Taxes and Decals: Contrasting Bureaucracies

The Ancient Mariner and I went on a field trip to the Prefectural Taxation Office today to pay our annual road tax. In years past we paid our road tax on base like most other Americans here, but the base in its infinite wisdom won't be accepting road taxes until the day after most of the ships, including the USS Blue Ridge, deploy.  One could almost get the impression that the base has forgotten that "serving the fleet" is its primary mission if there weren't so many t-shirts emblazoned with that slogan for sale in the Navy Exchange.

But I'm not going to grouse (much) about the cluelessness of the base schedulers because -- why were surprised? -- paying our taxes at the Prefectural Taxation Office was such a pleasant experience we almost wish we'd be here long enough to have to pay road taxes again.

The tax office is located about eight blocks from the base, a walkable distance but rain was in the offing so we decided to drive.  We didn't have to pay to park in the lot next to the office and there were plenty of empty parking spots from which to choose. 

A sign in the lobby directed us to counter #2. "This is a lot nicer than having three unsmiling sailors snarl you into line." "I agree."

"There's another sign reminding us we want counter #2."
"I can see it from here. It's exactly where the diagram said it would be."
"I like how each counter has a number suspended over it."
"In case we forget which counter we want, there's a line drawn between the words 'road tax' on the floor and counter #2."
"I like how the pretty clerk greeted us with a smile and handed us a laminated sheet that tells us how to complete the five blocks on the tax form."
"Well, that was easy.  Now what?"
"Now we have to visit the Vehicle Registration Office on base to get a new decal for our car."

"Either half the clerks didn't show up for work today or they are taking a very long lunch break."
"Could this aisle be any narrower? Or the floor any dirtier?"
"Shhh. I think someone just whispered 'next'."
"Try not to kick or trip over the little girl playing on the dirty floor."

"Why did you include this picture?"
"Because our topic today is automobiles and I've never seen that's model before."
"That's model?"
"That's what it says."

The Exodus

Today marks the end of the second post-earthquake week. That's what my calendar tells me but how can this possibly be true? Was it really only a week ago that my American friends started leaving Japan?

Daffy was the first to go. She handed me the keys to her "throwaway BMW" and we laughed all the way to Haneda Airport because the BMW's controls are different from the controls in my Japanese car. When I meant to indicate a lane change, the windshield wipers would spring into action. When I needed to roll down my window to pay a toll, I invariably readjusted my sideview mirror instead. I have known Daffy for six months. She makes me laugh. I miss her.

Then Fearless and the twins left, and my neighbor Hoorah, and countless others who booked their own flights when the schools closed. They left the day after the high school vice-principal fled Japan, ignoring the terms of her contract.  I miss Fearless and Hoorah.  I'd like to assume the vice-principal is now unemployed.

Erin tried to hold out for a government-funded departure but by Saturday morning, between the schools closing and the base announcing the cancellation of all child-friendly activities, she was at the end of her rope.  She booked a Sunday flight out of Narita Airport. The base runs three free bus shuttles to Narita Airport every day but none early enough to get Erin and her boys to the airport in time for their flight. So they took a Saturday afternoon shuttle and camped out at the airport with other Navy families overnight.  One of Erin's fellow campers was a young lady from my hometown who was traveling with an infant. I shudder at the thought.

The Navy employs thousands of men and women whose primary task is planning. They would be well served to consult with a few young military spouses like Erin who could remind them that the "devil is in the detail".  Erin called a cab to transport four suitcases and three children from her apartment to the bus shuttle.  The cab did not arrive.  Erin loaded everything into her van, drove to the bus depot, unloaded her van, left her oldest son in charge of her youngest, tracked me down, and drove back to the bus depot where we loaded four very heavy suitcases into the bowels of the bus while several able-bodied sailors looked on, apparently admiring our biceps. 

I returned Erin's van to her designated parking space and strolled home after imparting some unsolicited advice.  Erin is about the same age as my nieces Amy, Jennifer, Ann, and Jessica so I tend to be a bit free with my unsolicited advice.  To her credit, she takes it in good humor and probably a grain or two of salt.  I suspect I will miss Erin a tiny bit more than she will miss me.

We were standing in the bus depot when I advised her to take a mental snapshot of her three boys, four large suitcases, and four incredibly heavy backpacks.  "Be sure you remember this moment, Erin, when they start begging you for a dog."

That was Saturday. Sunday the mass exodus commenced. That's when the Department of Defense started executing the order authorizing the voluntary departure of military dependents. Thousands of young military families, primarily young women with infants and small children and whose husbands are currently at sea providing humanitarian relief, might have been spared much pain and confusion if our government had only communicated clearly rather than indulging in hair-splitting bureaucratic-speak. How can we expect young military spouses to comprehend the difference between "authorized", "ordered", and "executed" when graduates of college journalism schools do not?

On Tuesday Artistic, her three teenagers, and their very large dog left Japan.  Two vehicles were required so Weather and I escorted them to Narita Airport.  I fastened my seatbelt and adjusted the mirrors before confessing that I had never actually driven to Narita before.  Desperate times call for desperate measures.  As for missing Artistic, I think longtime readers know that goes without saying.

And They Probably Refer to it as St. Foj

The Ancient Mariner steamed away from Yokosuka yesterday morning after spending most of his weekend chopping celery and slicing sausage. As the USS Blue Ridge slipped away from the pier, half the population of Japan heard the sailor's plaintive cry. "Save some gumbo for me!"

He is embarked on what the Navy refers to as Sea Trials and what we Navy spouses refer to as "Whoa, I foresee a lengthy deployment in the near future!"

Sea Trials are when the ship's crew drills, drills, and then drills some more. Athletes call it practice, actors call it rehearsal. Because the Navy cannot bear to use expressions easily understood by the general population, they have established a Special Task Force on Obfuscating Jargon with a staff of 938 which meets in Hawaii four times a year to coin new expressions for some of the world's oldest and most basic concepts. They got this idea from the computer industry.


Just kidding (at least about the size of the staff).