And we are off ...

 At 1:30 am on the 2nd of January, we woke up (or perhaps more accurately briefly regained enough consciousness to rouse our children) and dragged our suitcases to the front while Murphy did his best impression of an NFL offensive lineman trying to protect the door.  He has this intuitive sense for the illegal chop block.  At some point in that transition, I managed to break my only belt and spent fifteen minutes blearily trying to put it back together while Amy hissed "are you still messing around with that damn belt?  For the love of God, either suck it in or grab some duct tape to hold your pants up."

Then we had to say goodbye to Murph.  From his expression, I thought he seemed to understand that we would not be "right back."

Our driver arrived and we set off.  Five minutes out, I realized with a chill that I'd forgotten something important.  Not my passport.  Not my credit cards.  My reading glasses.  As sad as it is, at fifty-two, reading glasses represent one of the most crucial survival mechanisms for a twenty two hour transit.  Not to mention a four month sentence with your family.

Made it through baggage without issue.  We all look pretty happy in this shot, though Amy does look like she's bracing herself for a dose of ECT.  I asked her if she wanted me to retake this shot because her eyes were closed.  She said "That was on purpose.  I was  pretending we were either already there or that you were sitting several rows behind us."

Our five hour layover in Detroit was spent trying to remember why we wanted to be in close proximity to each other for four months.  That three bedroom closet was beginning to seem awfully small in my mind.  Unfortunately, our family deals with sleep deprivation in different and mutually exclusive ways.  Lily does her best impression of a surly zombie who blames Tessa for everything.  Tessa does her best impression of a chipmunk on cocaine.  I do my best impression of a single guy sitting next to a crazy family.

Finally in our seats ....

Amy asking 'was this a mistake?' for the fifth time.  

Tessa saying "mistake?!  I knew it.  You guys don't have any idea what you're doing, do you?"

Me saying "Wait just a second.  I'm in the wrong seat.  I got that last second upgrade to business class."

Lily reading.

Fourteen hours seems like a long time until you are into your third hour (and fourth craft IPA) and your wife leans over and grips your forearm in a death grip and says "your daughter is driving me insane," when it seems like a really really long time and a really really bad idea.  That's when you go to the back of the plane and tell the steward that you need two glasses of chardonnay and any other central nervous system depressants they might have on hand.  You should use words like 'stat' or 'did you see the lady in 44E?'

Over the course of that fourteen years (not a typo, that's how long it felt) ...

Lily watched the Meg and Jaws (for the fifth time).  This from the girl who told us that she's really afraid of sharks while flying over the Pacific.

Tessa selected Cinderella, Clueless, Legally Blonde.

Amy went high brow and watched Emma and another Brit drama she can't remember.

I went full dystopian.  I watched Matrix 4, Parasite, and Nope.

You can see why family movie night is like electing a speaker to the House.

None of us took any pictures the rest of our trip.  What I remember through the haze of fatigue is that we disembarked to find scores of airport employees trying to hand out pink pamphlets that I initially mistook for an invitation to a religious service involving Kool-aid or an ad for a great deal on crypto (FTX FTW!).  It turned out that they were essential documents that certified we had been vaccinated.  Despite that, immigration and customs were a breeze.

What was not a breeze?  Currency.  We quickly learned that Japan is largely a cash based society and we brought zero yen.  No problemo!  Before we left we ascertained that we did in fact remember our ATM pin #s.  However, after ten failed withdrawal attempts and a finger bruised from jabbing the English button on the screen, I developed a sneaking suspicion that a) credit union ATM cards do not work in Japan, or b) I was trying to withdraw money from a slot machine.  The truth was even sadder.  In an effort to protect us, our credit union determined that we were North Korean hackers and put a freeze on our account.  

Prevent Fraud!  Choose Dirigo.

But first, a word from our censors

 

It has been a long lapse between posts, so let me explain.  As I wrote years ago (before our second trip to Australia), my writing is now constrained by the need to consider other people's feelings.  The best word for it is 'suffocating.'  I mean, if Stephen King had to think about the feelings of St. Bernard owners, Cujo never would have been written.  But it turns out that good fathers (and even pretty marginal fathers) must consider the feelings of their daughters.  It also turns out that 13 year olds have much stronger preferences than 6 year olds when it comes to information sharing.  They have demanded veto power over every blog post.  

Here is an example of a redacted blog post that was recently approved.

Today                    Tessa and Lily             Lily                     great                      kids                     ]                                      But then Amy and I                                                  and I admitted I                  was a                                          horrible                               father 

Both Lily and Tessa have that intuitive sense of dictatorial suppression that you only see in dystopian sci fi villains or the Kremlin.  I imagine the KGB agents reading my blog (I've heard I'm really big over in the Kremlin) would nod with grudging approval and admiration and yet, at some point, even veteran agents would eventually say with some level of exasperation "but if you block everything out then it isn't funny."  

To which Amy would say, "it's much better this way."

So here's what I'm thinking.  The blog will be an in-vivo experiment of free speech.  Freeish speech.  Now I’m not saying that it will devolve into a “nightmarish hell scape” though that is ironically how my daughters describe our conversations over family dinner.  It will essentially be historical fiction - a blog about a fictitious family of four fumbling their way through Japan.  Even so, I recognize that my daughter Tessa may read it someday and suspect that the character ‘Tessa’ is loosely based on her.  I totally get why she would think that.  My response is that I’ve tried to capture my perspective throughout my life.  Given the way my mind works, everything I write is infused with hyperbole and therefore only very loosely based in reality.  I'm sure colleagues reading this will mutter something about late onset schizophrenia or early onset dementia or an as yet unnamed personality disorder.  

This picture is proof.

Konnichiwa!

This unfortunately represents the sum total of my working Japanese, which is a real problem because Amy received a Fulbright to conduct eyewitness research in Japan in the spring.  When Amy originally approached me about spending four months in Japan, it seemed like the kind of situation in a marriage where you can get a great deal of credit for being flexible without much in the way of costs because your partner is almost certainly not going to get the grant.  I always look forward to questions like “can I apply for a grant to spend the winter volunteering to count caribou in the North Dakota badlands?”  Absolutely.  In fact, let’s apply for a year!  I suggest you be on the lookout for these opportunities in your own marriages.

But you should know that every so often it comes back to bite you.  Your partner gets that grant.  Then you have to suck it up and download a language app that proves you’re less smart than you thought you were.

The ostensible purpose of Fulbright is to send reasonable Americans to foreign places as ambassadors of goodwill.  They sent the Douglasses.  

Read those last two lines aloud.  If that isn’t already the preview voiceover for a B horror movie, it should be.  But I suspect we are talking about a new genre here.  Documentary Horror.  You know, something that would make people say ‘I know it’s real because it’s a documentary but … there is NO WAY that’s real’ and ‘it’s just really hard to watch.’  A mild mannered, self-effacing forensic psychologist trapped between two thirteen year olds watching reruns of My Little Pony on a fourteen hour flight.

In Japan, we are renting a “cozy” three bedroom closet.  In such an intimate space, I’m concerned that our family dynamic (which you could call feisty or explosive depending on how close you are sitting to us) will not mesh well with the more contemplative Japanese culture.  I usually think this when Tessa and Lily are shrieking at each other over who used up the last of the acne medication or, sometimes, who looked at whom in a certain way.  So I’ve spent the last month hissing “pretend we’re in an apartment” or “pretend we’re a different family.”  That’s what I do.

Lily continues to vie against Amy for top perfectionist in the family, and she will routinely hyperventilate at the prospect of getting second in anything.  In an effort to teach Lily that failure is invaluable as a learning experience, we mandated that she enter a state wide fiction writing contest for ages 10 to 18.  I told Amy there’s nothing like a cold, two line rejection letter to help you realize that the best bet for your writing career is Christmas letters.  Well, Lily won the damn thing and is now the sole professional author of the family.  Her story was, as Stephen King is thought to have said, too scary to read aloud.  I’m not certain what her next story is about, but the other day she did say to me ‘Dad, I’d be really sad if you were murdered.’  If you dare to read her story, it’s at the Telling Room website.  

In addition to her writing, Lily has been working on her awareness of environmental issues.  This fall, she asked for a glass of milk and I finished one carton and opened another one.  As I was about to pour the milk into her glass, she shouted “STOP!”  When I asked for clarification, she said “if you use different cartons … the milk will be from different cows.”  Feeling a surge of guilt about my inadequate education on industrial dairy farming, I demanded “did you seriously think they would just milk each cow directly into the carton?”  It turns out that she did.  When I proceeded to explain that every milk carton contains milk from many different cows, she gagged and swore off all dairy.  I have neglected to explain the same is true for yogurt, cream, ice cream, etc.

I’m sure many of you are concerned about Tessa’s medical condition (the acute crushinitis I mentioned in last year’s letter).  It became manifest in the form of a towering and monosyllabic thirteen year old whose name rhymes with Panthony.  I remember last year when Tessa was railing against our draconian moratorium on dating.  Her exact quote was “all my problems would be solved if I could just date.”  I’m not proud that I said “Tess, that’s when your problems will start.”  Now, I’m not saying I’m prophetic or about to start a religion, but I do think Tess has been surprised that the lifting of the moratorium did not coincide with a stampede of suitors.  Let’s just say that Panthony is slow playing the courtship.

In addition to crushes, Tessa has continued her pursuit of dominance of soccer, racquet sports, and a game I call “we just want dad to lose.”  We play it every time we play a card game or a board game or a sport or talk about our goals in life.

My family has started to say outrageous things to “make the Christmas letter.”  I keep having to say, ‘I’m not a shill’ and ‘this isn’t propaganda’ and ‘the letter is about how I feel about real things.’  Tess will usually respond by asking “are you going to describe my hair as honey blond or ash blond?”  Lily usually doesn’t say anything because she’s reading.

As we frantically check things off our lists, I’m realizing that I need to learn a few other important phrases in Japanese.  Most travelers would want to know how to say “where is the bathroom?” or “is that a noodle or a tentacle?” but I suspect I will need some specialized language, such as “we need to hire a juvenile defense attorney,” “that is too much money,” and “what are the detention center visiting hours?”

I just discovered an old draft blog post from our first time in Tokyo.  I'm posting it now for context.

Imagine being in a new city.

Now, imagine that you have suffered a debilitating stroke and, as a result, you tend to wander to the left.  Oh, also, you can't read.

Now, imagine that you've also suffered a gun shot wound to the leg, resulting in massive blood loss that impairs thinking and mobility.

Now, imagine that there is a mosquito with an American accent constantly buzzing in your ear telling you that they've done nothing interesting AT ALL since coming to Tokyo and they just want to go back to LEWISTON where there are PLAYGROUNDS and THINGS THAT ARE INTERESTING TO DO.  (As an aside, I often find myself fantasizing about two simple things: locks and yards).

This is what it is like to be in Tokyo with six year olds.

Yes, I know, most of you are thinking "Shut the hell up you unemployed forty something Game of Thrones loving psychologist."  Fine, say that.  Just don't tell me what happened in the first two episodes.  Still, I would continue to advocate for an "extreme reality television event" that involved traveling around the world with our children.  Participants of the The Amazing Race would piss themselves.

I should also send a shout out (also known as a CONSTANT SCREAM OF DESPAIR AND HATRED) to Jetstar, which, despite their best efforts, got us here safely.  If you ever have a chance to travel via Jetstar - don't.  It's hard to imagine where to start, but I'll start with the innocuous sounding "baggage allowance."  After you Google 7 kg, try to fit that into your carry-on luggage, remembering that you have to pack snacks, books, and toys for the six year old set.  It is impossible.  Amy and I spent a ridiculous amount of time weighing our backpacks and carry-on luggage in a fruitless attempt to get down to 7kg.

That was the best part of flying Jetstar.  The worst is that they require you to gather all of your baggage after the domestic leg of the flight and cart it to the international counter - WHICH DOESN'T open until 3 hours before your flight.  Which, thanks to our overly conservative travel agent, was three and a half hours away.  At such times, you learn to really nurse a pint of Guinness so you can have a barstool.

As for flying ... I learned something very important which I will pass on to you now for free.  If you ever ... EVER have the good fortune to have a flight with two empty seats next to you - IMMEDIATELY move into the center seat and take up as much room as you can.   If you don't do this, it is very likely that a hipster wanna be in his forties from Australia will promptly move up several seats and immediately lay out on both empty seats, ass pointed towards you.  When this happened, I felt a wave of deep self-loathing for not having the wherewithal to claim the seats myself.  In retaliation, I made a LOT of noise opening my Jetstar Spinach Ravioli and laughed a LOT while watching the Revenant.  That DiCaprio does crack me up.

Still, the hipster slept through it all.  I considered taking a picture but I frankly felt bad for my camera.

And then there was Tokyo.  Ah, Tokyo.

Our hotel had two rooms for us but no adjoining door.  Amy and I had a plan that involved putting the girls in one room and being able to talk to each other in the adjoining room.  Adjoining is really the key word.  Our travel agent apparently believes that adjacent is a synonym to adjoining.  Although, similar, they are not synonyms.  So instead, I'm drinking a glass of a $3 bottle of sauvingnon blanc purchased at a 7-Eleven in the dark while Lily snores.  This is not how I envisioned experiencing Tokyo.  However, the $3 bottle of wine is really quite good.

Our girls were troopers the first night.  Tessa helped us navigate the largest city in Japan with an unerring sense of direction.  She was like Amy's seeing-eye dog.  Both kids tried food at an Udon restaurant which Amy and I loved.  The second night, they demanded Subway.  In a city of 88,000 restaurants, Lily and Tessa ate Subway sandwiches with lettuce, tomato, and mayo.  

There is no word in Japanese to describe my feeling of sadness.

 In a pro-blogger move (or maybe an amateur blogger but pro ADHDer) I'm going to put up a post I wrote a few years ago and recycling our 2022 Christmas letter.  Look at that.  Three posts the first day!

Signage Part 2

This was posted right by a picnic area that was deserted.

I think calling a brown snake "shy" sort of misses the point.

Naked lights?  I've been missing out.

Um, no.  This does not work.























Neither does this.

Where did you get Hepatitis C?

Captain Snag and the Weinerbago food truck?

When I suggested that Tessa stand by this sign, she managed to look simultaneously offended and embarrassed by me.  I'm pretty sure that defines the teenage set.  Regardless, she couldn't argue with the logic.  Frozen kids probably don't smell like much of anything.

What can you say about this?

Stairs!  Woot!

Ride the lightening!

















This gave me a chill.  What is up with that threat about being in paradise with these over medicated people I've never met?

And a free public event involving paradise and eternal happiness?  That is just going to piss off Ticketmaster.  I wouldn't be surprised if they barred supreme beings from using their stadiums.  If Pearl Jam couldn't beat them in the 90s ...















Hmmmm.  A lot of smiling going on here.

The influencers sounds like a better name for a rock band or a B horror movie, though perhaps services here strive to combine both elements.

Like so much in Australia, this sign seemed friendly from far away.  It's only when you get closer that you realize you've been threatened the whole time.

And now for the lavatory section of the blog.

  

A testament to the possibility that people are not smart and/or are overly hopeful.  Yet, in a universe as uncertain as ours, how can we really be sure that removing the sign won't make it work?  And isn't "work" a relative term?  If someone ignores the sign and uses the toilet, isn't it fair to say that the toilet "worked" for them?

The Crouchers Strike Back.

I can hear them now.  "Oy.  Don't like me crouching over the toilet, eh?  I'll skip it altogether.  Never trusted it anyway."

In all fairness, I think we should consider the possibility that the "incident" that must have precipitated the sign's creation may not have been an expression of scatalogical defiance.  As a father of twins, I'm something of an expert in how to put down a scatalogical rebellion.  It requires a ruthless hand and absolutely no sense of smell.  I won't subject you to the details, but lets just say it involved a loose diaper, a cream colored carpet, and an hour of "drying time."

So perhaps the culprit wasn't intending it as a statement.  Perhaps the "inevitable" occurred prematurely, sometime between dropping trow and planting cheek.  You'd probably have to get a forensic expert in there to examine the scattershot pattern and it wouldn't be pretty, but it could exonerate the crouchers.

After reading the sign, your immediate impulse is to look down.  Not a good impulse.  Better just not to know.  You get through moments like this by focusing on the possibility that the figure was doing yoga.

E for Ethel

Just a quick plug for our favorite coffee haus - you know, if you ever find yourself in North Adelaide and in dire need of a latte.  E for Ethel is awesome.

I can't speak for others, but Ethels is definitely in our top 12 places to eat in Australia.

This is where Amy and I have spent most of our mornings working over one to three cups of java, although by the third cup I'm not so much working as paranoid and hyperventilating.  On Saturdays, we stop by for an awesome brunch.  Creatures of habit - I get the smashed avo on rye, the girls get the pancakes with ice cream, and Amy gets the scones.

Ethels was also approved by the bunster, which is important, because that pretty much makes or breaks a place for us.

Omission

One of my two astute readers noted that I neglected to mention a critical part of the last blog.

Face painting.

Is there anything more important?  Prior to our visit to the winery, we stopped by the local farmer's market, grabbed a coffee, and splurged for face paint.  I entered with two daughters and left with fairy wings and a rainbow princess.

While we're at it, I should also include the tree hugging incident at Seppeltsfield.  My daughters blamed the bunny.

Birthday

For my birthday, we decided to drive north up to the Barossa Valley and return to Seppletsfield, producer of our favorite muscat and port.  We decided to leave the Laser at home, opting to take the Martin for a spin.

Seppeltsfield.  Um, it's off to the left.

This is the storage facility at Seppeltsfield that houses the vast vats of port or "the building where Bakkila would spend all his time."

This pathway doesn't hold any significance.  It's therefore a great example of blog bloat - bloggers posting unnecessary pictures in lieu of having something real to say. 

Tessa practicing her assertiveness.  "Daddy, I'm going in here!  I think I saw a cute boy."

The way they used to store port - just toss it behind the shed until it's old enough to serve.

I'll just apologize now.  I took a LOT of pictures of barrels.

The way they store port now - toss it in a basement.

This room houses several hundred barrels of port in various stages of aging.  Each barrel is opened when it hits 100 years, by which time 2/3 of the liquid is gone.  The official story is that the liquid evaporated through a natural process, but I'm pretty sure that "natural process" is a drunk ass named Larry.

We found my year.  1970.  I'll be back.  By 2070, I should be able to afford a glass.

The guide had to ask us not to hug the barrels.  Several times.







Having seen me stand by the Aston Martin, the tour guide thought that I might be in the market for some 100 year old port, which goes for $2k for the "big bottle."  As a basis of comparison, the big bottle is about the size of my middle finger, which I was tempted to display prominently upon hearing the price.  Older ports apparently hit the $10k mark.  I sniffed and said "Oy.  I reckon I'd just prefer a Coopahs."  Our guide muttered something about "gallows humor" and ushered us in the direction of the more affordable, non-alcoholic raspberry cordial.

Tessa perfected her port tasting etiquette by practicing with raspberry cordial.

The Rainforest

On Day 2, we took a bus trip to a train trip to a small village in a rainforest where we rode an Army Duck in a circle so we could take the Skyrail back to the bus.

Tessa was psyched!

A whole host of new modes of transport to experience and scream about in public.  When you see her next, don't freak out when she screams "Skyrail" at random intervals.  It is very unlikely that a wayward gondola is dropping out of the sky.  But (because you never know), I'd still dive to the left.


This shot was taken on the bus to the rain forest.  I looked outside and noticed ... something.

You're thinking, "I can't really make that out."  That is (apparently) the WHOLE POINT.

This genius, Call of Duty superplayer, and future candidate for the Darwin Awards painted his car in black and gray CAMO.  Because the last thing you want on a rainy day is for other drivers to see your car clearly and easily.

I'm guessing he was pretty pissed when he saw his premiums went way up.

While at Kuranda, we had a chance to see the rainforest with the Army Ducks.  Now, I was a bit nervous on this part of the trip.  From my experience, ducks can be capricious and unpredictable and it seemed the height of irresponsibility to give them semi-automatic weapons.  But I figured the rainforest was more dangerous than I realized.  

I was just as surprised as you probably are to find that the Army Ducks are not a group of heavily armed mallards.  The DUKW are six-wheel-drive amphibious assault vehicles.

Something no military wants to see.  Ever.

This is what the military want.  Steely eyed determination in the face of distraction.

We attended a demonstration of aboriginal dancing and the performers made the ill advised decision to go for audience participation.

Once again, Tessa's hand shot up with the speed of a frog's tongue.  The woman's expression tells you what it's like to sit next to Tessa when she's told to stay in one place.







We were then invited to spend some time with the friendly neighborhood croc, also known as Jack the Rippah.  Jack was a 17 foot 1600 pound crocodile.  He was also a confirmed bachelor.  And by confirmed bachelor, I mean that he ate every female croc the zoo placed in his pen.  Twelve female crocs.  As far as I can tell, this is the definition of screwing yourself over.  Zookeepers' fervent hopes to breed supercrocs proved unsustainable.

Watching Jack watch me, it occurred to me that this is exactly the time when you want some heavily armed mallards.

I have the say that the sign was both helpful and not so helpful.  After seeing the sign, I realized that Jack was just waiting for some stupid American psychologist to lean over the railing and get a good look at the size of those chompers.

Unfortunately after seeing the sign, part of me wanted to do it.






Drew doing his best King Kong vs Mothra imitation.

This is also how he looked a few hours later, when he ran up and told me that "a big snake" slithered across the path in front of him.

It's also the look he had when Tessa asked to sit next to him on the bus.

I'm taking suggestions for captions on this.  Post in the comments.  Winners get lifetime access to my blog.

My entry:  "This hot dog tastes funny."

or

"You know, I do have colleagues who glance at your blog."

View from the Skyrail.  We were told that there was a stunning rainforest below.  Drew squinted out into the fog and said "Really think there's a rainforest down there?  I mean, I don't see one.  What do you think would happen if I opened this door ..." 

After listening to me complain about the unremitting pain in my feet, Drew suggested that we review my footwear.  He looked closely at my sandals and observed that it would probably be less painful to staple tire treads to my feet.

I left my sandals in Cairns.

It turns out that there is a worldwide shortage of Berkinstocks.