How a Well-Placed Japanese Vending Machine Influenced My Life

A Meditation on Omotenashi in Two Parts

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I. Omotenashi as Well-Placed Vending Machines

I was under-prepared when I started the iconic climb of Mt. Fuji.  

I wore jeans with basic running shoes. The straps of my backpack stretched out and cut into my shoulders, hanging heavy with all of my "essentials" like books, sweaters, phone, and a light jacket.  

But did I bring food?  No, I did not.  Did I bring water?  No need.  

None of this came to mind.  I was spoiled living in Japan.  Much of my life there didn’t require a plan where I needed to think about where I would find food and drink.  Everything seemed catered and convenient.  In fact, my own trip to the foot of the sacred mountain was fuelled by last minute bento takeaways bought at train stations or at tiny convenience stores along the way.  So why would this walk be any less convenient?  

The walk became a hike.  And the hike soon morphed into gruelling, endless switchbacks, literal staircases that have been cut into the side of the mountain, old people passing me by as my own altitude sickness got worse and worse, me wheezing at strategic rest stations.  

And as each step upwards became more taxing, more heavy, my blisters boiled and rubbed raw on the edges of my feet and shoes. The crisp mountain morning air wicked moisture from my body and damp clothes. Just as my own throat cracked and ached for water, I saw a line of vending machines on a random switchback stocked with my favourite icy cold energy drinks - all for purchase and consumption.  It was no mirage. It was real!

Elation vibrated as the sweet salty tang of my favourite energy drink struck the bell of my pallet.  If angels sang, they would have at the moment. 

It wasn’t until years later I came to understand that my lucky encounter with the vending machines halfway up this mountain wasn’t some accident.  This was a result of deliberate planning, a devotion to the cultural ideal of service and hospitality sometimes referred to as “Omotenashi”.  

The Japanese National Tourist Organization (JNTO) loosely defines Omotenashi as “...to wholeheartedly look after guests.”  But they admit the term is hard to translate into English because “to understand it is to experience Japan in-person”.

As with all things Japanese, this humble enigmatic saying hides an enormous capacity for generosity and consideration that is deeply encoded into the culture.

I encountered Omotenashi many times in my years living in Japan.  Just like an echo, ephemeral and visceral.  And yet I could never put my finger on what it was exactly.  Was it hospitality or convenience? Customer service?  Was it gift giving or recognition?  Generosity?  The experience of Omotenashi was all of that, and none of it, all at once.  

No.  Something else was driving this spirit of consideration, generosity, and hospitality.  It was a deep acknowledgement of another’s needs, state and experience.  Omotenashi became a hidden oasis of refreshment, crudely revealed among obscure moments, tiny experiences and mundane minutiae.

And since then, Omotenashi still echoes throughout my life, coalescing unexpectedly. 

II. Omotenashi as Well-Timed Notes to My Family

For years, I wasn’t connecting well with the people I loved most - my family.  Most times I pulled away from them, and I consoled myself that I would focused more time on my career. My ruminations as a father, as a partner, as a provider, as a corporate career man rumbled and churned as my wife or my kids pleaded with me for my attention. Silence prevailed between us as mistrust, hot as ash, piled quietly higher and higher with every commute to the office.  And yet I missed them terribly. I became for them that mountain with an unbearable ascent.  

So I wrote in my journal earlier this year, searching for some kind of relief.  I rendered a couple of lines of gratitude, and it brought a little ease. However the respite faded all too quickly.   

I could feel Omotenashi stirring.  Maybe I will call them.  No.  Screens and video filters are far too distracting and impersonal these days.  What if I wrote a physical note to them?  What if I wrote one note every day before I left for work?  What if this was a note of unconditional appreciation, highlighting their inherent gifts that they embodied everyday?  What if it was written on nice watercolor paper?  What if I hand cut each card?  

What began as nascent questions soon bloomed into a fully improvised daily practice of writing individual notes of appreciation to each member of my family. Every part was handmade and quietly attended to.  It began with an outline of my commitments.  I committed to appreciate each of them everyday for 3 months.  They were welcomed either to read the cards or not read them.  They were welcomed either to add or colour or draw on the card as they saw fit or they could leave them blank.  They could store them in the wooden treasure box I had bought from the local craft store for this purpose or leave them in piles elsewhere.  

Every day, I’d take a few minutes and reflect.  I appreciated their passion for play or their resilience to experience a challenge or their curiosity for something they discovered and decided to explore further.  Then I would flip the card over and suggest that they write or draw something on the card itself.

Most importantly, these were simple invitations, beautiful and sincere.  I didn’t want to force anyone up this mountain.  It didn’t concern me if they interacted with the cards or not - nothing about this experience was intended to be prescriptive.  It was just important to produce them, with consideration and love and honesty.  There was no requirement for them to reciprocate anything back to me.  This was a service, an act of devotion.  Without fully realizing it, this began to prepare a way for Omotenashi to manifest in someone else’s future.  

The responses varied.  Most times the kids and my wife welcomed the cards, filling it immediately with colour and drawings and words.  Other times, the cards were ignored or left untouched, stacking up on the kitchen table.  

Six months later after the project concluded, I walked into our living room and found my young daughter spreading the cards out on the floor, looking through them, reading what she could read, looking at her drawings she had made only months prior.  Smiling, she asked,  “Daddy, why aren’t we making more of these?”  

At that moment, I knew my daughter had already started her climb, a relentless ascent with amazing views and cruel switchbacks ahead.  But she seemed way more prepared than I ever was.  Perhaps she would experience Omotenashi again as an echo just like I did.  Maybe she will come to know it as a different beat.  I will never know.