Having spent a number of days lurking around the seedier internet cafes and Izakaya of Fujigaoka, not to mention a whistelstop weekend in Tokyo (patience!), it was time to face reality and responsibility. I was to (bravely) embark upon a Jasonian quest for the fabled Gaijin Card - a key that would unlock most doors for me in Japan. Armed only with my unwavering grin, two battered Passport photos and my ever shaky Japanese, I opened the door of the apartment to a day of uncertainty, embarrassment and hopeless navigation.
The first faux-pas of the day was brought to my attention with a tentative 'S-s-sumimasen...' (excuse me). I turned from my intense scrutiny of the platform edge upon my saviour's third attempt at drawing my attention. A wide eyed Japanese woman stood behind me, gesticulating worriedly both at my feet and the watch on her wrist. I smiled, enthusiastically nodding my agreement while my mind raced to find meaning in this odd display. A quick look at my feet confirmed that I was indeed wearing shoes, neatly laced, newly polished. 8AM, my watch read. Something nagged at the edge of my thoughts.. Oh! Another look at my shoes confirmed my suspicions. Klutz that I am, I was standing on a sizable, luminous-yellow sign inscribed with the words: 'Ladies only'. I threw our nameless heroine a hasty 'Arigatou!' as I trotted conspicuously up the platform to where I saw other men were standing. Not a moment too soon! The rumble of the tracks told me I had avoided this taboo incursion by mere seconds.
Tasty background
'Ladies only' carriages have been in service in Japan since 1912. These carriages are for women who seek sanctuary from the wandering hands of the shadowy Chikan (pervert). In rush hour, when the trains are bursting at the seams, it is not uncommon for these unsavoury characters to prey upon helpless members of the fairer sex. Having spent many a subway ride with my face a hair's breadth from one neighbour's armpit and my hands pinned to my sides by the others, I can well understand the need for segregation. While we're on this vein, why is it impossible to silence the shutter sound on Japanese camera phones? I'll give you one guess...
Needless to say, it wasn't without a healthy amount of trepidation that I scuttled off the subway and into the ostensible warren of ticket gates and staircases that makes up 市役所 (city hall) station. Squatting under the elegant lines of Nagoya Castle, this somewhat more imposing, industrial tower block glares down unblinkingly upon the rush of Salarymen who mob the streets of centraｌ Nagoya.
The corridors of the city hall proved a stark contrast to the smorgasbord of words, colours and sounds of the high street. In fact, I spent what felt like several days wandering down grey-walled halls, past grey doors, up grey staircases without seeing even one sign or clue as to where I was. Long after my breadcrumbs and chalk ran out, I rounded another corner of this vast labyrinth and stumbled into a couple of hapless maintenance men huddled in some forgotten recess. Much to their dismay, I let out a triumphant cry and advanced towards them. They tried to back away from this wild eyed, grinning Gaijin, but not fast enough. The next few minutes were spent trying to establish contact; think Independence Day, but more hopeless. Every attempt I made to ask for directions is Japanese drew increasingly horrified looks from the pair. The final straw was my innocuous 'Eigo de hanashite, kudasai' (Please can you speak in English?). They exchanged a glance and a mutter, and whisked me away, down, up and around until I was more lost than I had previously thought possible.
To my intense relief, our journey ended not in a holding cell, but at a little window set in the wall, marked with a little grey sign reading 'Reception'. By the time I had finished exhaling my voluminous sigh of relief, my reluctant guides had once again vanished into the grey warren and I found myself in the company of a little grey man who peered up at me from the other side of the glass.
Disaster. He quickly made it clear that my quest had beer for naught - the application for my Alien Registration had to be made in my local ward office. So about 10 minutes walk from my apartment, at the Nagakute-shi ward office. Woe!
Many hours later, footsore and thirsty, I stumbled back through the rectangle of light and warmth and into the safety of my Apartment. H raised an eyebrow at the single, tatty sheet of paper I triumphantly held aloft. Suffice to say, I have never before appreciated the eloquence of that simple facial expression. The paper I brandished wilted even further in my upheld fist, and the hearty glow of pride I had felt turned into the faintest candle glow.
We've got a long way to go yet.
