Omiyage

Omiyage is one of those Japanese words for which there is no equivalent in English.

The uninitiated would tell you that it translates as “souvenir.” But that equivalency will start to fail you the first time your Japanese mom tells you that she’s brought you a souvenir from Shikoku and it’s made of sweet potato. If omiyage is souvenir in Japanese, then la souvenir (to remember) in Japan is to forget. It is to share a place by returning from it with pieces of it to cannibalize. It is to experience a place by devouring it. La souvenir lasts for only as long as it lingers on your tongue, and the memorable places visited become those that ensconce themselves in the flavour centres of your mind.

Omiyage is something different.

Omiyage is a transferable flavour memory. Despite its stick-thin, rice-reverent surface, deep down Japan is a nation ruled by its gut. From metropolises to fishing towns, every place in this country seems to have a signature food item. When the Japanese travel, the consumption of these regional dishes seems to be as important as visiting a region’s physical attractions. And, just as the Japanese take pictures of these attractions, preserving them and carrying a part of them home, so, too, do they aim to capture the flavour of a region by returning with its omiyage.

Omiyage is a food act. It is thoughtfulness made manifest. When the Japanese travel for business or pleasure, they return to their offices with boxes of omiyage from wherever they’ve been. To give omiyage is to prove that you were thinking of your coworkers; to prove that you care about them. To neglect omiyage is to be heartless and indifferent.

Omiyage is a self-perpetuating cycle. Though undoubtedly once founded in something profound, the notion of giving omiyage today seems to exist only to create demand for the production of more omiyage. So ingrained is it in the culture that you are judged if you are not generous with your omiyage, but the background justification for this judgment has been long lost. Omiyage shops thrive like mushrooms at attractions all across this country: a massive industry sustained by a point of Japanese etiquette.

Omiyage cannot be the Japanese equivalent of a souvenir because a souvenir is permanent. It is a bauble or a trinket or a chotchkie. It is a material piece of something likely destined for the bin. You hang onto a souvenir for a time, you may put it on display in a place of honour, but, eventually, all but the very best souvenirs degrade into clutter. Omiyage is temporary. It is given with emotion and it is consumed while that emotion is still fresh in it. As it is meant to be eaten, it does not sit around; it is—by definition—incapable of collecting dust.

What it comes down to is the cultural weight behind the words. When you give someone a souvenir, you are being thoughtful, and they’ll likely appreciate it. It will hang around on their desk, and they’ll think of you fondly when they look at it, but, eventually, the wonder will go out of it, and it will become just one more thing. In Japan, however, when you bring omiyage, you insert yourself as an observant member in an existing cultural framework. You become part of a web of significances, and it serves to magnify a simple sweet beyond the realm of thoughtfulness.

I’d do a better job explaining it, but I must admit that it’s something I can more feel than truly understand. I’ve just learned that, when you go somewhere, you bring back omiyage for the teachers back in the office. I’m told that they don’t really expect it from foreigners such as myself, but when I see how very grateful the teachers are to receive it, their reactions seem to far outweigh any difficulty in buying and transporting the stuff home.

EDIT: Leave it to Sarfaraz to pick up on the French in something. Actually, I was kind of hoping he would and am now glad that he has done so.

Also, thanks for the proofread ;)