Personified
Istanbul, Feb. 2008
In my twenty years, this is the first leisurely escape exclusively for the mother and her two daughters, some bonding time for the women of the family. We are at Kapalıçarşı, the old grand bazaar under the arcade, looking for souvenirs, when a male voice rises above the market’s lively bustle. “You three are sisters? Beautiful! Come see the carpets..! You like carpets?”. “Indeed…”, my sister and I exchange looks fearfully knowing our mum’s obsession with textiles. “Come over” he urges again with big gestures as we walk in. “Your mother?”, the man asks my sister with a cheesy grin, and then turns to my mum. “Hey, you give me your daughter, I give you my best carpet. Yes? Look at this, on the wall? Come touch! It’s beautiful, right? Like your daughter!”. I don’t think we will buy a carpet, but we’ve just got ourselves a joke to last a lifetime.
Edinburgh, Jan. 2013
Dark and moody, days like today, it’s hard to believe that it’s lunch instead of dinner time. Did the sun rise at all this morning? I turn the corner at Infirmary Street and face the aged copper dome of Old College as I head to the campus’ main library through the backstreet underpass. This is the fourth day in a row, that I pass by this corner and do not bump into the man usually standing there, holding the signboard to the Indian buffet restaurant down the road. Soon, I will start worrying for the well-being of this guy, whose face has not registered to memory as much as the signboard or his crouched, silent figure waiting for lunch time, and thus his shift, to end.
Thessaloniki, Dec. 2015
My successful application to study in Japan has brought family and friends out to the promenade looking for a restaurant to enjoy congratulatory drinks. We stroll through Athonos Square just to enjoy the sociable chit-chat initiated by the touts inviting people to restaurants there. The banter that the handsome men get down to, in order to convince passers-by into each of their shops, is the main attraction in this small wynd. With the shops so close to one another, I cannot tell if they do it due to the competition or because they’ve formed their own community by now (maybe even the “Workers Union of Today’s Specials”). Today’s show involves a pretend swordfight using the Wine Lists as imaginary weapons. The moment they see us, they give up and make repenting faces. Quickly straightening their aprons and feigning seriousness, they start beckoning us into their respective restaurants. Will I miss this when I go to Japan next year?
Yokohama, Nov. 2016
“お姉さん!” the guy holding an izakaya menu board calls after us and follows at our heel. I almost feel a sense of excitement for this forced invitation. I’ve lived in Japan for half a year but have never been addressed by these guys before, unless accompanied by a Japanese person. Although some can look intimidating with their long black puffy jackets, I feel that they are an essential part of business here. Streets are small, entrances where you least expect them, and buildings heavily decorated with one too many neon signs and bright lights. The view can at times appear hostile to the eye, but I can never quite feel the same for the small frame of a person in a black apron greeting me.
In this job, they are more exposed in their position than I am. It takes a lot of courage to entice the passer-by knowing that glares of annoyance may be thrown your way and great social skill to succeed in your invites. Often, unconsciously I find myself returning smiles and hellos, even if their service does not concern me. It feels cruel to ignore their patient existence. And that is the advantage of the human signboard. Not only does it eliminate spatial limits by reaching potential customers beyond the building’s walls, but also makes a soulless service speak to the heart.
Unlike “traditional” panel signboards, which eternally address everyone the same way until taken down, these people use a variety of approaches to draw attention according to what they judge appropriate for each passer-by. In fact, we do not read them. Instead, they read us. They target us individually; to some they appeal politely, to others more persistently and a few they ignore. But ultimately, they offer a personal experience to each potential customer: had the Japanese touts been less interactive, like the motionless tout in Edinburgh, I would not have discovered another small connection to home.
