I went to America the other day, but I'm already back in Japan.

Actually, it was my shortest trip to America, having been there for less than an hour. In fact, I was back in Osaka eating lunch 15 minutes later.

As part of the paperwork for selling my house, a few of the thick stack of associated documents needed to be notarized, so I had to visit the US consulate in Osaka (officially, the Consulate General of the United States of America, Osaka Japan).

I knew that I was getting close to the building when I saw the police assault bus and a dozen bored-looking policemen loitering around.

As I arrived at what I thought was the front of the building, there was a big sign yelling “NO ENTRY” in Japanese, and something like “No Entrance Except For Official Business” in English. I did a double take at the door, which really looked like the front door, and decided that having some random documents notarized was probably official enough. An unofficial-looking person was exiting the door, so I went in.

I have moved a bank vault door before. This door was glass, but heaver. I think it was concrete lined glass, or something. It looked fairly normal from the outside, but could stop a tank. I'm sure it was designed just for that purpose.

Inside (now on American soil, God bless the King), it turns out that it was the correct entrance. “Welcome to America,” I had to think to myself because nothing else about the short experience so far made me feel the slightest bit welcome.

I'd brought my camera (because I was planning on taking advantage of being in Osaka to stop by a big camera shop before heading back to Kyoto), so I had to surrender that and my cell phone. I didn't have any liquids with me, so didn't have to surrender those.

A somewhat elderly Japanese policeman with the a most pleasant way about him took my stuff and processed me through the metal detector, and a light body search with a wand like at an airport. I then exchanged an ID for a visitor pass, and was allowed through another 15 ton door to the elevators.

Other than a pictures of The President, VP, and Sec. State on the wall, you'd never know that this was a US Government office. No marines. No English. Well, the 5" thick glass doors might be one clue.

The 4th floor is th American Citizen Services floor. The elevator opens up to a waiting room large enough for about three small card tables and two benches. More pictures on the wall.

I paid the $70 it costs to have three items notarized, and waited for my turn for about 20 minutes.

One will find bureaucracy, pettiness, corruption, and other bad things in any government. On my trip to the consulate, I ran into pettiness in the form of one Sara Revell, who is a/the notary there.

Laws differ from state to state, but except for in Louisiana, a notary is a trivial job. It doesn't require much in the way of intelligence, and it's about as difficult and expensive to get a notary licence as it is to get a driver's licence. A notary witnessing a signature merely attests to the fact that the person singing a document is the person they claim to be. In performing this function, the content of the document is not relevant. They don't have to know nor care what the document says.

One of my documents made a passing reference to a separate document I hadn't brought. I didn't bring it because it wasn't needed here, but she wanted to see it. This was ridiculous; not only did she not need to see it, but she had no right even asking — it's not her friggin' business! Her business here was to ascertain to her satisfaction that my name was what I claimed it to be (which my passport apparently did), and that the signature on the document was mine. Oh, and to accept my money — that's her business too.

So, here was the situation:

1. She already had my $70.
2. She knew that I needed the service, or else I wouldn't be there.
3. There was no one hundreds of miles, except her, who could do what I needed.
4. She was behind a 3-inch-thick glass window.
5. It was almost lunch time.

She had 100% of the power and we both knew it. Sara Revell treated me with all the compassion that one expects from low-level civil-servant twits in positions of power that exceed their intelligence. It just makes my blood boil — I can not being to tell you what I felt about this person (because my parents read my blog and I don't want them to know what filthy, angry words I know).

After returning to Japan in a decidedly foul mood, I had lunch at a restaurant in Umeda that was delicious. And the camera store was fun, too, so it wasn't an entirely wasted day.