Anyone who’s read This autistic girl went to Japan knows that this country can be quite bureaucratic. As a newcomer, you first have to break through the magical triangle of address–phone number–bank account, before you can finally pay with something other than the credit card you were actually supposed to have canceled already, or gift cards from the convenience store. By that time, you’ll probably also discover that you should’ve chosen a different way to write your name, because spaces, special characters, or middle names are guaranteed to cause problems: they don’t fit in the box, or your input won’t make it through verification. And have you learned how to write the number 7 the Japanese way yet? I have—after my direct debit form got returned for being “illegible.” (Tip: no wavy line at the top, and definitely no slash through the middle.)

After all these lessons in 官僚主義, I thought I had it figured out. But when I moved in with François a few months ago, I made a rookie mistake.

So, I moved in with François, and for that, I had to register at city hall. My previous address had been a lot easier to write. The kanji for Hachioji, for example—八王子—even a child could copy those. But hey, my new town had a more modern city hall, with tablets. (Well… try typing on a keyboard that only shows hiragana and then figuring out which kanji to pick. Anyway, I managed, and they had a couple of old guys stationed nearby to help clueless people like me.)

Time to type the name of the building. I was a bit surprised it didn’t automatically appear when I entered my postal code, but I guess those tablets weren’t that modern. I tapped the little “A” symbol to switch to a Western keyboard and typed BUILDING NAME.

Then I went to the counter. The clerk pointed at BUILDING NAME and asked if it was written correctly. I didn’t see any mistakes, so I said yes. And if it wasn’t right, surely they’d find out eventually, right? All went smoothly, I got my new address printed on my residence card, and all was well.

Or not, of course.

The first hint that I might’ve done something very dumb came when I reported my change of address to the Japanese Chamber of Commerce. At first, I asked my accountant if they could do it for me, but they referred me to a lawyer who charged 30,000 yen, so I figured, never mind—I’ll try it myself. Turns out the local Chamber of Commerce was basically next to my office, so I just popped by in person. I had filled in a digital form, attached a copy of a certificate with my new address, and added a revenue stamp worth 10,000 yen—a kind of very expensive postage stamp used to pay administrative fees. All seemed to be fine… until I got a phone call a week later.

Now, I’m not a fan of phone calls. Not in general, and especially not in Japanese. Without Google Translate and some gesturing, I’m suddenly fully reliant on my Japanese—and the average bureaucrat doesn’t speak English. Luckily, I now speak enough Japanese to figure out that there was an issue with my address. “So, on one form it says BUILDING NAME in all caps, and on the other it says Building Name, with only…”

Huh? “But it’s the same,” I said. It was not the same, according to the lady on the other end. She wanted to know which version was correct. “It doesn’t matter!” I replied. That got me nowhere. I asked if I could call back later (with someone who speaks better Japanese next to me), but she told me I had to hurry. I had to call back TODAY (or: Today) or my change wouldn’t go through—and I’d have to buy another one of those overpriced stamps. Ugh.

I messaged François in a mild panic. He was at work, but called them during his break. Turns out it was very simple: I had to choose which spelling I wanted on my Chamber of Commerce listing. No, the clerk couldn’t decide that for me. It was my responsibility.

And so, a few weeks ago, we got married. François has the building name listed as Building Name on his ID, so I could already see the trouble coming: “Watch, they’re going to complain about the address again…”

Now, to get married you don’t need to live at the same address, so that part went fine. But to change my visa status to “spouse of,” you do. For that, we need to submit a joint extract from the Japanese basic registry, and we couldn’t get it—because with that address mismatch, they couldn’t register us as one household. インポシブル！

So this morning I had to go to city hall to change my address. I was moving—on paper—from BUILDING NAME to Building Name. I explained the issue to the clerk, who helped me fill out the form correctly. But then we hit the next hurdle: “Who is the head of the household?” Yep, this archaic nonsense is still very much a thing in Japan. And when we got married, we marked François as the head of the household. “Oh, do you have your marriage certificate with you?” No, François had picked it up last week, but it was at home. “Ah, you’ll need that!”

So off I went, walking back home to get the thing. François, still in his pajamas at the breakfast table: “Wait, why did you go all the way back for that? You literally could’ve gotten a copy printed one window over!” Uh, yeah. Maybe. But we’re not going to start making sense now, are we? Anyway, I walked the twenty minutes back to city hall, where—if all went well—the change has now been processed. We’ll be able to pick up the updated certificate in two days.

_{I still need to update my MyNumber card with this “new” address, but there are no blank lines left on it. So I’ll have to apply for a completely new card—which, of course, will take weeks. Oh Japan, it’s a good thing you’re so lovely otherwise…}