Trains aren't the only crowded places in Tokyo.It wasn’t until after 7 p.m. that I struck out on Thursday. It had been a way-too-busy day, but thanks to a two-hour nap in late afternoon, I was managing.
I’d endured a crowded-beyond-capacity commuter train into Shibuya first thing in the morning. Such trains are perhaps the part of living in Tokyo that I most detest. But there was nothing I could do about it but ride the Toyoko Line if I would make my appointment. Fortunately, I was at the front of the queue when the doors opened, so I was able to worm my way a little further into the car than those at the end of the line who needed the help of pushers to make it onto the train—and then, faces crammed up against the door and one another, they managed to stay breathing, but only barely. I had clear space all around my head and the closest person to me was wearing a mask, for which I thanked him silently, grateful he would share no cold germs with me. So, I’d made the 10-minute express ride into Shibuya not horribly worse for the wear and decided I wouldn’t write a blog about the indecency of having to tolerate yet another commuter train. Despite everything, I was feeling pretty good.
But then came the bank. Actually, it’s a tossup as to which I loathe more: jam-packed commuter trains or Japanese banks. Just as the presence of so many uniformed train pushers on the platform should have warned me that the trains were especially crowded that morning, I should have known that the presence of a new bank clerk would mean two things: I would be “lucky” enough to get her and I could expect problems. But, as I said, I was feeling pretty good.
Until she called me up to the desk. I handed her my properly endorsed check and my driver’s license and told her my business, adding, “I come here every month and do the same thing every month.” To which she replied, “Do you have an account at this bank?” “Yes, look at the check, please. I come here every month for the same business.” I was getting a little warm under the collar, and it wasn’t because I’d not yet unzipped my coat or loosened my muffler. Somehow smiling, but still with a quizzical look on her face, she thanked me and asked me to wait in a chair while she processed my check.
No sooner than I’d sat down did she call me back again. She wanted to know about my name. Which was the first name: Cheryl, Ann, or Barton? “It’s just as it’s written here on the check I want to cash, the same business I do here in this bank every month,” I responded. “And how do you pronounce these names?” she asked. “What difference does it make?” I wanted to reply, but didn’t. Finally, after an English pronunciation lesson, she invited me to sit down again.
I did, but only for a split second. My name was being called again. This third time at the counter I was asked how my name is written in katakana, the Japanese phonetic alphabet for foreign words. When I protested that I do this same business every month and with the same driver’s license (no katakana there) and with the same check written to me from our account (no katakana there), she continued, “Well, don’t you have something written in katakana?” By now I was sweating profusely and, although I did indeed have some katakana identification in my wallet, I wasn’t about to admit to it. My reply instead was, “Every month I show my driver’s license,” which is true. Finally, the clerk gave up and cashed my check—the same way it’s done every month. My irritation was definitely on the rise. But I swallowed it, took a deep breath, and walked out of the bank with a smile on my face, thankful I’ll not have to go there again until next month.
The rest of the day went well until after dinner. Bernie and I were walking to an evening meeting and came up behind a woman pushing a stroller on the side of the road. There were no sidewalks or wide shoulders for pedestrians, so a line of cars with patient drivers was beginning to back up behind her. Finally, I decided that since the cars were waiting, I’d dash into their lane and move around her. Fully expecting to see a cute, gurgling baby as I passed—maybe one the same age as my grandson—I was totally unprepared to find the young woman pushing two cats in the baby buggy! The annoyance with daily life in Japan that had apparently been building all day suddenly boiled over as I ranted on to Bernie about how the woman was holding up traffic—not to mention us—because of CATS!
“Three strikes, I’m out!” I thought to myself later. It’s not because I’m the only person who’s ever been exasperated by being a foreigner in a different culture. It’s because that very morning I’d been memorizing Philippians 4:8 on the train: “Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.” How ironic! How badly I’d failed to implement this wonderful advice for successful living. No wonder I had a headache and suddenly felt exhausted.
