When we were younger, my brothers and I had a joke about omiyage, the Japanese custom of giving friends, family, and co-workers souvenir gifts from one’s travels. The kanji for omiyage literally means “local product,” yet that definition fails to capture the essence of these gifts, which can be a beautiful expression of goodwill, a way of telling loved ones that you were thinking about them even when you were busy enjoying yourself visiting some exciting city or exotic locale. But growing up in Hawaii, my brothers and I often found the custom to be burdensome mainly because, to our Nisei parents, omiyage was serious business.
The best omiyage was when it was a specialty or delicacy from the region traveled. So, when our family traveled from Oahu to the outer islands, we’d bring back macadamia-nut shortbread cookies from Kauai, potato chips from Maui, and Kona coffee from the Big Island. The ideal omiyage were things that were light and didn’t take up too much room in a suitcase, and of course the right omiyage had to be matched with the right person. Baked goods, for example, went to those with a sweet tooth, while saltier items were for others who preferred savory foods.
Relationships also had to be considered, with more special omiyage going not only to those closest to us but also to anyone higher in the family hierarchy. Managing all this—figuring out what to buy for whom, finding those items, and transporting them back home—could become a time-consuming chore, and so the joke with my brothers was this: Omiyage was the price one had to pay for traveling, that is, the penance for having enjoyed one’s self.
Moreover, traveling solely for tourism was one thing; flying somewhere to visit family and friends was another, adding a whole other layer of omiyage complexity. When I was ten, my parents had saved enough money for our family to travel to Japan. This was way back in 1969, and my mother was especially excited because this would be the first time for my brothers and me to meet our maternal grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins.
Planning for this trip was stressful for my parents, mainly because they had to buy numerous omiyage to bring with us to Japan so that we wouldn’t arrive there empty handed. And our relatives there, in turn, ended up giving us myriad gifts—various Japanese teas, nori, mochi, senbei, dried scallops, canned unagi kabayaki, and other delectable food items—to bring back home to Hawaii.
On that trip, I distinctly remember that each of my brothers and I were allotted a specific amount of yen for us to buy omiyage for our friends back home. We had to budget that money carefully, but I had depleted my funds early in the month-long trip, prompting a scolding from my parents that I should have been more careful. (Feeling sorry for me, they later relented, slipping me some extra cash to spend during the last couple days before our return.)
On subsequent trips to Japan, the custom of omiyage seemed to intensify with my parents. I’m not sure why this was so. Maybe it was because they had more discretionary funds to spend, or perhaps they thought that each trip to Japan could be their last. Whatever the case, my parents would mail several parcels ahead of a trip, just to ensure that they had enough omiyage—cans of macadamia nuts, boxes of macadamia-nut chocolates, packages of Kona coffee—for all their relatives in Japan, even distant ones. And at the end of the trip, we’d inevitably have to purchase a suitcase or two in Japan to hold all the omiyage that we’d be bringing back with us on our flight home.
Sometimes my parents’ omiyage compulsion seemed to border on the irrational. Years ago, when I was working as a journalist for a high-tech magazine in Boston, my editor would send me to Tokyo once or twice a year to report on the state of Japan’s electronics industry.
Before each trip, my mother would mail me omiyage from Hawaii that I would then pack in my suitcase to give to her relatives in Japan. I once asked her, “Do you realize that Boston is farther from Hawaii than Japan is? Don’t you think it’s odd that you’re mailing me omiyage from Hawaii to bring to Japan? Why not just send the stuff directly from Hawaii to Japan?”
My mother could barely contain her exasperation: “Don’t you understand? You have to kotozukeru this omiyage for me.” What my mother was saying was that it wasn’t just the mere physical act of transporting the omiyage from one location to another; it was the conveying of goodwill and best wishes that would accompany these gifts, all delivered in person by her son.
Over the years, globalization has made it much tougher to find gratifying omiyage. Maui potato chips have become readily available on Oahu; macadamia-nut chocolates can now be bought in Japan. Even so I hope the practice of giving omiyage continues well into the future because, really, as with any gift it’s the thought that matters most.
I was reminded of this recently when, thanks to the magic of social media, I was able to reconnect with my best friend from elementary school. It’s been more than a half-century since I last saw him, and I was so touched when he told me that he still has the Tokyo Tower souvenir thermometer (see photo) that I had given him from my trip to Japan way back in 1969. “The thermometer still keeps accurate temperature,” he told me.
Funny that I can’t recall giving him that particular gift, yet I can remember the thoughtful omiyage I’ve received over the years: elegant Japanese teacups from a cousin in Tokyo, a McKinley High School (my alma mater) bag from a classmate in Hawaii, a Shohei Ohtani baseball pin from a dear friend in Los Angeles. And every time I use or wear those items, I think fondly of those individuals, which makes me realize that, although the word “omiyage” literally means local product, the attached feelings of goodwill and friendship can easily cross global borders of time and place.
©2025 Alden M. Hayashi
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