FROM TOUCHSCREEN TO TIME MACHINE

Last week I made the bold decision that our loyal, 8-year-old car had earned its pension. Time for a shiny new replacement, I thought. A monumental decision, to be sure... at least for me. My dearest wife was considerably less enthused. While she made a contribution to the choice of colour, the rest was left to me as the sole driver: the heroic expedition to the Mazda dealership, the epic quest for the perfect chariot, and the gladiatorial battle with the salesman over the price.

Three hours later, I returned home, victorious. Not only had I met my aggressive price target but had managed to get an even better deal than I could have expected!

The fact that the salesperson had disappeared into the back office for a while, in order to get his manager's approval for my counterproposal, seemed proof that my well-thought-out strategy had worked.

Buying a car these days feels oddly futuristic – like ordering take-out. The salesperson just taps away on an iPad, and voilà: an offer appears and can easily be amended. It's basically Uber Eats, but instead of sushi rolls you get 4 wheels, and with a slightly more terrifying price tag.

I was feeling mighty smug. I, a foreigner, had managed to buy a car in Japan without relying on my Japanese wife.

Until the salesman asked me to return in two weeks... this time with my wife. Because now it was time for "the paperwork."

Turns out the electronic signature I provided was just a warm-up act. What I had signed on the tablet was in fact only the order form, not the actual purchase contract. For that, they want my personal seal.

In Japan, they love their seals. Not the cute furry type splashing around in the sea, but the bureaucratic kind.

Normal seals ("hanko") handle everyday business such as signing for deliveries. But for serious matters – like real estate, loans, or buying a car – you need an officially registered "jitsuin".

And not just the seal. Oh no. You must also bring proof that the seal belongs to you: the holy "Inkan Shomeisho", or Seal Registration Certificate. This is a piece of paper that declares, with great authority, that this circle of ink indeed belongs to you. The document contains the unique imprint of the registered seal, along with your name, address, and date of birth. It is usually only valid for a short period of time, such as three months, from its date of issue.

Japan may have arrived in the digital age but is obviously not quite willing to let go of centuries-old practices for really important things.

The dealer wanted four copies of this sacred scroll. Four! I can only assume they plan to wallpaper their break room with them.

But there is not really a choice here. No "Inkan Shomeisho", no contract. No contract, no car. Simple.

In the past, this meant a grim weekday pilgrimage to the City Office, where time evaporates in queues longer than those at Tokyo Disneyland.

But then, the Japanese government, in a twist of high-tech irony, introduced the "My Number" card. Think of it as the Japanese equivalent of a Social Security card in the U.S. or a National Insurance number in the UK, but with the added functionality of being a physical, government-issued photo ID.

While obtaining the card is optional, it's very much encouraged, because it streamlines everything, from taxes to health insurance to... wait for it... obtaining paper copies of your Seal Registration Certificate.

So, instead of having to take time off work, my wife and I just popped down to the local Seven-Eleven. I tapped the card, pressed a few buttons on a machine, and a few seconds later, the sacred documents appeared. Four copies. On paper.

The irony is not lost on me: a cutting-edge, digital system designed solely to make it easier to get... more paper.

Well, I've learnt a valuable lesson: In Japan, you can out-negotiate a car salesman. But when it comes to Japanese bureaucracy, let’s just say: the house always wins.