Why Japanese People Bow to ATMs

It usually starts with a slight nod. The transaction completes, the screen politely thanks you for your business, and before you know it, the person in front of you gives the ATM a quick bow before walking away.

If you’re new to Japan, it might catch you off guard. You think: Did they just bow… to a machine?
Yes. Yes, they did.
And if you stay long enough, chances are—you will too.

This phenomenon isn’t isolated to one strange bank branch or a single particularly polite grandma. Salarymen do it. University students do it. I’ve seen people in full Halloween costumes bow to an ATM on October 31st in Shibuya. It’s not taught in schools. No one’s explicitly told to do it. It just… happens.

So why do we do it?

That question might sound simple, even amusing. But like many things in Japan, the answer sits at the intersection of habit, etiquette, subconscious ritual, and an enduring national fear of being rude to inanimate objects.

Let me explain.

Where Manners Meet Muscle Memory

The bow is Japan’s all-purpose gesture. It’s hello, goodbye, thank you, I’m sorry, excuse me, I’m not worthy, and sometimes all of the above at once. From childhood, we’re conditioned to bow so often that it becomes something closer to reflex than decision.

Bow when entering a room. Bow when leaving. Bow when your teacher hands back your test (even if it’s a 48). Bow when your manager gives you a completely unreasonable request, and bow again when you accept it with a forced smile and the taste of your own soul slowly dissolving in your throat.

So it’s no wonder this behavior spills over into the mechanical.

ATMs in Japan are not just cash machines—they’re experiences. They greet you, thank you, and speak in the politest Japanese imaginable. The screen will often display messages like:

「本日もご利用いただき、誠にありがとうございます。」
“We sincerely thank you for using our services today.”

It sounds like something you’d hear from a bowing hotel concierge, not a metal box filled with yen and logic boards.

In this cultural context, bowing back almost feels like the only natural response.

Robots, Elevators, and Other Things We Respect Too Much

It’s not just ATMs.

People bow to vending machines. To self-checkout kiosks. Even to elevators—especially if you’re getting off and others are still inside. It’s a micro-gesture of thanks and politeness, a quiet acknowledgement that you’re not alone in the social ecosystem, even when it seems like you are.

I once watched a man apologize to a Roomba he had kicked by accident. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t look around. He just muttered a quick “sumimasen” and gave it a bow before walking away.

To a Westerner, this might seem quirky, if not absurd. But to us, it’s a seamless part of our daily operating system: a blend of social programming and subtle superstition.

There’s a famous saying in Japan:
“The nail that sticks out gets hammered down.”
But there’s also a quieter, more pervasive idea:
“Better to be overly polite than accidentally impolite.”

So if you’re not sure whether to bow? Just do it. Even if it’s to a toaster.

The Personification of Politeness

Another angle to consider is anthropomorphism. In Japan, we have a habit of assigning personalities to objects. It’s not unusual to see sad-faced trash cans on posters begging you to sort your garbage properly, or warning signs featuring apologetic construction cones with furrowed brows and little arms.

Shinto—the indigenous spirituality of Japan—also plays a subtle role here. Shinto teaches that kami, or spirits, can inhabit natural objects and even manmade ones. While most people aren’t consciously thinking of Shinto when bowing to an ATM, the underlying cultural sense that everything deserves a measure of respect still lingers.

That’s why many Japanese people, even those who don’t identify as particularly religious, still do things like thank their old shoes before throwing them away. Or pay respect to tools before discarding them. Or, yes, bow to the ATM that just handed them their hard-earned cash like a courteous ghost from the Ministry of Finance.

It’s not a belief in the mystical as much as a belief in manners—extending gratitude, however small, to anything that performs a service.

Western Logic vs. Japanese Intuition

If you come from a Western culture, where efficiency and practicality tend to override formality, the ATM bow can feel like overkill. “Why are you wasting time on a machine that doesn’t care?” one of my American friends asked me.

I get it. In many Western countries, politeness is still expected between humans, but not necessarily toward objects. If anything, machines are met with suspicion or sarcasm. You might curse at your printer, mock your GPS, or roll your eyes when the airport kiosk says “have a nice day” in a monotone robot voice.

But in Japan, technology is often framed as a partner in harmony, not a necessary evil. It’s not uncommon to refer to your rice cooker as “reliable,” or your air conditioner as “kind.” It’s not that we believe these machines have souls—but we’ve grown up in a culture where we treat even the inanimate with care and respect. And in return, they seem to work a little harder for us.

(Except the copy machine. That thing breaks down right before every deadline, no matter how many times I bow.)

The ATM Bow as Social Mirror

Ultimately, the ATM bow isn’t really about the ATM.

It’s about the person bowing.

In a country where face, appearance, and social cohesion matter deeply, even solitary moments are part of a larger social choreography. Bowing to a machine may feel like a personal act, but it reflects how much of Japanese behavior is about maintaining an internal sense of order and humility—even when no one is watching.

Or rather, especially when no one is watching.

There’s an unspoken pride in doing the right thing quietly. Not because you’ll be praised, but because it aligns with who you are. And in a world where behavior is so often performative, there’s something oddly noble in that.

So, Should You Bow Too?

If you’re visiting Japan and find yourself at an ATM, no one expects you to bow. There’s no fine for not doing it. No disapproving ojisan will come out from behind the potted plants to scold you for your Western insolence.

But if you do bow—even just a little—you might find it feels… oddly good.

Not because the ATM deserves your reverence, but because it’s a way of saying thank you to the moment. To the machine that didn’t eat your card. To the smooth transaction. To the quiet rhythm of life in a country that still bows to things, even when it doesn’t have to.

And maybe, in a world of growing automation, that kind of intentionality—however small—deserves a little respect too.

Just don’t expect the ATM to bow back.