Last April, François celebrated a milestone: ten years of living in Japan! He’d already studied there before that, but that doesn’t count—at least not according to the immigration office. But now the clock officially hit ten years, meaning he was eligible to apply for PR (permanent residency)!

Here’s how it works in Japan: Typically, you start with a visa for a fixed period. In my case, it was six months at first, then a year, another year, and now I’m on my third one-year card. Since every renewal is an expensive, time-consuming, and stressful ordeal, I would have preferred to get a three- or five-year visa. But as a self-employed person, I’m considered a risk or something. François, on the other hand, got a five-year visa on his last renewal. He’s been working for the same company for ten years on a permanent contract—stability, something the Japanese love.

Highly Skilled Professionals who are well-educated and earn a high salary can get PR faster, sometimes in just one year. But as you age, it gets harder to rack up the required 70 or 80 points. Even though François has a master’s degree, he never quite made the cutoff. He wasn’t in a hurry anyway, with his current visa valid for five years. But when April rolled around and his ten-year mark was reached, it was finally time to submit that PR application.

I still have a bit of trauma from the pandemic, when I waited 14 months (YES, FOURTEEN MONTHS!) to enter the country, even with all the paperwork in hand. So I have zero chill about these things. “Apply ASAP! You never know what could happen, and it’s better to have PR than a visa that can expire!” I urged him relentlessly.

Of course, the application required a mountain of paperwork: tax documents from the past five years (though latest year’s income wasn’t processed yet, so on the advice of a tax office clerk, he submitted six years’ worth), a letter from his employer, extracts of all sorts of records, and even a signature from his uncle (who has lived in Japan for years) acting as a guarantor. By late June, he had everything ready and made a trip to the immigration office in Shin-Yurigaoka. “See you next summer,” they said.

You might think: THAT LONG?! But it could’ve been worse. According to the Japanese government’s website, this process should take four months, but they’ve been backlogged since the pandemic. François applied at the smaller Shin-Yurigaoka office near us. Most people apply at the main office in Shinagawa, where wait times can stretch to 18 months or even two years! Before their applications are processed, they often have to submit their most recent tax documents—documents they couldn’t possibly have at the time of their initial submission.

I kept a close eye on immigration developments on Reddit, where people shared updates about their applications. Some folks sent updated tax documents to immigration proactively, which seemed to help. So when François returned from France last weekend, I pushed him: “Maybe you should send an update too! They’ll ask for it anyway!”

This Monday, François was working at the office. Since he usually gets home late, I picked up dinner for myself. On my way in, I checked the mailbox. There was a small card with some scribbled and circled text. “Oh, maybe they’re coming to read the water meter or something,” I thought. But then I looked closer. My hands started shaking. I grabbed the Google Translate app and took a photo. “We would like to inform you of the outcome of your application,” it said. The result wasn’t written on the card—you have to go to the office for that. But there was something else. “Bring a revenue stamp,” with the required amount circled below: 8000 yen, the fee for a Permanent Resident permit.

I sent a photo to François with the caption, “WHAT?!” He panicked at first, thinking we were being evicted or something, haha. But then he read the card carefully.

Although it was 99% certain that his application was approved, I was still nervous. “It doesn’t say it’s approved… It’s so fast? They haven’t even asked for a tax update yet? I hope it’s not a rejection!” It would be odd if they made you buy an 8000-yen stamp only to give you bad news (and leave you 8000 yen poorer), so yeah, 99% sure it was approved. But still—pandemic trauma.

The next morning, we went to the immigration office. After a solid half-hour wait, François was handed his new card, as casually as if it were a supermarket loyalty card. No fuss, no fanfare. But in tiny letters, there it was: Permanent Resident.

_{I think we’re getting married.}