Just Wait
Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.
Where we are: We’re in Osaka. I’m slowly catching my breath after two months of total exhaustion. As the chaos began to subside, I realized that I never acknowledged the many notes of condolence I received after my dad died. Thank you for all the messages. Your support was real, and meaningful.
We arrived in Osaka last Wednesday evening, and immediately got in line. Japan is having a peak-tourism moment, and Osaka is (for just a few more days) hosting the World Expo 2025. The immigration hall at the airport was jammed, to put it mildly.
We waited for almost 90 minutes, the line snaking back-and-forth, like one of those intestine-style lines for a Disney ride.
The next morning we got up early and went to the Expo. We arrived at 8:15 for our 9 am entrance slot.
And … got in line. This time we waited seventy minutes. For a timed entry.
I read that people start lining up at 4:40 am to be first through the gates at 9. Nope. There’s nothing in the world that is that interesting to me, full stop.
But lines in Japan are unavoidable. The following is an essay I wrote and never sent last time we were here; I reread it just now to bolster myself for going out to lunch. I know there’ll be a line—there’s always a line.
Just Wait
Browsing the sweets floor of a Tokyo department store one day, I found myself drawn toward a huge photo of liquid caramel oozing from between two cookies. Distracted from my mochi quest, I drew closer to see a cookie vendor called (inexplicably) ‘NYC Sand.’ I bellied up to the counter, ready to assess the choices and perhaps buy a sample.
A very apologetic young woman in a cute ‘NYC Sand’ apron came rushing over, pointing anxiously at the tidy line of people waiting their turn over by the escalator, out of the flow of department store traffic. There were stanchions and those stretchy ropes that guide a long line of people through a small space. I hesitated, wondering if the cookies were worth all that. Caramel is second only to chocolate in my hierarchy of sweets.
Maybe another day.
The next time I was in that department store, this time with Lee in tow (this store was part of Tokyo Station, so we passed through every couple of days—several times the station itself was our destination, for lunch). I studied the line some more, and realized that the people next to the escalator were only the tip of the iceberg. The bulk of the line was outside the department store, running down one wall. There were probably 75 people waiting at that point, so I decided this new quest would require some planning. Now I knew I had to try these cookies.
I went back another day, ate some ramen, and got in the line. I had a book on my phone, nowhere to be, and I was prepared to wait for the rest of the afternoon if necessary.
It took about 45 minutes. When it was finally my turn, I bought two boxes, for a total of 24 cookies, each slightly bigger than an Oreo, but thinner. And far more elegant—individually wrapped and artfully arranged in decorative boxes, then gift wrapped. I would’ve been happy with half a dozen cookies in a paper bag with a few napkins, but that’s not how things work in Japan.
A week later, in Osaka, I waited in another line for a wildly popular soufflé cheesecake with raisins on the bottom. This, too, took several reconnaissance visits to figure out how long it would take and how the line worked. When I finally committed to getting that cheesecake even if it took all day, I discovered that there were two lines: at least a hundred people were waiting to buy their cheesecake as it came out of the oven, but no one seemed to want one that had been baked earlier in the day. So I got one of those. Cheesecake=less important than caramel cookies.
Then in Hokkaido, I waited in line for a wedge of cantaloupe. Yep. Luckily it wasn’t a terribly long line; I only waited for 15 minutes or so, wielding my excellent Japanese umbrella against the sun while Lee hid out in the shade.
Have you read about the super-expensive melons in Japan, and thought no way? Well, I’m here to tell you: they are that expensive, and they are that delicious. We went to the same melon farm two days in a row, which is actually a much more significant stamp of approval than the 15 minutes in line or the $7.75 we paid for a total of twelve little cubes of melon.
Totally worth it.
I’m not sure what the waiting-in-line culture in Japan is all about, but it’s real. People will wait for what seem like insane amounts of time—very quietly and patiently, I might add—for the popular cookie, or the cheesecake they saw on social media, or the melon they read about. There’s always a line at Chanel. There’s always a line at the good ramen places. Once we waited two hours for conveyor belt sushi in a mall. Maybe it’s just a function of population density? Maybe it’s something more subtle, something to do with conformity or aspiration or status or just good old peer-pressure trendiness.
I don’t know, but as a marketing tactic, it totally works on me. I can’t be bothered with lines for tourist attractions, and airport security or immigration lines make me downright stabby, but if there’s a line for something tasty? I’m in it. FOMO, I guess.
Years ago in another country, we were at a famous food/produce market late one afternoon. On our way to the exit, we passed by a bunch of people waiting in line. I wondered aloud what they were waiting for—that big market contained some of the best things I had ever eaten at that point in my life. What if the line was for something truly life-changing? That wouldn’t be at all surprising. So I got in the line.
The line moved slowly. The two men in front of me were speaking English, so after a while, I insinuated myself into their conversation.
“Excuse me—what are we waiting for?”
“It’s the bakery. The bread is delicious, and it goes on sale at the end of the day.”
“Excellent! Thanks.” I settled in.
After a moment, the men turned back to look at me. “Do you mean you got in this line not knowing what it was for?”
“Yep! I figured it would be something good.”
“What are you, Russian?”
It turned out they were Russian, and were highly amused by my enthusiasm.
I can’t help it. I will queue for treats.
Take care,
Lisa
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