Its Just No Fun Being an Illegal Alien
So yesterday I had to go downtown (well, Shinagawa) to go to the immigration office to obtain an official visa. I tried to tell my boss that I didnt like the idea of doing this by myself, but he insisted he was too busy and shoved the documents in my hand, telling me to stop being a wuss. I take multiple train lines down to the Shinagawa station and, once there, get on the special bus bound for the Immigration Office. The office was actually a fairly nice, large, clean building, filled with mostly east asians but a few whities as well all going about their assorted business, often with kids or the elderly in tow. After going to three different desks staffed by people who did not speak english and apparently could not help me with my business anyway, I finally figured out the correct line and waited the requisite 30 mins for my turn. The person as this counter spoke a little english, so finally some headway could be made. She did tell me, however, that in order to get a work visa, I first had to apply for a certificate of eligibility (~1 month turnaround) and then come BACK and apply for the visa itself. Yay. I also had to run downstairs and buy an envelope and stamp from the in-house convenience store for them to mail my junk back to me with. My boss has assured me that this whole process was extremely straightforward and that itd take one, maybe two weeks to get the visa at most. Instead, I blew 3 hrs of my youth and left without anything in my hands that wasnt there when I arrived. Sigh.
On the way back the bus was just as crowded, hot, and filled with screaming children as it was on the way there. As I was standing, holding onto the ceiling strap as the bus crawled down the streets, I couldnt help but think to myself: `I have spent hours on dirty, crowded, loud public transit to blow hours at a government agency that didnt care about me and didnt have any interest in speaking my language just to beg for the chance to do menial labor for them. This must be what it feels like to be Mexican.'
On the way back the bus was just as crowded, hot, and filled with screaming children as it was on the way there. As I was standing, holding onto the ceiling strap as the bus crawled down the streets, I couldnt help but think to myself: `I have spent hours on dirty, crowded, loud public transit to blow hours at a government agency that didnt care about me and didnt have any interest in speaking my language just to beg for the chance to do menial labor for them. This must be what it feels like to be Mexican.'