He Photographed an Entire Shelf at a Japanese Drugstore, Only to Realize Back in Taiwan That He'd Missed One Thing

The weekend Chen Yanting got back from Kansai, he spread everything from his suitcase out on the living room floor. Drugstore receipts, two boxes of throat lozenges, a tin of matcha powder, and a photo he'd taken inside a shop in Shinsaibashi. The photo showed a whole row of shelves, bottles and jars lined up neatly, labels covered in kanji and katakana. At the time, he figured that taking the picture was as good as remembering—he'd study it properly once he was back in Taiwan.

The problem was that when he opened the photo, he realized he hadn't captured a single price tag, nor the ingredient list on the back. The bottles on the top shelf were so washed out by the lighting that he couldn't even make out the product names. He stared at the photo for a long time, remembering only that he'd stood there hesitating for about five minutes while tourists pushed shopping baskets past him and a clerk restocked the shelves—and yet he couldn't even recall why he'd ultimately pulled his hand back.

His initial assumption was simple: this kind of product was probably all pretty much the same, differing only in packaging and price. So he dropped the photo into a travel chat group and asked if anyone had bought something similar. Someone replied, "Depends on the brand." Someone else said, "I just ask the staff directly." Another person posted a shelf photo of their own, saying they'd turned each bottle around to shoot the back. That's when Chen Yanting realized he'd photographed the front—and the front usually only has the name and a few lines of marketing copy.

The first clue came while he was organizing his photos: he noticed some bottles on the shelf were labeled "医薬部外品" (quasi-drugs), while others fell under general cosmetics or health food categories. He wasn't sure what these labels meant under Japanese regulations, and he didn't dare draw his own conclusions—he just noted the difference in his phone's memo app. The second clue was remembering something a friend on the trip had said: "You need to check whether it's written for tourists." He went back and compared the photos, noticing that some packaging had unusually large text with multilingual explanations, while others were in Japanese only.

He began breaking his questions down into specific verification steps. First, confirm how this type of product is regulated in Taiwan—whether it's classified as a drug, a medical device, or a general product—because the classification affects whether you can bring it back and whether you can sell it online. Second, check whether the packaging has a complete product name, manufacturer, manufacturing date, and storage instructions, rather than just a catchy slogan. Third, look up the Japanese terms he didn't understand, especially the "usage" and "precautions" sections, since those are usually the most easily overlooked—and the last things you should guess at.

During his search, he noticed that many people discussing this type of product would use "Japan 2H2D" as a starting point, then bounce between various forums and marketplace pages. He didn't come away with any conclusions—in fact, he became more certain of one thing: when online accounts contradict each other, the right move isn't to pick the one you like best and believe it, but to go back to the packaging and the source itself. He shared this thought with the friend in the group who'd photographed the backs of bottles. The friend replied, "Exactly. That's what I ended up doing too—read what it says first, then decide whether to ask someone."

So he did something he'd never thought of before: he printed out the photo and took it to a long-established pharmacy near his home. He wasn't there to buy anything—he just wanted to know how someone could ask about a product with unfamiliar labeling after returning from abroad. After hearing his description, the pharmacist first asked, "Are you trying to understand the ingredients, or whether it's safe for you to use?" Chen Yanting was caught off guard, because he hadn't actually considered that distinction. The pharmacist went on to say that if it's the former, he should first look up the complete product name and labeling; if it's the latter, he should bring a list of all the other medications or supplements he's currently taking so a professional can review them together—not rely on a single sentence from the internet.

That evening, Chen Yanting reorganized his memo. He deleted all the vague lines like "someone said it works" and kept only the concrete, verifiable items: product name, classification label, manufacturer, expiration date, precautions—and one question he still hadn't resolved: if the packaging is in Japanese only, where can he find reliable Chinese-language information? He didn't find a universal answer, but he knew that next time he stood in front of a shelf, he would at least do three things first: photograph the back, photograph the price, and photograph the exact section he actually wanted to ask about.

He kept that blurry shelf photo. He didn't delete it—not because it was useful, but because it reminded him that the easiest thing to bring back from a trip isn't a product, but a pile of unanswered questions. As for how to ask those questions, whom to ask, and how much asking is enough—he's still learning. He only knows that next time, he won't photograph just the front.