Visa, Everywhere I Want to Be

Junk flyers clutter my mailbox. Pictures are the only clue to services advertised in Kanji lettering. This week’s offers included 80% off horses, chinchilla adoption, a dollhouse moving company, and apartments for cartoon characters. Nearly lost in the shuffle was more personal correspondence: a postcard from immigration notifying me that my visa was ready. Hallelujah!

The trip to Shinagawa immigration center in southern Tokyo required a subway to bus transfer. This bus route, however, is not exclusively for foreigners awaiting face time with bureaucrats. Local riders must dread sharing their commute with Filipinos, Australians, Chinese, Americans, and other filthy animals seeking residence permission among this xenophobic society. Curiously, a stop exists in the middle of a bridge, perhaps as a convenience for lonely leapers in a nation ranked among the top in suicide rates per capita.

Even Japanese obsession with order and efficiency could not streamline bureaucratic inertia. I languished in line with people from around the world to trade my postcard for a number, which then would be exchanged for the crowning glory, a work permit stamp in my passport.

I clutched 82; they were now serving 33. I began the countdown to becoming fully legal. No more crossing the street when I spotted police activity. The next number jumped to 43. Then it dropped to 27 before soaring to 75, just 7 away from the magic number. This lottery rollercoaster toyed with my emotions, especially when the blinking counter hit triple digits. Faces familiar from waiting in line had all been served. I groaned when 183 rolled around. Since leaving the country without a separate re-entry stamp invalidates my visa, I also took a number at the nearby re-entry application desk. I might as well wait in two lines at once.

“Hachi-juu ni ban,” said a man behind the counter. I remained mesmerized on the “Now Serving #146” sign. Suddenly it clicked – he was calling 82! I rushed to the counter with my ticket, thankful to at least be conversant in Japanese numbers up to 100. An enormous mole sprouted from the bridge of the man’s nose. He told me to purchase a visa revenue stamp from downstairs and to return to wait for 82 to flash on screen. These fee stamps are sold inside the convenience store on the ground floor. “One package of squid jerky and one ¥4,000 stamp, please.”

I wasn’t done with Japanese bureaucrats for the day. With work visa and re-entry stamps glued into my passport, I headed across town to my borough government office to pick up my alien identification card, which was ready after three weeks of processing. On the way inside I passed a sign for the welfare office, and considered applying for benefits. Pricey rent, exorbitant health insurance, and below minimum wage salary makes for a losing combination in the world’s most expensive city. But the feeling of having visa in hand after three months: priceless.