Daggy

On to Adelaide. Advance press for the city wasn’t great. It had been described as a “sleepy” town in the sort of way you might describe an unattractive and socially awkward cousin as “nice,” “has a great personality,” or “not contagious.” In the months before I left, my brother was chatting online with someone from Australia and he mentioned that I would be living in Adelaide. There was apparently a long pause and the Aussie wrote … “Adelaide? Why?” That seems to sum up the country’s attitude towards the city; it’s a fine place to fly over but why on earth would you live there?! Too boring.

Upon arrival, we were almost immediately informed of its checkered past. Adelaide is apparently the ‘go to’ place for serial killers in this part of the world, as a quick Google search will give you the pithy nickname “Adelaide – City of Corpses.” Sort of wish I’d done that Google search earlier. Notably, Adelaide is also known as the City of Churches. I’m not saying there’s a connection there, I’m just stating facts. The Snowtown Serial Murders (aka the Barrel Murders) are a local favorite - as the name implies, these murders involved barrels, acid, and a social security fraud scheme. In another, the three Beaumont children were abducted, suspicions centering on a wealthy but eccentric young man. These murders were never solved (and are therefore almost certainly fodder for the next CSI Miami with the signature Caruso acting - sunglasses removed melodramatically and husky, terse dialogue given by profile. My next blog will probably be ihatecaruso, though it’s likely that name has already been used). Upon learning of the roster of murders, I found it hard to think of Adelaide as a “sleepy” town, unless you’re using sleepy in that Stephen King, Castle Rock kind of way.


Adelaide is also known for its parks





and Don Bradman


If you don't know the name Don Bradman, I feel nothing but pity for you because it means you haven't followed cricket religiously for the past century and therefore have absolutely no idea of a good way to spend 36 hours on a weekend (average game length) and probably think 'wicket' is the name of an Ewok. Suffice it to say that, after his death, they retired both his number and his name. It is now illegal to be named Don Bradman in Australia.

We rented a place in North Adelaide, which is apparently a good place to live. This is our little slice of home.





Neil, Amy’s host at Flinders, informed us that prior visitors have chosen to live at Glenelg beach, which is a “daggy” place. Daggy means shabby or untidy. However, it also refers to the dung that becomes embedded in the fur around the business end of a sheep. This is apparently an unfortunate situation both for the sheep and the farmer, who has to shave the “affected area” to prevent bowflies from setting up camp. Just thought you should know, since I intend to use daggy at every possible opportunity once I return home.

There are no visual aids for daggy. I encourage you to visit your local farmer if you have questions.

Plumbing the depths of plumbing in Japan

A few years ago, one of our friends muttered that we needed to include trigger warnings for some of the posts.  Apparently, he had been reading the blog during breakfast and happened upon my post on daggys.  His black coffee was suddenly no longer quite as appealing.  

Well, consider yourself warned.  Today we are going to tackle the issue of Japanese plumbing.

It is safe to say that the Japanese are literally decades if not centuries ahead of the US when it comes to the sophistication of toilet tech.  The toilets are a marvel.  First, the seats are contoured, comfortable, and heated - so it may not be uncommon in drafty apartments to find your spouse hunkered down on the lav as a way to keep warm.  I'm not saying that's happened.  I'm just ... not not saying it.

Second, the seats have an array of 'after-business' options best explained by the hieroglyphics below ...

There's the torpedo

or the tsunami

and the seats also allow for various levels of pressure.  You'll notice that this toilet was set to the lowest level, also known as "the American."

And finally, the all important stop button.

You could theoretically entertain yourself for quite a long time trying all the options.  If there were a mini fridge by the toilet, you would almost never have to leave.

I should parenthetically also note that if you are intending to take pictures of toilets in a foreign county for your blog, it is best to lock the door.

Over the course of our first few days in Tokyo, an odd thing happened in our hotel bathroom.  The three women in my life all experienced existential crises in deciding whether to "take the plunge" and hit torpedo or go full tsunami and I often heard them gathered in the bathroom debating about who should go first and how hot the water might be and how big a difference pressure level 2 was from pressure level 1.  From what I understood, they all seemed troubled by the possibility that the water jet might be strong enough to eject them from the toilet and pin them against the far wall.  My best advice to them was to relax and accept what comes.  However, I drew the line at sitting down and taking a tsunami for the team for no reason.  I'm not a show pony dammit.  They could just wait a while.

Tessa is the only one who had good reason to be scared ...

Flashback to 2016

Tessa's first experience with a bidet was traumatic.  

The first thing to keep in mind is that Tessa is a button pusher.  If she sees a colorful button under a flashing light, she is guaranteed going to push that button at least four times.  If she happens to beat you into an elevator, you're hitting every floor from 1 to 10.  This tendency has changed over the years, as she now tends to push psychological buttons.  But it still holds.  

Tessa's traumatic event occurred our first night in Tokyo, when we ventured out of our hotel room and enticed the girls into a random restaurant around the corner.  To our eyes, it looked like an authentic Japanese udon restaurant - dim lighting, low seating, and everything written and spoken in a language we could not understand.  After sitting still for fifteen seconds, Tessa announced she had to use the bathroom and off she went.  This was not unusual, as Tessa has long attempted to spend most family dinners in the bathroom.

After a long time, Amy looked at me skeptically and said "Tessa's been gone a long time."

"Uh huh," I said, tapping a noodle with a chopstick to ensure it was, in fact, a noodle.

"I'm going to check on her."

Three minutes later, Amy returned with a bedraggled and wet Tessa.

The story goes like this.

Tessa handled the first several steps like a champ.  Find the bathroom.  Check.  Lock the door.  Check.  Sit on the potty.  Check.  Business.  Check.  But here is where it all went south.  Because buttons.  Tessa noticed that the toilet seat had many buttons with strange curved symbols.  So she selected one at random and pushed it.  

What followed was only described by a hysterical six year old, so I can't vouch for the accuracy of it all.  But my guess is that Tessa hit the tsunami button.  A massive stream of water struck her butt with the force of a hot tub jet.  She yelped and followed her instincts - which were to leap off the potty!  This might serve you well in some contexts, but in the bidet context it's a rookie mistake.  The water keeps coming.  So when Tessa leapt off the potty, water sprayed all over the bathroom - the mirror, the wall, the ceiling, the door, and Tessa.  Tessa's solution (and probably the only solution) was to sit back down on the potty.  But, as bidet pros know, this does not stop the tsunami.  The water kept spraying her butt and, every time she attempted to get up, the tsunami soaked the bathroom.  So Tessa was trapped.  For three minutes, she squirmed and shimmied and gyrated, seeking relief from the water cannon and promising that she would do anything (even sitting through family dinners) if she could just get off that potty.

When Amy finally got the door open, she said that the bathroom looked like the interior of a car wash.