Kishiwada Danjiri Matsuri 2009

For the past several years, I have joined some friends to join in the spirit (and share in the local hospitality) of this festival, held the third weekend of every September in Kishiwada, in the south part of Osaka Prefecture. I took fewer photos than usual (the imbibing of some friends’ hospitality went on until nearly dusk this year), but here are a few samples of what we saw.

Click here to see shots from 2008, and here for photos from 2007, aaaaaand here for 2006.

Get out the Vote – Epilogue

The DPJ won a landslide, the LDP has imploded, and the Komeito were wiped out in Osaka. That included Mr Tabata, the MP my neighbour was exhorting me to vote for. He lost to a Mr Nakajima. Blood did not flow in the streets, but the neighbour was noticeably distant last evening when I met her and her bicycle in the elevator. Her whole attitude was a poorly concealed, “Happy now?”

Actually, I was.

Get out the vote (any vote)

There will be a Parliamentary election in Japan this Sunday, and the big news is that the LDP (Liberal Democratic Party,自民党, Jimintou ), the governing party for 54 years (minus 9 months in the 90s) is – to put it delicately – going out on its ass. Now the DPJ (Democratic Party of Japan,民主党 Minshutou), the party who will win this election, is a cobbled-together mish-mash of LDP retreads, former members of the defunct Socialist Party and some even more blatant opportunists (viz.,Makiko Tanaka, the Power-Whore of Niigata™, whose only admirable accomplishment was presciently referring to George W. Bush as an “asshole” while she was Foreign Minister in 2001). That doesn’t sound too promising, but I don’t think the Japanese who actually bother to vote are really concerned about this: they just need a change, any change, from the social and economic inertia of the past decade. The LDP ran out of ideas years ago, the leadership loathes each other openly, so much so that they have gone through four different leaders (and, by default, prime ministers) since 2006. The current prime minister, the autocratic Taro Aso, has been been dubbed the Bush of Japan for his mangling of his native language and his cushy, out-of-touch background, and is hated and laughed at in more or less equal measure. Anyway, something big is going to happen in the next few days.

All day, all over town, big trucks with loudspeakers have been riding through neighbourhoods, imploring, begging voters to support the LDP or its ally, the Komeito (which is backed by the weird and influential Buddhist sect, Sokka Gakkai). The Opposition Democratic Party is probably doing the same thing; I just didn’t happen to hear them tonight (and the local Communist Party probably only has one truck and it’s somewhere else). At around 7pm, the trucks were going opposite directions on different blocks and the echoes of their shouting bounced off the apartment buildings and cancelled out their ‘messages’ (“Please, please vote for me! I’ll do my best!! Thank you! Thank you!”– again and again and again). Dogs barked in the distance –  an ominous sign, at least in the movies.

About half an hour ago, the doorbell rang. I didn’t answer it right away, thinking it was probably some other old guy trying to sell newspaper subscriptions. It rang three times, then I put a t-shirt on (it’s humid this evening) and answered the door.

There was a clunk  as I opened the door on someone who had been obviously trying to squint through the peephole. It was one of my neighbours from down the hall, a woman in her mid-50s who always smiles just too much and asks just too many questions about where I’m going when we meet on the elevator. At least one nosy bat like this is virtually required by law to live in any apartment complex or residential street in Japan, so one accepts them as coming with the territory and deals with them accordingly, like the athlete’s foot you occasionally get from the showers at the gym. She was with a younger woman, who stood behind her. She bowed and reminded me that she was my neighbour down the hall. Since I obviously knew this, I thought something was afoot. But I bowed back, and wished her good evening.

She asked me if I was aware that there was an election campaign in Japan. After the cacophony in the streets this evening and all this week, I would have to be dead not to, but I didn’t say that. I just said something like, “Yes, the election. It’s on Sunday, isn’t it?” This elicited the usual cries of amazement at how wonderful my Japanese is from the women in back (it isn’t; trust me). “Yes, that’s right,” the neighbour said, “and you know that at the elementary school by the station … (…is where we vote, I knew she was going to say, because that’s where polling stations almost always are in Japan).” “And as for you…?”

“Well, no, I’m not Japanese, so… (or hadn’t you noticed?)”

“Ah, yes, yes, of course. I see. Well, now…,” she was looking ever-so-discreetly over my shoulder as she spoke, trying to see what a gaijin apartment really looked like, or…

“Um, is your wife in tonight?” After living next door to me for six years, did it never occur to her that I was single? A Japanese wife would be fairly obvious, I thought, especially one married to a foreigner in this neighbourhood. Maybe she thought I kept her in purdah or something and only took her out to vote. I was baffled.

“Hitori desukedou…” I ungrammatically replied. I’m not married.

“Oh, is that so?” “

“Yes. Why?”

“Oh, well we’re (a phrase I didn’t know but  guessed that it meant campaigning for) Tabata-san.”

“Tabata-san?”

“Komeitou,” the other woman said. Aha! Sokka Gakkai! Might have known! And she’s the local ward-heeler!

Lacking the vocabulary to tell them what I thought of mixing religion and politics (which is technically illegal here), and not wanting to get on the bad side of religious zealots (she’s not the only one in this building), I just said, “Jyaa, gambatte kudasai,ne (literally, Well, do your best, but said to wish anyone good luck in an endeavour).” That effectively ended the conversation on a positive note, and they thanked me profusely and backed away, bowing, having accomplished absolutely nothing in their quest for votes.  Judging from the level of organization I’ve witnessed from the governing coalition tonight, expect a landslide for the DPJ on Sunday.

Renovated Cracker Boxes – Before/After

Recently, I’ve got myself hooked on a popular home renovation programme which is on every Sunday night at eight on Asahi TV. Called Before/After , it’s a Japanese variation on all those fix-it shows that have been on for years in English-speaking countries (and probably others, but how would I know?). I learn things from it that the producers did not intend, and for that alone it’s worth checking out.

The programme follows a rigidly set formula (Japanese TV shows either meander pointlessly for hours or you can set your atomic clock by the predictability of their format – nothing in between). The programme uses the loan word “renewal”, which in Japanese usually means remodeling or renovation. More often than not, though,the houses on Before/After are simply gutted, leaving only the barest frame, which has a new house built around it. We are first introduced to a family who are living in cramped, unhappy quarters and are shown in uncomfortable detail the full crappiness of their lot (doing the laundry outside, then climbing onto the roof to hang out the wash; bathing in a tub the size of a sink, in a tiny, rotting bathroom; a front door opening out onto traffic, so that exits must be planned very carefully indeed; people literally climbing over piles of boxes because there is no storage space in the house – none; and on and on). They are then packed away, their home is quickly ripped up, and a new living space installed on the ashes of the old one; comparisons of before the renovation and after are made; the family is whisked back (minus, suspiciously, all the junk they were seen packing away in the beginning); gratitude (often tearful) is expressed to the designer, who personally shows them around their new home; finally, the happy family is seen having their first meal in the swanky new pad. Back in the studio, the host thanks the designer (renovator?) then he (or another member of the renovation team) is then assigned next week’s project.

The rule of the programme is that the architects have to work within the original dimensions of the house. Considering the size of a city lot in Japan, that’s (literally) not a lot of elbow room. Last week’s house was said to be 8 tsubo (坪,the traditional unit for measuring the area of land and floor space – it’s the size of 2 tatami mats, or 3.5m², or 38ft²). In other words, the entire house had the same amount of floor space as my apartment, roughly 43m² or 463ft²). I’m trying to imagine a family of three (with one on the way) functioning amiably in my apartment. I can’t. This programme tells you a lot about the assumptions of people here. And mine too, I suppose (incidentally, when I tell anyone Japanese the size of my flat, they invariably ask, “and you live alone…?” as if it were the penthouse suite at the Sheraton).

It must be said that some of the space-saving innovations shown on the programme are remarkable: drop-down fire-escape style staircases; drawers under beds that become night tables; intelligent shelving, which employs the height of the  wall space but makes everything within reach with a simple crank; a real attic – which, remarkably, few Japanese houses have – at the top of the house; retractable counter-tops in the kitchen. Last week’s featured a brilliant ventilation idea to keep the house from heating up in the summer – so simple that you wonder why it never occurred to anyone before (it’s not as though Japanese houses don’t need it – they’re stiflingly hot in the doldrums of summer).

But it’s the early segments which are morbidly fascinating – the lengths to which people will go to keep up the middle class ideal of owning your own home. The families portrayed on Before/After are not destitute – a Japanese audience couldn’t or wouldn’t relate to them if they were (a programme which did this work as obvious charity would only inspire envy, which is no recipe for success here). Although the TV families have got it rough, there obviously has to be enough familiarity in the situation to spark some fellow feeling in the audience. So, although the average Japanese family might not live in something as squalid (the only word for it in many cases), they mustn’t be living in a situation too far removed.

A word comes to mind, one that is used ad nauseum here : gaman (我慢). It’s always defined as “endurance” in the dictionary, but really means something closer to “putting up with.” This is considered a great virtue in Japan (as it used to be in my country – how else would those prairie settlers have survived in the middle of ice-block nowhere?), but this programme shows, unwittingly, how even the greatest virtue can be taken to the silliest lengths unless, miraculously, like Mito Komon, the TV channel appears out of nowhere and fixes your life. Watch it if you can (NB: or if you can’t, look at some of these clips which someone posted on You Tube They tend to show more After than Before, but they’ll give you a good idea of what the show is like. Warning: if you watch too many, the theme song will be stuck in your head for days).

The Louvre Show in Osaka: “Scary…scary…”

Went to the Louvre exhibition at the Osaka National Museum of Art in Higobashi today. It explores the theme of childhood, motherhood and families in art. An interesting (and perplexing) mish-mash of stuff from the Louvre (much of it from the storage cellars, I think), it would have been better as a two-part show {note: it is a two-part show – the other half is being shown in Kyoto; I guess I meant it would’ve been better as a four-part show}. As it was, one got to look at Egyptian terracotta, hieroglyphics and all, next to ancient toys found in present-day Iran (the tiny, 2000-year-old hedgehog pull-toy was worth the price of admission!), next to sentimental 18th-century French paintings, next to Roman statues of child satyrs. There was one beautiful Valezquez painting of a young princess, some sketches of children at a crepe stall by Rembrandt, some fat Rubens babies, a 14th-century brass (?) Madonna and Child. There was an Egyptian sarcophagus, made of wood, showing the inscriptions along the side for the tomb of a child (the mummy of the child, mercifully still wrapped, was still in the box, which was in a climate-controlled plexiglass case). It was a bizarre bazaar, of uneven quality. But it was all from the Louvre, and that’s all Osakans need to hear: the place was pretty busy for a Tuesday. It’s still worth going to see, however, and you should give yourself more than a couple of hours because most the stuff you’ll want to spend time with is, oddly, jammed near the end, and you’ll find yourself running out of time to enjoy it if you arrive 90 minutes or so before closing time, as I did.

While I was taking my time to get a good look at some tiny Ancient Greek figurines, I was beside a couple in their 30s. The man, goateed, wearing Sarah Palin glasses (they are, after all, made in Fukui) was muttering something about Hellenism (or “herenizumu“) and saying “yappari” (of course, naturally) a lot. She was muttering variations on, “kowai, kowai. Kao-ga kowai. Mecha kowai” (Scary. Scary. The faces are scary. Really scary). She kept saying it, all down the line. I held back and let them move on, afraid that I eventually would have bopped her on the head with one of the heavier marble bits if she’d said it one more time. How did those poor Greeks build a whole civilization without Hello Kitty? Beats me, honey.

At the exit, there was a bottleneck as a crowd admired the biggest, most camp canvases there (over 8 feet tall): two paintings of fat French cupids frolicking on puffy, 18th-century clouds. She was there again, Kowai Lady, but this time she was in her element. “Kawaii, kawaii!” (“Cute! Cute!”) she chanted, as did everyone else. This was the Real France, of Versailles and Marie Antoinette (whom everyone loves here) and Takarazuka musicals (actually, I find them a bit kowai). I, the big gaijin grump, went back for another look at the Medieval tapestry of children at play, which nobody else was paying much attention to, and sumimasen-ed my way out the door.

Hating Natto – a Dying Osaka Tradition

There’s so much about Japanese food that I love, but natto (納豆, fermented soybeans) is a culinary minefield. I can understand its health benefits and could probably even get used to the taste of the stuff, but (and this is no doubt a personal failing on my part) I can’t get past the fact that it smells like a foot infection. I’ve been here long enough to know that plenty of foreigners love natto and plenty of Japanese can’t stand it. The default opinion, though, is that “we Japanese love natto, and foreigners can’t eat it.”

It wasn’t always the case, at least in Kansai. In fact, when I first started working in Osaka, c.1989, the standard answer to the textbook question, “Do you like natto?” was “No – that’s Kanto food. We Osakans can’t eat it.” A bit of clever marketing in the early 90s changed that, nearly overnight. Dissenters, of course, still exist, but they keep their opinions to themselves.

Fifteen years on, it’s available in every supermarket or convenience store in Osaka, and it’s on the menu of many a diner, especially the lunch counters that cater to salarymen. I stopped by a gyudon  shop for lunch the other day (gyudon is a bowl of thin-sliced beef and green onions on rice), and while waiting for my order to arrive, I looked around to see which of the  tired-looking, middle-aged men in the shop had taken off his socks. Naturally, it was just the man on my right stirring up and tucking into his side-dish of natto and raw egg. I didn’t enjoy my lunch.

An import shop in Tennoji tried to popularize Thai tempeh a few years ago, but since I was apparently the only one buying it, they gave up. Tempeh is essentially the same food as natto (although I don’t know the difference, if any, between the fermenting agents used); the extra step, however, of pressing the tempeh into flat blocks during fermentation seems to take away the pong for which natto is so justly famed. I’ve only met one student who had ever eaten tempeh, and she complained that the smell and taste were too mild for her, and it felt funny in her mouth (unlike say, a bracing mouthful of tofu?). A dwindling number of old Kansai folk still audibly complain that natto stinks, has too strong a taste and … feels  funny in their mouth.

I’m with the old folks on this one, although it’s ironic that young Osakans (who live in an eternal present) assume it’s a sign of my foreignness that I can’t stand the stuff.

Osaka Largesse Postscript: Writ in Water

The day after speaking to the cheerful old man on the train who just had to know how much I weighed (in an admiring way, because he liked sumo), I went to my gym and, since I seem to have hurt a tendon in my shoulder (and can’t swim very well anyway), I opted to go for a long march – 2000 metres – in the walking lane of the pool (most pools in Japan have these). Imagine walking steadily for 2 kms in chest-deep water: a good low-intensity aerobic exercise and a good wind-down after work. Well, I was happily striding away (sometimes backwards, sometimes crouching, always looking ridiculous) when I noticed a woman about my age in the beginner’s swimming lane, next to mine. She had cap and goggles on, earplugs in, and was looking at me.

– Why are you walking?

I had never seen her before in my life. Taken aback, my Japanese evaporated.

– I can’t swim (suiei ga dekinai), I eventually blurted out, ungrammatically.

– So why don’t you learn?

– My arm hurts. Hurt it. Upstairs (the gym). I turned and kept walking.

Fifty metres later, there she was again.

– So you’re just going to walk. That’s all?

– I exercised and now I’ll walk (I was not in a chatty mood).

– Why?

– It feels good.

– Yes, but why?

I pretended I didn’t hear, turned, walked another lap. She bobbed up from the water and and smiled triumphantly.

– I know! I know why!

She pointed to my belly.

– Metaboli (メタボリ)!”

Metaboli is the trendy new word, short for “metabolic syndrome”, which has entered the language via the media here in the past year. It just means you’ve got a beer belly, but because it’s got a foreign faux-scientific sound to it (if you’re Japanese), it’s become the cool new way of calling someone a fat-ass. I don’t think she was being malicious, but she was certainly being insensitive (not that Osakans are accused of that very often…), and was probably a bit snapped (my turn to be insensitive).

Sadly, there’s only one way out of a situation like this without causing a scene (which would be blamed on me). I made a self-deprecating joke and moved on.

– I like Japanese beer too much, I said, over my shoulder (and so did your mother when she was carrying you, honey, I failed to add).

This seemed to satisfy her, and she laughed, continued swimming for a few laps, then mercifully left. I kept at my routine until I’d reached my goal, then went for a shower and sauna, where a naked old Japanese man relentlessly tried to speak to me in French until I fled. Je pense que vous aimez la cuisine japonaise, he remarked, pointing to my gut.

No wonder I drink.

I’ll say this much for being overweight in Japan, a country where fully 25% of all women in their 20s are officially underweight but whose media only talk about the danger of beer bellies: you’ll have no trouble starting conversations in public places. Now if only I wanted to.

Osaka Largesse

On the subway this morning en route for Umeda, a seat opened up for me at Tennoji, a great rarity. I sat, settled in, and then I caught sight of a man well into his 70s (at least), stooped, thin, tallish (for a Japanese man his age), in a well-kept old suit and horn-rimmed glasses, strap-hanging in front of me, to my right. He looked a bit unsteady on his feet, so I immediately got up and gave him my seat (you never just offer, because old people here always politely say no supposing they can barely stand up). He bowed his head quickly, sliced the air vertically a few times (meaning “excuse me” or “much obliged”) and sat down. There was still a bit of of space next to him (he didn’t take up very much), and he gestured insistantly for me to sit next to him. I smiled, told him it might be a bit narrow for me, but he persisted and after other people shifted over a (resentful) little, I squeezed back in.

–  Sumimasen, I nodded.

He looked me up and down. Wow, you’re big, he said good-naturedly.

– Soudesunee, I conceded.

– “You could be a sumo, couldn’t you?” he said, which I realized, after a split-second of resentment, to be a compliment on the old man’s part.

I smiled and nodded, as you do, reaching for my earphones. But he wasn’t finished.

– You must weigh about – what? A hundred kilos?

– Oh, I don’t know really, my smile probably getting a bit more strained around the eyes at that stage.

– But still (demo-ne) – I’m half you’re size and I’m only 50 kilos. Look! Look at that leg! And look at yours!

– But you look well, I said, trying to get him off the topic of my avoidupois.

– Oh, I’m all right. But honestly, you’re what? 100?

– Must be about that, I answered.

– Ah. Well there you go. Big man.

Is this going to go on for the next 20 minutes? I thought. Then he paid me another backhanded compliment:

– So where are you from? England? France? The usual one-word question is “America?”, so although I don’t think I look either British or French, it pleased me for some reason.

– I’m Canadian.

– Ah! Canadian. English and French. Yappari (I knew it/ might have known)! And are you here on business?

– I’m a teacher (using the modest word kyoushi for teacher).

– Ah! Sensei desuka! (he used the more respectful term, which a teacher should never use when referring to himself). This seemed to please him, and he smiled and nodded and looked ahead. I did the same.

As it turned out, he got off after only eight minutes, at Shinsaibashi. Shitsureishimasu (excuse my rudeness, which you always say to you excuse yourself and leave first), he said, nodding in my direction, and he tottered off the train.

It’s odd – although the W word is the big taboo to ask anyone you don’t know well (and most people you do), his good-nature and obvious lack of malice about it made it  seem not so bad. Also, just to have someone (more to the point, someone sane) chat with you out of the blue on a train is so rare nowadays that it put me in a good mood. I felt as though I were seeing a bit of old Osaka which has all but disappeared.

God help the next person who asks me that, though.

Hanami (花見) 2009

Cherry blossoms bloom all over Japan from late March to mid-April. They are the stuff of cliché here, but I must admit that they really are beautiful and the custom of  Blossom Viewing (Hanami, 花見), that is, sitting and picnicking and drinking (or not) under the trees with your friends is very enjoyable. Enjoyable, that is, in the right venue, with the right people. In recent years I’ve been turned off by the loud, drunken, karaoke-blaring crowds (swarms, really) jammed under and around the trees of the largest, most famous parks and gardens. Last year, other than from the window of a train, I didn’t even bother looking at them at all. This year, though, I got the urge and acted upon it, afraid that I was growing too jaded. My friends and I chose a few smaller, non-touristy areas and had a pleasant, somewhat nostalgic week or so.

Click here to see what all the fuss is about.

Visa Renewal, 2009

Sumiyoshi-ku (ku means city ward) is at the bottom of Osaka City, geographically. It borders the Yamato River, which has the dubious distinction of being both the most historical and the filthiest river in Western Japan. On the other concrete-covered bank is Sakai City, famous for knives and swords (in some circles). Nagai, the neighbourhood where I’ve lived for 6 years now, is in Sumiyoshi-ku, although curiously Nagai Sports Park, the only thing for which Nagai is famous, is not (that side of the street is in Higashi-Sumiyoshi, the adjoining ward). Regardless, Nagai is where I live, so Sumiyoshi-ku is where I’m registered as a foreign resident of Japan and where, every now and then, I must make my presence known to the authorities.

My work visa expires in May and needs to be renewed for another 3 years. In  the 90s, you had to take a day off every year to sit in the Immigration Office in Temmabashi (in a Ministry of Justice building) until they finally stamped your passport – you couldn’t leave once they’d taken it. For the past 8 or 9 years,though, the system was becoming fairly streamlined. Until recently, you went to the office, took a number and submitted your documents and passport, waited 30 minutes or so until your name was called, filled out a self-addressed postcard; when the postcard arrived at your home, some days later, you went back, got your visa stamp, and were free for another 3 years. I expected the same this time, but was unpleasantly surprised.

My company usually mails me all the paperwork (duly translated), which I fill out and take down to the Immigration Office, and this year was no exception.This time, along with my usual package of documents there was a checklist. All of the documents were there except a newly-required one, a kazei shoumei (課税証明,City Tax Report), but a handwritten note on the checklist read: “You can get this at your ward office.”

Now, the Sumiyoshi Ward Office was, until recently, a dumpy old building, which looked as though it had been built in the 50s (which probably meant it had been built in the 70s – postwar Japanese government architecture being mostly glum and Stalinist until fairly recently). It was nowhere near a subway station and the old Nankai Line train station nearby was not of much use to anyone who wasn’t going to Wakayama. It was one of those government buildings seemingly put up in an inconvenient place to give bus drivers something to do. On my day off, I bicycled down there. And promptly got lost.

Something was different – there used to be at least signs pointing to the general area of the office. But nothing. After 25 minutes or so, I realized I’d overshot the runway. I made the mistake of asking a resident for directions.  When I asked her where the Sumiyoshikuyakushou was, she gestured and said “mukou (over there somewhere), about 10 minutes that way.” The first part of her sentence was vague enough to be correct, but the rest was just her imagination (is there any other place where people know as little about their own city as Osaka?).

Eventually, I turned what I thought to be a wrong corner and drove right past it. It looked even more desolate than usual, more fences up. The gate was locked. I looked around for some explanation, and then I noticed a small, hand-drawn note on the fence. It turned out to be directions to the new ward office, but might as well have read, “Hey, Kenji, if you read this, we’re at the pub round the back – just follow this map – Toru”. By this time, I was getting cranky.
I followed the zig-zagging directions and finally found a huge, new, modern-looking complex. According to the sign, it featured the ward office, a kumin sentaa (区民センター,an auditorium for cultural events), and the Sumiyoshi public library. All inconveniently located at a neighbourhood nowhere near you. {Addendum, June 23rd, 2009 – that was a bit unfair. I got lost because I was coming from the old ward office and was disoriented. I’ve since realized that it’s not all that far from my place, and the new local library is small but very good, and the staff is helpful. The following comments about the ward office still stand, though.}

Anyway, there I was. I parked my bicycle. I made my way past a phalanx of furiously smoking civil servants at the entrance and entered an oddly empty atrium (there are always people milling about an entrance to a ward office – mostly old men who look confused because they saw all the wickets and thought it was a betting shop). Around the atrium were numbers and names of departments in Japanese and (surprisingly) correct English. I found the one I was looking for (ominously, number 13), and followed the arrow down one corridor.
I soon realized that the structure was the latest triumph of that great architectural firm, Kafka and Sons. The corridor curved, and along it were many locked doors. One office (water works?) with glass doors and peach-coloured walls, featured a desk, with a man in his fifties sitting in a chair, staring into space (when I left, he was sitting in another chair, observing space from a different angle). There did not appear to be anything or anyone else in the room.
I wondered what was behind all those closed doors in the corridor, but feared I’d turn into a cockroach or something if I looked, so I gave up wondering.
I rounded a corner at the end of the corridor. It opened up into a large hall. Now, in the old place, all the civil servants’ desks were jammed together behind a counter and supplicants stood in line waiting to be served. Here, in this great, expensive new building I saw…all the civil servants’ desks jammed together behind a counter while supplicants stood in line waiting to be served. It was as though they’d lassoed the whole lot of them and just rolled them down the road together.
I bypassed the reception desk and saw Section 13 (a sign along the counter). A man in his 50s (they all looked to be men in their 50s, even the men in their 20s) was staring vaguely into the middle distance, simulating thought (but probably just waiting for his co-workers to come back from their smoke break so he could go out for his). I asked him if this was the place to get a kazei shoumei. He gestured vaguely to some yellow forms on the counter. “Go fill it out over there,” he said, and gestured to the taller counters behind me. To my left, about fifteen people sat or stood watching a large TV, which had been placed there to placate the masses as, forms submitted, they waited for their number to be called (the motto of this country should be “Take a Number”).
I looked at the form. I could read exactly 1/3 of one side of the double-sided, kanji-filled page. I was able to find where to write my name and address and state that I was the head of my household. The rest would have taken me an hour with a dictionary. I looked up imploringly at the city officer, but he was in a reverie or self-willed trance. In fairness, since I didn’t know exactly what I was asking for, he couldn’t have helped me anyway. I grabbed a few copies of the form and skulked out, day wasted.

Next day, I went to the personnel section at my company headquarters to get the form translated and to sound the alarm before the next poor sap had the same experience. The woman in charge of foreign employees’ visas looked at the form, ticked three boxes, said, “Sign here and here, and write the date,” and handed it back to me. “That’s it?” I asked, stunned. All I’d had to know was which three boxes to tick (but I’d have to be able to read it all to know that). Amazing.

A few days passed. I went back to the ward office, eventually finding it after a few false starts (pigeons and ferrets having eaten the trail of bread crumbs I’d left on the previous occasion). I handed it to the same city officer (distracting him from his dreams of samurai glory), he called up the requested form on his computer, printed it out, took my 400 yen fee, and out I went. Time elapsed: less than three minutes. Feeling empowered, I decided to continue on to the Osaka Immigration Office. This had also moved since the last time I renewed my visa. Now, however,instead of a leisurely subway trip to Temmabashi, fifteen minutes away, I got on the train at Nagai, changed at Daikokucho, changed again at Suminoekoen to the New Tram, and chugged along the man-made island in Nanko (南港, southern harbour). It took me an hour, and it would take nearly anyone an hour. But I didn’t mind too much – I was on a mission, documents in hand. I’d turn them in, wait a few minutes, fill out a postcard, and go have a cup of coffee.

In my dreams. The new immigration office has nothing –nothing – around it, but it’s another nice new building with an atrium full of natural light. I took the elevator upstairs, the door opened, and a man was standing there with his back to the open door. I instantly realized that he was behind another man, who was behind two women, and on and on. The queue started at the elevator. It wound around a corner of the corridor, leading to the processing room. Ten minutes later, I was standing inside the room, and five minutes after that, an officer took my application and documents, slipped them all into a ziplock folder, gave me a numbered slip (matching the one in the bag with my documents), and told me to place them in the inbox on the long counter. I sat down. There were about 150 other people in the large room, four or five caucasians, two African couples, two Indic guys, and all the rest Asians of various origins (which is pretty much the make-up of the actual foreign population of Japan as a whole). I heard a lot of Korean spoken, and some Mandarin.

Because the numbers of the processed applications came up almost randomly, I couldn’t really concentrate on the book I’d brought (Everything Is Illuminated). Also, periodically, someone would come out from behind the counter and call the number of someone they wanted to get some extra information from, so I couldn’t really enjoy my iPod either. So I sat and waited. I waited for two hours and ten minutes. I estimated from the numbers called out that there were about 65 other people in front of me when I arrived, waiting for the same thing. No idea what everyone else was sitting there for. Finally, my number was called, my postcard taken, my passport and gaijin card handed back, and off I went, without a fine or anything. I took the Chuo Line to Hommachi (where my train pass kicked in), then repaired to the big Starbucks there and drank a much-needed cup of coffee. (incidentally, the total train time, minus the coffee break, for this alternate route took me…one hour).

The postcard arrived in the mail today, so back I go, cash in hand, next Tuesday. Can’t wait.