One of our favorite pastimes in Japan (indeed, in much of Asia) is reading t-shirt messages, advertising slogans, menus, and whatever else we see written in English. Here are some samples that have amused us:
*Looking for a new menu for Christmas? How about trying one of these: harb chicken salad, casserole of cow’s intestines, or cram chowder?
*Considering a new destination during the holidays? “Fry me to the moon” in a “lent a car” might be an option.
*Still need to buy one last Christmas gift? What about rice crackers (osenbi, in Japanese) —if you can figure out this advertising description: “A rice cracker of the soy sauce taste that percentage let taste soak on purpose.” Get one for 250 yen (about $2.75) or a whole bag, a real bargain, for 500 yen ($5.50).
The other day I was making fun of yet another English gaffe—this one on a Christmas card we’d received: Be a Merry and Happy Christmas—when Bernie commented, “I rather like that mistake.” Hearing my eyebrows raise, he answered my unspoken question. “More than having a merry Christmas, wouldn’t it be great to be a merry Christmas for someone else?” he asked. The more I thought about it, the more I agreed. Yes, I thought, I would like to be a merry Christmas.
But I’d certainly failed the day before on an impossibly packed commuter train. I was first in line to board when the double doors of the just-arrived train opened. Normally at Jiyugaoka Station, after a stream of people explodes out of each car, there is space for those waiting on the platform to board. But it was different that day. After all the riders wanting to exit had, there was absolutely no open space. Where in the world had they just been riding? The inside of the car appeared no different, although a whole throng of people had just been propelled by me like human cannonballs.
Since capacity limits on Tokyo commuter trains seem to be decided by how many people can force their way onto a given train rather than by any safety considerations, those of us waiting on the platform accepted the challenge of finding the invisible space inside the packed cars. Helped by the surge behind me, I made it in. So did all those behind me, although I can’t tell you how this miracle occurred. All I know is that I ended up inside, smashed in on all sides, and standing on someone else’s feet. There was no free floor space to be found anywhere. As crushed as we all were, I doubt the unfortunate host (or hosts) to my feet even noticed, but I was certainly uncomfortable. (Okay, I wouldn’t have been comfortable even if my feet had found the floor.) All in all, as I glared at the woman whose bag was poking me painfully in the scar on my left side, I was in no mood to be a merry Christmas to her or to anyone else. All I wanted was to escape, and I honestly didn’t care who I might have to insult or injure along the way to freedom.
A merry Christmas? There was nothing merry about morning—for myself or anyone else. While I couldn’t have changed the train conditions, I could have put a smile on my face and adjusted my attitude. After all, the meaning of this season cannot be tarnished or changed, no matter what. Immanuel—God with us—even on a crowded commuter train.
