WB075: The Fear of Miscommunication

The other day, an encounter at my neighbourhood's public swimming pool triggered a recollection of an experience I had as a 14-year old high school student. At the time I was studying in a Mandarin-medium school.

As there were plans for me to move to another school, my mother told me to submit an application form to my school principal, who I remember being a fairly senior, stern-looking man.

I was quite daunted by the thought of this meeting. Not only had I never had a one-to-one with the school principal, I was embarrassed by my poor Mandarin proficiency.

What is the official term for "changing schools"? Would I have to engage in a long conversation with my principal on why I was switching schools?

I eventually mustered up the courage after sitting on this task for a few days and successfully got the job done. I don't recall the finer details of the meeting, but remember feeling very relieved after it was over.

Back to the encounter that triggered this memory.

The neighbourhood I live in has a public indoor swimming pool I frequent. It is a great pool - it's very clean and the water is heated during winter. The cost of a one-hour entry ticket is a very reasonable JPY270 (~US$1.70).

Outside the pool entrance is a receptionist who checks the time stamp on your ticket after your swim is done. There is very little communication needed with this receptionist. And I ensure it is this way by repeating the same routine.

I buy a ticket from the nearby ticket machine, head to the receptionist and say "ittekimasu"(Japanese: 行ってきます, English: "See you later"), to which she responds "itterashai" (Japanese: 行ってらしゃい, English: "Have a good day"). I then enter the pool area.

When my swim is done, I exit the pool area, hand my entry ticket to the receptionist and say "otsukare sama" (Japanese: お疲れ様). This is a polite expression used at the end of the work day or event. It means something like "Thank you for your hard work" or "Good day".

The other day this well-rehearsed routine deviated from the norm, all because I forgot to bring my swimming cap and only realised after entering the pool area.

Public facilities in Japan are very strict about cleanliness. With respect to this indoor pool, you must wear a swimming cap in order to swim. There are no exceptions to this rule.

I was caught in two minds: if I ended my session early and handed my ticket to the receptionist, she might enquire why my one-hour session ended after a few minutes. And was there a problem she needed to be aware of?

I really did not relish this, as my limited Japanese might cause a miscommunication followed by awkward exchanges. Plus, service staff tend to speak in formal Japanese called keigo (Japanaese: 敬語), which feels like a different language to me.

There was another option, I thought. I could just wait for say a half hour in the changing room so as not to arouse any curious questions.

I realised this was a silly option that I could not entertain.

Firstly, there's nothing to do in the changing room. You can't, for example, play with your phone for privacy reasons. Secondly, the lack of language proficiency was a silly reason to avoid the interaction I so dreaded having.

With these reasons in mind, I exited the pool area, handed my ticket to the receptionist and explained that I had forgotten my swimming cap. I also indicated I was perfectly fine if my entry fee was not refundable.

The receptionist gave a long-winded response, where I only picked up the word kaeshimasu (Japanese: 返します, English: to pay back or return something).

As kind as the offer was, I politely declined as I was unsure what unknown process a refund might entail. In Japan, simple things are seldom resolved in a straightforward manner and usually involve lots of forms.

The receptionist was insistent, so I reluctantly agreed and followed her to the building management office. At this point, I got more worried at the potential bureaucratic mess I had created, all because of a JPY270 entry ticket and a swimming cap.

The receptionist spoke to a gentleman, who then came out of the office and handed me a paper coupon that I could use for my next visit. I was surprised at how smooth this encounter was, thanked both of them.

On the way back home, I heaved a great sigh of relief, similar to the one I had after my visit to the principal's office as a 14-year old.

--Ends