Landing cards and clueless foreigners
In which I visit Japan, enjoy being a newbie again, and navigate bureaucracies along the way.
Where have you come from?
You work in Canal Town? What is your job? Hasn’t the semester started yet?
Why did you travel from Japan?
The young immigration officer at Shanghai Pudong Airport was being unusually zealous. Over the years, as I’ve travelled in and out of China, the police officers who man the country’s borders have usually just taken a quick look at my residence permit then added a new entry stamp onto my passport with a satisfying ka-chunk. This was the most questions anyone’s ever asked me at the border. More than the time I crossed the land border into the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. More than the time I finally returned to China during the fraught days of “zero-Covid”, when very few visas were granted and the immigration officer wanted to see the originals of all my invitation documents. This time, on my way back to Canal Town at the end of the winter break, the young man behind the glass took his time scrutinising my passport and residence permit and landing card, comparing data line by line with whatever he had on his screen, and asking question after question.
His manner was friendly enough, but it was slightly disconcerting. I don’t know whether it was just a case of youth and enthusiasm, or because there were relatively few people in the queue and he could afford a little extra time, or whether it’s connected to the government’s campaign for vigilance in detecting foreign spies. It did make me think of my friends for whom extra questioning at borders is normal, because of their passport or the colour of their skin. Like my Peruvian friend, who always got pulled aside and had her luggage searched at Customs, presumably because they suspected all Latin Americans of being potential drugs mules. I know I have it easy.
At least I had a pen this time. Last time I landed in Shanghai, there were no pens at the little pedestals where they have the landing cards, and I had forgotten to pack one. I had to hover awkwardly for a while, like many other arrivals, until I found someone whose pen I could borrow. This time, it was obvious that the number of foreigners arriving was back up. They had many more stations with landing cards, each complete with a biro on a curly yellow plastic chain. But I had managed to travel with a pen in my bag, and had filled in the card while still on the plane, so I walked smugly past and went straight into the queue. The smugness was only dampened when one of the queue-steering officers checked my card and pointed out that I’d forgotten to actually sign it.
To my surprise, the landing cards in Japan, where I had been for my holiday, were even more of a bureaucratic back-and-forth than the Chinese ones. I got to the space for “address at destination” and realised I didn’t know the name of the hotel; my friend had booked it. So I just wrote the name of the city and walked blithely to the immigration counter. The girl behind the screen told me I needed the name of the hotel. I told her my friend had booked it. She considered for a moment. “OK, write your friend’s name and phone number,” she said, and sent me back to the desk for filling in the cards. There were several older ladies in bright yellow tops buzzing around there helping travellers, and one of them came to check on me as I wrote my friend’s name and phone number. “What’s that? No! Hotel!” she said. I messaged my friend. The lady hovered by my elbow while I waited for a reply. “WiFi OK?” she asked. “Yes, I’'m just asking my friend,” I said. “WiFi OK?” she asked again a few minutes later, seeing I still hadn’t made progress. Thankfully, my friend was online, waiting for me in the airport, and soon sent the necessary details. The card was eventually filled in to their satisfaction and I was allowed through to Customs, where another form awaited.
That small snippet of paper-based bureaucracy was one of the things that made Japan a strange mélange of the old-fashioned and ultra-modern. Commuter trains were replete with pin-striped suits and more ties than I’ve seen in a decade. There were small shops and restaurants that requested payment in cash only; in China, even street vendors and beggars take payment by WeChat or AliPay, and almost the only time I use cash is for the offering box in church. And perhaps most gloriously, there were CD and DVD shops. We wandered around Tower Records in Kyoto, flipping through racks of CDs and recalling happy purchases of the past. I was tempted to buy some, but I don’t have a CD player anymore.
This was my first visit to Japan, despite having been relatively close by for so long. It was tremendous fun being in a new country again. I was pleasantly surprised at how I could make out bits and pieces of text, when kanji (traditional Chinese characters) were used. There was the joy of adventure in following maps down unlikely-looking back streets, stumbling across amazing art and delicious dishes. There was history and plum blossoms and forested hillsides and onsens and hushed trains. There was cross-cultural hilarity, like when we walked into a sushi restaurant and then realised it was omakase, chef’s choice, where the menu is whatever the chef decides to make for you. The tiny restaurant just had room for us two clueless foreigners and half-a-dozen Japanese businessmen in their pin-striped suits. It was delicious, cost about as much as ten other meals put together, and made us break down in hopeless giggles after we left and discovered how many etiquette rules we had probably broken. It was unforgettable.
I’m already daydreaming about going back to explore more. Still, there was a comforting familiarity in returning to the hubbub of China, and in being able to understand better what was going on around me. I sat on the airport bus in Shanghai and listened to a young woman arguing, loudly and at length, with someone at a bank where she was considering opening an account, and I thought about how quiet the Japanese trains and buses were and how that actually limited conversation with my travelling companion because we were worried about making a noise. I was thankful for the older Chinese man sitting next to me on the train from Shanghai to Canal Town, who helped me with my luggage and told me not to worry about it when I realised I had in fact sat in the wrong seat. Chinese trains are cramped and noisy, but that sometimes has its advantages.
I arrived back in Canal Town in pouring rain, the day before the Lantern Festival. Classes have now resumed, with students and teachers all a little sleepy and slow to get going again after the break. We did get an unexpected gift during the holiday: a new teaching colleague arrived. Interviews were held before the break, but no-one at HR thought it necessary to tell us that not only had they actually hired James* from London, but he had actually arrived in Canal Town already, right in the dead time when everyone is away. Poor guy. But we are very happy he’s here, because now for the first time since I came to this campus, for the first time since Covid, we will be fully staffed and teaching a normal load of classes. One of the tasks of the next few weeks will be helping him to settle in and adapt to life in Canal Town. He’s new to China, keen and eager to explore and see everything. I hope it’s as fun and fruitful for him as it’s been for me.
If you enjoyed this snippet about Japan, you might enjoy the excellent Sensei Diaries, where Lawrence Denes describes life as an English teacher in Kyoto.
New to Canal Town? Start here for an introduction!
Miss my last post? Catch up below!
It sounds like you had quite the vacation! Thanks for sharing everything!
I remember being so confused when I had to fill out one of those little cards on the plane to China - the whole process was a whirlwind. It must've been strange to go through it all again but in a context you weren't familiar with.
Either way, love these little insights into your experiences! Makes me miss travelling so much!