I’ve spent five blissful years riding Japan’s top-tier trains, never once missing the hassle of car ownership. Then came the game-changer: I got married, a baby’s on the way, and suddenly, a driver’s license became urgent. Armed with 18 years of driving experience, I figured I’d breeze through. Spoiler alert: I was hilariously wrong.

Japan’s driving test feels like someone took real-world driving and turned it into an elaborate stage production. You’re scored on flicking your blinker at precisely the right second, glancing theatrically at every mirror, and performing turns in ways that defy good sense. Enter the pricey driving schools — unofficial gatekeepers that don’t so much teach you how to drive as they prep you to appease the testing gods.

These schools range from absurdly expensive to downright extortionate, with packages climbing from $2,000 to $5,000. You basically need their stamp of approval to pass the license center’s tests, which made me wonder if someone, somewhere, is laughing all the way to the bank. People here mostly accept it, but to me, it smelled fishier than a discount sushi tray at the supermarket.

Feeling brave, I grabbed $80 worth of official textbooks, crammed enough to pass the written exam on my fourth try, then faced the practical exam. My first fail didn’t surprise me; what did surprise me was how the feedback session quickly turned into an infomercial for their beloved driving school. When I tried finding a school just to practice the test route, big schools insisted I pay for a beginner’s course, smaller ones demanded to know which specific officer recommended them, and the vibes got weirder than an anime filler episode.

I finally found one school that took me in — only for the instructor to be an 80-year-old who signed me up for a basic course without asking. Instead of practicing the test route, I circled the track endlessly while he lectured me on driving fundamentals like I was 16 again. I’m still bitter about the $300 I flushed away.

On exam day, I saw another guy pass despite multiple cringe-worthy mistakes, presumably because he had that golden (driving school) certificate. Then came my turn: near-flawless execution, immediate fail, zero explanation beyond a nudge to consider “further training.” The examiner’s lack of interest in my actual driving was more obvious than a gaijin wearing bright yellow in a sea of black suits.

Eventually, I bailed on the entire farce by renewing my license in my home country and opting for gaimen kirikae, the so-called “license exchange.” It’s no real exchange — you still take a test — but it’s a joke compared to the main route. Ten questions, a casual five-minute drive, and I passed on my first try. Even with airfare, it was cheaper than Japan’s driving school scam.

In the end, if you’re waltzing into Japan’s licensing labyrinth, brace yourself for a tango of red tape, jaw-dropping costs, and an exam system that feels designed to wear you down. Either fork over a fortune or get strategic with a gaimen kirikae. Whichever path you choose, remember this: you’re not alone in the dance. We’ve all been there, stumbling awkwardly, wishing we could just hop on a bullet train instead.

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