I walked into the Driver's License Center with the belief that I was going to fail. Eleven months and a few days after I decided to get my license, one month after failing the first time, I walked back in expecting the same result. This is the story of the day that didn't happen.
April 7th, 2026
I went straight to the annex and saw the day's course posted—Course 2. The door was already open, and others were filing out to preview the course.
We were part of the AM group, so our time was limited. That is the trade-off—you get to go first, but your time to walk the track is shortened.
The clouds loomed like a warning of the storm to come. My heart pounded. I saw the exact spot where the police officer told me I had failed the last time. I had researched as much as I could, but I couldn't figure out what I did wrong. What was I supposed to have done on a road with no stop sign, stop line, or stop light?
As I walked, I heard a couple—a Japanese man and a Chinese woman—talking about the course. He was giving her advice, and in that moment I made a decision: I will eat the embarrassment. I interrupted them. "Sumimasen, shitsumon shite mo ii desu ka?" I had to repeat the question because the man hadn't realized I was talking to him. I quickly told him what had happened to me, and he told me to go through the intersection slowly and look both ways, watching for traffic. I thanked him and continued the walk.
I continued the course pretending I was in the car, and when I got to the stretch of road where I would push the car to 40 kph, I looked up and saw the light pink petals drifting down. The cherry blossom trees were in full bloom, and in my nervousness and fear, I was allowed to hope for a single moment.
The Orientation
There were around thirteen of us. The officer who would be our test proctor gave us the instructions and orientation. He said something that confused me. He said, "Do not speak to anyone when you go outside the annex. If you do, I will consider it cheating, and you will be dismissed."
It might have been a stupid question to ask, and when I raised my hand to ask it, he looked offended. I asked him, "Are we not allowed to tell the person in the car to put their seatbelt on?" His reply pissed me off. "I cannot answer anything regarding the test." After I tried to explain my question, I was interrupted with the same answer, and he looked at me and said, "Just follow the procedure of what you studied."
It was paradoxical, but I just took the answer with a frown. I am pretty sure that was the thing that put him in a sour mood. Sorry, everyone. And if I'd had a chance to pass before that interaction, it was gone now—I had a target on my back.
The Test
My new Chinese friend and her Japanese husband asked me about my question, and they both understood. The man laughed, and I told him I was going to break the rule anyway. We both laughed and waited.
My number was called and I stood where I was told to, and waited. The person who took the test before me had failed. The man who was next got into the driver's seat. I got in the back. I watched the man ahead of me. He looked and sounded Chinese. You could hear the shaking in his voice, and the sweat from his palms glistened. I wished him good luck under my breath.
He began his test.
This guy was perfect. He was doing things that I had not realized I needed to do—slightly moving to the left or right on the lane to make turns, constantly looking over the shoulder, checking for bikers and pedestrians before turns, and proper turn signal distances. It was flawless, and it had me doubting myself. I never considered any of these things.
He got to the top of the hill, came down, and here was the point that would make or break my own test.
He came down the hill and was told to make a right turn. He stopped and looked both ways. On the far end of the course—maybe one hundred meters away—there was another car approaching very slowly. Our Chinese friend—and I, from the backseat—figured it was a safe enough distance to proceed. As he began moving the car forward, the proctor slammed on the brakes. He has brakes on his side of the car.
I was shocked, and the Chinese guy almost broke down crying. He was trembling in fear of what he had done—failed. The proctor said to him, "Koko made desu." Which basically translates to, "We are done here." You could see the disappointment on the guy's face, and there I realized our proctor was not in a good mood, and damn, it's like that! The car was unreasonably far away.
I stepped outside while the proctor consulted with the Chinese guy.
In my mind, I had accepted my fate. I looked at the cherry blossom trees lining the course and thought the next time I see these trees, they will be covered in green leaves. And in that moment, something clicked. The result doesn't matter, pass or fail. It hasn't happened yet. Do the test. Take it one action at a time. The proctor was going to be strict either way, so I let it all go—the fear, the anxiety, the potential headache that was bound to come with this test. I was going to have a real Japan experience either way.
He signaled me to get in the car, and I did. My thinking zoned in, and I didn't think about anything except the current and very next move.
I got in the car, adjusted my seat, turned to the passenger in the back, and told his ass to put on his seatbelt. I looked at the proctor, thinking he was going to say something to me since it was his rule not to talk to the other passengers. He said nothing. I laughed inside myself, realizing I had misunderstood his rule, but whatever.
"Junbi dekimashita," I said. As I moved forward, the windshield began getting sprinkled with rain. I had my hands on ten and two, my right hand ready for the turn signals, my left occasionally controlling the windshield wipers. Either way, I didn't let it bother me. I was ready.
He gave his first instruction. And I went. I mimicked to the letter what the previous guy did—even double-checking verbal instructions. I did it all, and the whole time, I didn't hear the proctor's pen once. I followed the older Japanese man's advice for the intersection. It was going well. Then as I came out of the S-curve, preparing to make a left turn at the stop sign, I tried to hug the car to the left side before the turn. The car stopped at an awkward angle because there wasn't much distance between the S-curve's exit and the stop sign.
In that moment the proctor said nothing. He stopped the car, pulled up the e-brake, and got out of the car. In hindsight, I think he was looking to see how the car was positioned, and whether or not the front tires were on the asphalt or the concrete.
By this point, I had thought I was dead in the water. He stopped the car and got out. I was sure I had failed. But I didn't feel any type of way about it because I had already decided the result didn't matter, and that it was expected because I'd annoyed the guy with my question.
He got back into the car and said, "Susunde kudasai." Which means, "Please continue."
In my heart I was like, "Ohhh shiiii—." I kept it going. Got through the light, got through the hill, and came to the exact point where the Chinese guy got to—the bottom of the hill. I stopped and looked both ways. There was a car with a right turn signal at a similar distance away as when the proctor failed the Chinese guy. So, naturally I waited for two reasons. First, because I'd learned from his mistake. And second, I genuinely didn't know which right turn the car was going to do.
So I waited, and sure enough, the car drove right in front of me. But as the car came in front of me, another car was starting the test on the other side of the course. This time there was no turn signal on that one, and if this was a normal day, I would have made the right turn, but I opted to wait.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the proctor twirling his thumbs, and I could tell in his heart he was probably like, "What a pain in the ass." Because these guys are not going fast. They are crawling. But I still had the image of the trembling Chinese guy in my mind, and I wanted to get through this part of the test for him.
The car continued past me, and I turned. I got to the 40 kph section and got it to just at 40, then immediately let go of the gas to let the car slow down. I made the lane change, and made it back to the end of the course.
I stopped the car, put it in park, and pulled the e-brake, thinking the test was over.
He then told me to get out of the car, and I was so confused. I got out, and then he said come back in.
The other test taker in the back seat got out of the car, and I sat there with him. The proctor leaned close and, almost in a whisper, said, "Gōkaku." Which means, "pass." One thing he pointed out to me was that when I get out of the car, to check my surroundings before I do. And he was right. I had read that before, but toward the end I'd forgotten that detail.
He gave me my card, and I thanked him, and he waved me away—passing me didn't improve his mood.
As I walked back, it was like a switch turned back on, and I felt a flood of emotions sweep me away the way a big wave would at the beach. I cried. I couldn't believe it. Eleven months and a few days since I decided I needed to get my license, seven months since I learned the system had changed, six months since they increased the difficulty of both the written and behind-the-wheel tests, and one month since I last failed, I passed. Alhamdulillah, indeed.
For those who passed the test
A note on tone going forward—up to this point I have been writing this like a short story. I did this on purpose because it was a huge milestone and accomplishment in my eyes. However, from this point on, I will keep it all informational.
When you pass, the proctor will hand you back your card. This indicates that you passed. You return to the annex and sit down.
The wait and the safety briefing
My test was part of the AM session, so the proctor told me to wait until 11:30. He said, "Do not go to lunch."
At around 11:30, an officer with a clipboard will come out, and he will call out license types and numbers (for example, "gaimen kirikae go-ban," foreign license number 5) and ask that everyone gather in the seats around him.
There he will congratulate you on passing the driver's test, and then he will go over some statistics. He will tell you to watch out for three things:
1. Pedestrians
2. Cyclists
3. Smartphone use
He mentioned that Saitama ranks among the worst prefectures in Japan for driving-related fatalities.
The speech is about ten minutes, and then he will guide you to another part of the building where he will have you sit, and then they will go over the procedure of getting your license, after which they will dismiss you for an hour to get lunch.
Lunch break and paperwork
When you come back from lunch, a different officer will take over. He will ask you all to sit in a specific order, and then he will pass you two A4-size papers, and then a single slip of paper.
One of the A4 papers is your application with your photo on it, and the other is the barcode for the license processing fee. The third slip has the details that will go on your license.
The officer will hand these to you, and they will go through the process step by step. They have clearly done this thousands of times.
The officer will speak only in Japanese, but he will do his best to help you understand what is going on and what to do by the end. One other possibility is that you will have made a friend during your wait, and they will help translate for you.
Dad Note: The barcode paper is the only thing you have to fill out yourself. The officer will explain it—don't stress about it ahead of time.
Getting your license
After the orientation, you will get a new picture taken, then pay the fee, fill out the barcode form, and then receive your license and be free.
They warned us that the process may take up to three hours, but we were all done after an hour and forty-five minutes.
He handed me my license, and the last thing I said to him was, "Minna ni kansha." He smiled at me and replied, "Hai hai, otsukare!" And I left.
I walked out into the parking lot with the license in my hand. The rain had stopped. The cherry blossoms were still there, still falling, and this time I let myself look at them properly.
Comments
Post a Comment