To do this I had to go downtown to a particular office between 6 and 10 in the morning. I arrived at 7 and at the door stood in a short line to get a number handed me on a stub like a lottery ticket. My number was 36 and I was directed to sit in one of a large group of chairs in a much larger room. I knew enough to bring a book having done this sort of thing before. At 7:40 they were open for business.

A fellow called for numbers one through ten and ushered them downstairs. Five minutes later he called for eleven through twenty and I thought things were moving right along. Silly me. Forty minutes later a scruffy looking young fellow who looked as though he hadn’t shaved sat down behind one of the computers on the counter in front of us. In due course he called out for twenty-one through twenty-nine and eventually the group which included number thirty-six. We stood humbly in line, quiet supplicants before the master. It hadn’t been an hour yet and I thought I’d done rather well to be getting my address changed in so short a time. Have I said “silly me” already? I think so. What he gave me after addressing his computer in some cryptic way was a piece of paper which declared itself to be a “Turno” meaning “turn” and motioned me to go downstairs where I found a room with another bank of seats.

I sat and read and waited. Numbers were being called by a couple of people behind computers. When thirty-six came up I went forward to my man who, after addressing his computer, penciled the number 57 on my Turno and motioned me over into another section where, you might have guessed, there were more chairs and some familiar faces I’d been following.

After a while 57 was called and I went up to a pretty girl behind a computer. I told her I was there to change my address and showed her the piece of paper I’d previously gotten from the local police who had verified my address. Having done her bit with her computer she told me to stand in line for the cashier’s cage where I paid my eight pesos. I was given a slip of paper and told to be into the next section, put the paper in a box on the counter and take a seat. This is why I bring books to things like this.

The piece of paper had my name on it and this time it was my name which was called. There were a lot of people and it was noisy with names being called, but I wasn’t about to miss mine. The man behind the computer seemed to know who I was and why I was there; computers are marvelous. He took my DNI book and told me to take a seat. I wasn’t in much of a reading mood anymore being more inclined to watch him like a cat watching dinner being prepared. Finally, in a mirace of Argentine efficiency, he had my DNI. And when I checked it, it even had the correct address in it. I’d whisked right through in only six different lines and a mere two hours and twenty minutes. That’s no time at all for someone to write your correct address in a little booklet.

WH

I introduced my daughter and son-in-law to the wonders of Belgian beer a few years ago, and then we all took a trip to London, with 2-day excursion to Brussels made possible by the Channel Tunnel. We found, as my daughter called it, “beer ground-zero” as we quaffed draught Lambic at La Mort Subite. My wife, Sallie, an aleurophile, was also captivated by the pub cat, Choupetit, a nondescript brown tabby.

We also enjoyed visiting the Musee Victor Horta and seeing some of his original inspirations leading the Art Nouveau movement

Coming from the train into downtown Narita indeed there was a cacophony of color and noise, with McDonalds pre-eminent and packed. I wandered around and for the first time realized how foreign the place was - in my Euopean travels, with 4 years high school Latin and French, at least I can make some sense of street names and storefronts. In Narita I could have been looking at ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs for all the good it did me. The billboard language is a strange mix of Japanese characters with Roman letters and Arabic numerals such as “#@%^~ SONY 4 @#&”.

Just off the central area the streets got plain and quiet and I looked for a restuarant - not McD. I am sure there were plenty there, the aromas were enticing but there was no obvious signs that I could read and the windows were covered in blinds. For all I knew it could have been a family sitting down to a meal in their home with the kitchen smells escaping. So I moved on, eventually settling for a noodle house where I could point to the picture on the menu and get something recognizable. Not what I had in mind - I was looking forward to something more akin to “Each piece of food and its accoutrement is painstakingly placed around the plate or small dish with visual balance and color harmony in mind.” What I settled for was a large bowl of noodle soup.

Moving on on my tour, I passed a small cemetery and walked through. The cemetery was as cluttered as the town centre in its own way - every few feet another vertical, small obelisk marking someone’s resting place - “they must all be buried standing up” was my first thought. But it was quiet and well-tended and a relaxing place.

An interesting excursion, and one I would recommend if you only have a short time passing through the airport. But perhaps you would do better to read about the place a bit first instead of just wandering around lost like I did.. Check out http://www.city.narita.chiba.jp/english/