level of honesty in Japan, much less on television. Then there is the open and frank mention of menopause. The product advertised is specifically for menopausal women. All women go through menopause. Nothing shocking there. Today's Japan, evidently sees no shame in offering products to these women, even though in my life in Japan to date I have never heard of menopause ever being discussed openly. I'm both surprised and pleased by Japan's ability to showcase this publicly. I see this as a new attempt at telling the truth.
Then I see it: "Who lied?" A magazine advertisement on a train blatantly implies a cover-up about the nuclear disaster in Fukushima. The assumption is not insinuated as much as it is stated. Someone lied. Many people lied. The question is who? Who will reveal the truth? What will be done about those who lied?
What I take away from all this is a new appreciation for the truth and a lesser tolerance for lying. In today's Japan, it is okay to talk about things previously not discussed. It's okay to be honest. It's also okay to call out those who tell lies with consequences that are no longer acceptable.
This should be interesting.
Down the up stair case
I don't ask for much. Connect me to the existing Wi-Fi spots in town and I'm happy. I go to the local Softbank store yesterday and am told I need an Alien Registration card in order to purchase a Wi-Fi device. Fine. I make my way to the local ward office this morning, and spend money to register myself.
I head back to the same Softbank store that promised to bump me to the front of the line to get the Wi-Fi connector. I am. The registration process begins. I hand over my passport and Alien Registration and everything is going well. I'm told I will get the unit for free. I'm pleased with myself for some reason. I feel just the slightest bit successful, as if I've just successfully negotiated some huge deal. That they do this for everyone who signs a contract isn't the point, of course. Then it comes. My Alien Registration card says I'm only in the country for 90 days so I now have to pay for the little, magic machine that will give me access.
"Why?"
She's uncomfortable. Am I going to make a scene? She stops what she's doing and gives me what I can only describe is a lame explanation.
"Fine. Do it." I try not to snap.
Then she throws me a zinger. They won't sell me the unit because I need to be in the country longer than 90 days in order to have a contract. I'm floored. Why did she even start the process if Softbank policy doesn't allow them to sell me anything? I make her repeat it. I'm pissed. She brings out the sheet that spells out their evil policy. I can't read the fine print so I stretch my arm out as far as it will go and repeat back to her what I heard her say.
"So, I can't buy this because I'm going to be in the country less than 90 days even though you told me yesterday if I came with my registration card I could get this?"
She apologizes. I can't win. I leave.
To say I'm angry is putting it mildly. This policy stems from the fact there's a history, albeit it not long or extensive, of foreigners buying pre-paid phones and policies and then using said phones for criminal activity. Surely, if some foreigners are criminals it's safer to assume many, nay most could also be as well. Right? Let's just create a policy that confirms phones and policies are sold to legitimate foreigners committed to a long-term stay.
I make a point of walking down the up stair case at every train station the rest of the day. It's a pathetic and private rebellion but it's the least I can do to uphold the image of foreigners behaving badly.
I head back to the same Softbank store that promised to bump me to the front of the line to get the Wi-Fi connector. I am. The registration process begins. I hand over my passport and Alien Registration and everything is going well. I'm told I will get the unit for free. I'm pleased with myself for some reason. I feel just the slightest bit successful, as if I've just successfully negotiated some huge deal. That they do this for everyone who signs a contract isn't the point, of course. Then it comes. My Alien Registration card says I'm only in the country for 90 days so I now have to pay for the little, magic machine that will give me access.
"Why?"
She's uncomfortable. Am I going to make a scene? She stops what she's doing and gives me what I can only describe is a lame explanation.
"Fine. Do it." I try not to snap.
Then she throws me a zinger. They won't sell me the unit because I need to be in the country longer than 90 days in order to have a contract. I'm floored. Why did she even start the process if Softbank policy doesn't allow them to sell me anything? I make her repeat it. I'm pissed. She brings out the sheet that spells out their evil policy. I can't read the fine print so I stretch my arm out as far as it will go and repeat back to her what I heard her say.
"So, I can't buy this because I'm going to be in the country less than 90 days even though you told me yesterday if I came with my registration card I could get this?"
She apologizes. I can't win. I leave.
To say I'm angry is putting it mildly. This policy stems from the fact there's a history, albeit it not long or extensive, of foreigners buying pre-paid phones and policies and then using said phones for criminal activity. Surely, if some foreigners are criminals it's safer to assume many, nay most could also be as well. Right? Let's just create a policy that confirms phones and policies are sold to legitimate foreigners committed to a long-term stay.
I make a point of walking down the up stair case at every train station the rest of the day. It's a pathetic and private rebellion but it's the least I can do to uphold the image of foreigners behaving badly.
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