C Bellabell

Off the Grid

2011-07-24T10:18:00.000-07:00

When the March earthquake hit, I stood on my school’s football field amidst students, their parents, and my colleagues. The ground continued to roll under out feet while everyone tried to track down information on their iPhones. When anyone discovered new information, they would shout out, “7.9 off Sendai!” or “Now they’re calling it 8.9!”

At that time, we hadn’t the slightest inkling of what was to come. We had no way to know that so many would suffer so horribly, but as details began to surface, we were able to access the facts quickly. This was one of those moments when any lingering apprehension I may have had about the role of technology in our lives completely disappeared. For better or worse, the internet was nothing short of miraculous in that moment. It wasn’t so long ago that we would have been standing on that field with no clue as to what was happening. In the fairly recent past, living the expat life involved a willingness to go off the grid.

When my husband and I first lived abroad, we travelled to Costa Rica with the knowledge that expensive long distance phone calls would be the sum total of our contact with life in the United States. Any business we had back home had to be completed before we left. Our credit cards had to be paid off because there was no online banking. My parents took over my measly $30 per month student loan payment. In terms of dealing with some aspects of our lives, it would be as if we no longer existed.

When the occasional Costa Rican earthquake registered high enough to make CNN, it would send our families into a tailspin. If they learned about it while we were at work, they would have to wait for hours for us to get home and answer their phone calls. There was almost no email, no Facebook, and no texting. There was nothing for anyone to do but worry. Meanwhile, we didn’t have CNN, so we had no idea that the little shake we felt earlier was sending our loved ones over the edge. There was a distinct possibility that as people frantically left messages on our answering machine, we might be in a local bar with our friends eating fried yucca and drinking rum and coke, our only care in the world being a decision as to whether or not we should order another round.

Many years later, I sometimes weigh the pros and cons of incorporating so much technology into living abroad. The expat experience is no longer a disappearing act. We are back on the grid, but now I’m doing something I always said I wouldn’t do. I live in a country where I don’t speak the language. I could make a million excuses, but the truth is that it’s my own fault. I use digital access to English information about Japan as a crutch to avoid learning the language. I showed up here with books on Japan and Japanese that I now only use to convert Farenheit to Celcius when I bake. I bought language CDs that I don’t listen to. My kanji workbooks are in pristine condition. For seven years, I’ve used technology to avoid having to put in the work of learning the language.

I’m not saying I miss the days in Costa Rica when I would plan a trip by thumbing through a friend’s much borrowed copy of Frommer’s or Lonely Planet. As my household’s designated Spanish speaker (notice that I didn’t say skilled), I would call our short list of hotels with the telephone in one ear in and my husband, Rob, in the other.

“Ask them if they have hot water,” Rob would suggest. I would translate the question, but before I could translate the answer, he would say, “Ask them how far they are from the beach.” So far, my brain could handle the load. “Ask them if they have a refrigerator.” About here, I would start to fall behind. “Is there a restaurant in the hotel? A bar? Are they close to town? Will we see monkeys?” At that point, I would be in complete dual language overload, my mental skills diminished to those of a small child by excessive input. These sessions usually didn’t end in violence unless Rob waited for me hang up to say, “Will you call them back and ask what floor our room is on?”

Repeat that process for every hotel we were even considering. It was time-consuming and unreliable, but I was practicing more Spanish with every call. Every daily task added to our knowledge of the country and the language. In time, this immersion resulted in both of us being relatively functional in Spanish. Using technology to skirt speaking the language wasn’t possible.

I’m not blaming my ignorance of Japanese on technology completely, but it’s one hell of an enabler for the lazy, isn’t it? In 2011, if I want a hotel room, I never have to speak to a human. I can go to one of many travel sites and input my needs and wants. Over time, I have found that I can systematically eliminate the need for Japanese by using my iPhone and computer. Pizza delivery, train schedules, and restaurant reservations are just an English website away. Now I don’t even have to ask for directions. I can put my location and my destination into my phone and a purple line will appear on my map, linking the two. It’s like when kindergartners on a field trip hold onto a rope held by their teacher. There’s even a blue dot to represent my current location so that I can see if I accidentally let go of my virtual rope. (Even with this, I still get lost in the labyrinth that is Shimokitazawa.)

Should I unplug and let myself flounder around in a sea of embarrassing pantomime until I learn the language? Probably, but I know I won’t. What I absolutely should do, though, is buckle down and study. Living abroad has changed with the times. Because it’s now so easy to avoid learning, I’ll need to go out of my way to create situations where I’m forced to speak Japanese.

I need to balance my own efforts with my easy tech cheats because to unplug would be an unthinkable sacrifice. To throw oneself back into the information dark ages (the nineties) would be to change everything about the way we’ve learned to interact with our environment.

Ultimately, the most important role technology can play for an expat family is the ability to stand, wherever we are, in a cloud of earthquake-induced uncertainty, and send an email or status update that guarantees that our loved ones will wake up to two words: We’re safe.

Vocanoes Always Sneak Up on Me

2011-05-20T21:45:00.000-07:00

Originally published in Being A Broad Magazine

Volcanoes always sneak up on me. Any volcano, anywhere in the world; one minute we’re driving along, enjoying the scenery, and the next minute we turn a corner and there it is. Sometimes I’ve caught a glimpse of it a few miles back from an angle that made it seem smaller and yet I knew I would get there eventually. Nonetheless, regardless of how prepared I am, when it is suddenly right there the shock of having to crane my neck to see the top takes me by surprise every time. Mountains are beautiful, too, but there’s something about the way a cone volcano dominates the landscape that gets me every time.
For me, seeing Fuji was the fail-safe of our last family outing. When we accepted an invitation to join friends on a ski trip, I figured that whether or not I enjoyed the skiing, it would be great to be that close to Fuji. I’d never seen this particular Japanese national treasure up close. Besides, what could go wrong? Just because three out of four members of our family couldn’t ski, that didn’t mean we all couldn’t learn in one day. Worst case scenario, Rob would take our third-grader, Max, and I’d just figure it out quickly and take over teaching four-year-old Maya. I’m a smart, coordinated, grown woman. Why shouldn’t I be able to master the fine art of sliding down a hill by lunchtime?

One of the main reasons I never learned to ski is that I get really angry when I’m cold. Unfortunately, during the hour it took to fill out ski rental forms, measure each member of our family for clothes and boots, and wrestle said items onto our children, I got really, really cold. After much grumbling and cursing on my part, we were eventually ready to hit the bunny hill. We clicked into our skis, excited to swoosh over to the moving sidewalk that would usher us up the 100-foot, 20-degree slope that would be our training ground, only to find that the kids and I couldn’t move at all. Even the slightest upward incline made me slide backward after every step. Rob helped the kids while I pushed myself along with my poles. For the sake of the kids, I resisted the urge to shout obscenities.

Once I was on the moving sidewalk and could calm down for a second, I watched the Japanese kids on the slope with their parents, zipping around tiny obstacles and laughing. The image of them frolicking with Fuji in the background tugged my heart strings. It was so easy to picture Maya, who is strong and athletic, doing the same by the end of the day. I gazed up the hill to where Rob was waiting for us and focused my energy on trying to telepathically channel my “Maya as fabulous ski baby” vision to him. Instead of mirroring my dreamy look, he pointed behind me frantically. Looking down, I realised that Maya was no longer on the belt. In a second, Rob was behind me and able to recover our missing offspring, who had fallen off the conveyor belt, skis and all, and had been behind me trying to crawl back on.

Soon we were at the top of the hill, ready to go. For the children’s sake, I tried to pretend the bunny hill didn’t look terrifying from the top, but it did. Rob worked with Max, and in some misguided leap into ridiculously poor judgment, I started down the hill with Maya. Thirty seconds later, we had two people down and Max plummeting toward certain death. All I remember is lying in the snow, all of my limbs bent the wrong way, thinking, “Save the children.” As Max needed an immediate rescue, Maya and I would have to wait. Parental triage goes like this: moving toward danger trumps age; if everyone is stationary, save the little one first. In an effort to help myself, I pushed my poles into the ground and pulled with my arms. Nothing. I tried to slide my leg to a better position to gain leverage, but my ski had dug a trench in the snow and trying to move my leg made my knee twist in way that it was never meant to bend. As I was about to surrender, I saw a Japanese man watching me and grinning. It made sense that he would walk over and pull me up, right? Wrong. My brain flashed through seven years of lessons about Japanese culture and I realised in horror that he would never help me. As shamed as I may have been by my predicament, I was sure that he believed he would only deepen my humiliation by coming to my aid. For what felt like forever, he watched me struggle. I tried for the second time that day to telepathically communicate with someone. “For the love of God, deepen my humiliation!” I mentally pleaded. “It’s OK! Make my shame complete! Just help me!” I think, after this trip, that I can safely say that I suck at telepathy.

Rob had saved Max, and by the time I realised that I could release my boot from my ski, which is harder than it sounds when you can’t reach your feet, Maya had already taken off her skis and was walking down the hill. Skiing lasted approximately ten more minutes, less because the kids wanted to stop trying and more because Rob was simply outnumbered by beginners. Sledding was a more accomplishable goal since it gave the kids the thrill of rocketing downhill, but didn’t require lessons.

Right before we left, Maya took an interest in joining a gang of kids who were climbing a twenty-foot mini-Fuji, complete with a flag planted at the peak. Max climbed it in about 45 seconds, but for Maya’s little preschool legs, this was more of an undertaking. The picture of determination, she stubbornly tackled that thing from every conceivable angle. On most attempts, she would be within a metre or so of the top, only to lose her footing and slide all the way back down. Her tenacity was a sharp contrast to my willingness to give up on skiing. For the better part of an hour, she inched her way around, looking for the right approach, while I watched the clock, knowing that we had to leave soon and hating the idea of having to take her off her mountain before she reached the top. She’s much too stubborn to accept help, so all I could do was watch and cross my fingers for her. Finally, just as I was ready to break the news to her, she found a clean run and was at the top in the blink of an eye, sitting proudly with the other kids who had succeeded in scaling the mighty mini-Fuji. I called Rob and Max over to see her there, triumphant on her mountain of snow with the real Fuji looming large behind her, and I knew which mountain I preferred.

By giving my child an outlet for her tenacity, something she certainly didn’t inherit from me, Fuji’s diminutive twin had made my day complete.

Like I said, volcanoes always sneak up on me.

Keep Your Shit Out of My Bubble

2011-04-26T05:07:00.000-07:00

I have this theory about how people interact with each other.

Picture yourself encased in a big bubble- not a Bubble Boy bubble, just a soap bubble, but less penetrable.

Now put all of your shit in it. Your family, your kids, pets, your favorite music and books. The bubble starts to fill up pretty quickly and pretty soon, you're running out of space.

Now, wherever you go, that bubble goes with you. It's not heavy, since it's a theoretical bubble and those are weightless. Nonetheless, there's only so much room in there.

As you move through your day, people will continually try to put their shit in your bubble, and this isn't necessarily bad. Your best friend tells you about a fight with her husband. Strangers on the bus want to tell you about their sister-in-law's DUI. The check-out lady in Wal-Mart wants to share her experience with the brand of toilet paper you're buying. You have have to sort the good and the bad shit.

Everyone has a different idea of how much of other people's crap will fit in their bubble, and how much they're willing to let in. This is the difference between someone like my friend L and me. She must have a bigger bubble than I do. Maybe she paid for an upgrade. She'll listen to people and try to wiggle their stories into her her existence. She'll eek out that last little bit of space between her sister's marriage and her daughter's wardrobe worries to squeeze you in. This is the mark of a compassionate human.

I think my bubble shrunk in the wash.

As I get older, I'm more selective about what's allowed in. I used to allow all sorts of debris that fell off other people's emotional journeys, but now that I'm forty, I've declared a moritorium on putting your shit in my bubble unless I invite it. That includes people who make others feel bad by being icy and discourteous. Your disfunction will not litter the floor of my bubble. It also includes the personal lives of strangers. A light anecdote, yes, by all means, but a complete counseling sessions and all the remnants of which will haunt my bubble, forget it. The puppy kickers of the world, who want to channel all of the frustration and confusion in their lives onto an unwitting target- I am no longer your bitch.

Friends and loved one, please come in. Fill my bubble with your joy and your woes. Leave your legos and stuffed pink bunnies all of the floor of my bubble.

To the uninvited, I'm cleaning house.

Double Dare

2011-01-27T21:17:00.000-08:00

Of all the classes I took in college, or at least the ones I attended on a regular basis, my sociology class stuck with me above all others. It wasn’t because I was particularly social or tapped in to the inner workings of society. Rather, it was the societal theories of Erik Erikson that drew me in. He claimed that a society adjusts gradually, expanding the boundaries of acceptable levels of change according to gradually increasing familiarity with the everyday. This theory always made me picture little concentric circles expanding as a group of people felt the need to try new things and ideas.

At the time, I had a gorgeous Russian Blue kitten named Bella that I had rescued from the local pound. Sometimes I would let her snoop around in the back yard of my apartment, knowing that she, like Erikson’s emerging societies, would not increase her range of movement until every millimeter of her current comfort zone had been explored. Only then would she need or want to push further. It took about a week for her to claim not only the backyard, but the entire neighborhood as well. After two weeks, no bird was safe in a two block radius around my apartment.

In the many years that have passed since then, I’ve seen the same pattern that I saw with my kitten mimicked in the lives of the people around me to varying degrees. Societies, for better or worse, will always move forward. So will cats. Individual people, though, tend to have different ideas on this. Some take a lifetime to investigate a small space. Some absorb what they can rapidly and are ready to move on to the next challenge. Those of us who live abroad often fall into the latter category. The difference is that the world is our backyard. I guess our level of respect for the local fauna varies on a case-by-case basis.

Jumping from one circle of experience to the next in the way that we do when we move abroad lets people know in a big hurry whether they are meant to draw their happiness from their immediate surroundings on a long-term basis or move on to something new. It’s important to remember that moving away doesn’t necessarily mean moving forward. We give things up in order to be in a new place. I had to give away Bella when we moved to Costa Rica. We gave up our first house to move to Japan. Now we live far from our families and try to create community amongst the new people we meet, many of whom move away shortly after we’ve made them part of who we are. This life is not for everyone, and it’s easy to spot those who aren’t going to make it. When you meet people who have recently arrived and refuse to explore their new surroundings with any enthusiasm or curiosity, you know that they were never meant to leave the circle they inhabited back home for any considerable length of time. They were happiest amongst familiar things. That was enough, and they should be allowed to remain there and be happy. I fully support those who simply say that the life of a cultural nomad is not for them.

Some of my husband’s relatives once visited us in Costa Rica, kids in tow, and the mom immediately began a feeble attempt to create a dietary Tulsa in the on the beaches of Central America. She could find the most North American thing on any menu. The husband on the other hand, tried to give her a heart attack by gravitating in completely the opposite direction. When he even mentioned the idea of trying oxtail soup, her eyes nearly rolled back in her head and got stuck. “He always does this,” she said. “He always wants to eat the weird food.”

Out of politeness, I bit my tongue to keep from screaming, “Order the freakin’ oxtail. Get ALL the weird food.” But I didn’t. I watched the mom and kids live on white bread, Cokes, and fettucine alfredo for a week. Physically, they were stepping out of their circle, but mentally, they were still in Tulsa. But you know what? As much as it pains me to admit it, what she was doing qualified as branching out beyond her daily existence. She went to the rainforest, saw a volcano and splashed in tropical waters. Just because she didn’t dive into the experience as hard as I’m likely to do didn’t invalidate the effort.

So why are some of us willing to do what it takes to jump to that next circle of experience over and over again? We don’t love the things we’ve left any less. Perhaps we’re easily bored or have become addicted to the thrill of new adventures. Maybe it’s our job to muddle through the cultural quagmire that is human experience, have little bicultural kids, and generation after generation make the world a little smaller and more compassionate. Hopefully, when my kids reach my age, society will have pushed past the circle that contains so much hate and contentiousness, and nudged ever so slightly into a circle where people make an effort to understand each other’s cultural identities.

Perhaps if we make a habit of broadening our cultural empathy whenever we can, we’ll be able to look more kindly upon those who travel abroad to increase their family’s chance of survival. I moved to Japan because this is the best way for me to earn enough money to raise my children in relative comfort. When I do it, people say that I’m brave and adventurous. When people from impoverished nations move abroad to work and try to better their situation, they are arrested. I know it’s more complicated than that, but that’s partially because we’ve so heavily staked our claim to our own little circle.

So here’s the point. I believe that we can all move beyond our tiny circles in little ways. There is absolutely no reason anyone has to give up a beloved pet and move to the other side of the world to make this happen. We can show our children the value of stepping out of our comfort zones more easily than that. Take guitar lessons at forty. Sing karaoke so badly that you’re embarrassed to leave your house for a few days. Eat the freakin’ oxtail.

I double dare you.

Fish are Shitty Models

2011-01-19T03:41:00.000-08:00

We aren't allowed to have pets in our house. It says so right in our lease. The lease also prohibits the wearing of shoes in the house- seriously, I about fell over when I saw that, but it does.

Max and Maya were desperate for a pet, so when my friend L, you know, the one who got worms in Mongolia, told me the science department was giving away a couple of Beta fish, I thought, what the hell, right? I figured just watching the kids name it would be fascinating, since they would have to agree on something, and anyone with more than one kid knows that siblings agreeing on anything is whole psych study in itself. I picked out a pretty blue fish and brought it home in a little temporary tank.

Max totally passed the good brother test. Rob offered to let Max just name the fish, since he was the first to see the new pet. "No," Max said, "I'd rather wait and let Maya help."

That was great, but when the time came and they both had their tiny eyes glued to the little tank, Max decided that it should be named William. Maya didn't like it. Not one bit. Telling her that they have a cousin named William who's pretty cool and will probably be a rock star some day didn't convince her.

Here's the thing. The fact that Max chose a name at all was shocking. He's famously indecisive, so we weren't going to dismiss his choice. Maya is famously decisive. She makes up her mind in 5 seconds flat and never changes it- ever.

After all day of putting out the little fires of elementary school students, the last thing I want to deal with at home is fighting kids. I listen to kids whine and fight all day. At home, I'm tired and I want some freakin' peace- at any price. So, I asked Maya what name she wanted and figured we could combine the names.

True to her nature, she thought for a whole half of a second and said, "Kekko." End of story.

So here we are. Meet William Kekko (pronounced cake-o). He's pretty, but he won't hold still for a picture. I ended up with about twelve pictures of his ass and this one.

Rob tried to tame the name- he proposed B.K. as a nickname- you know, like Billy Kekko. But I was so amused that the kids said the whole thing every time they referred to WIlliam Kekko, and tickled that our fish had possibly the most unusual fish name ever, that we finally chose not to shorten it.

The kids love William Kekko. It's cool enough that there's a non-human living creature in our house, but this one is ubercool because you can mess with him. He doesn't like fish-shaped objects or the color red, so sometimes I walk into the kitchen to find Maya holding things up to his tank to see if they'll piss him off. She holds a red fridge magnet next to the tank and he puffs out his gills to look big. Maya says, "Look, Mommy, the magnet makes WIlliam Kekko mad!" When she looks at me with that little sadistic glint in her eyes, I feel so proud, because, after all, she learned the fine art of fish torture from me.

Rob says it's kind of messed up that I get so fascinated by messing with a fish, but really, we're doing William Kekko a favor. I mean, if no one pisses him off and he ends up in a big fish confrontation, he might find he's forgetten his aggressive instincts and he'd get picked apart. We're actually honing his skills. Unless he has a fishy heart attack over an Anpanman magnet, then that would be bad.

So we have a pet who never wears his shoes in the house and if we have a home invasion perpetrated by fish, he'll totally kick their ass. What more could we ask for?

Sentimental Ramblings

2010-12-04T04:18:00.001-08:00

After twenty-seven years of not knowing how to take charge of my own existence, that first day in Costa Rica ranks high on my list of significant memories. It is with me as one of those pivotal moments when I knew that my life was not what is was a day ago, that you can never go back and be the same person. After twenty-four hours in Central America and the rush of actually doing something I said I was going to do for the first time ever, I was changed. I was never one to put much faith in chance or look for signs in what came to pass. Nonetheless, our arrival in Costa Rica, from the very first moment, unfolded as if designed to ease our minds and let us know that we’d made the right choice.

In the San Jose airport, there was a system in place to determine who would be searched for illegal goods, one that eventually seemed almost normal to us. Once we had our luggage, we would drag it over to the search line, where we would each take our chances with what was basically a giant stop light, except it had no yellow. When a button was pushed, a green light allowed us to keep walking. A red light meant that your bags would be searched. In over three years of flying into the country, we never got a red light. We were always told to move forward unchecked.

Our friends Jasmine and Gustavo had broken up by the time we made our move to San Jose. In a sense, she got us in the break-up, and we never saw him again. When we’d visited six months ago, they picked us up at the airport. This time, now that we were bringing our four massive suitcases and our life savings to stay for the long haul, we were on our own. We changed some dollars for colones and found a taxi that looked as if could bear the weight of our over-packed suitcases. For the entirety of the forty minute ride to Jasmine’s new apartment, we pressed our faces up against the car windows, pointing out to each other each exotic sight: little white farm trucks transporting tropical fruit, palm trees, tiny little houses with a porch made of gleaming, waxed tiles. In our time there, one would think I would become less fascinated by these things, but I didn’t. Even in my memory, the visual landscape of daily life in Central America has the power to entrance and calm me.

Jasmine had warned us that she wasn’t sure how long she could put us up. She had a small apartment that she shared with two other girls. When we arrived that night, we were welcomed with hugs and beers. We met people who seemed so worldly, so far beyond our petty observations in that taxi on the way there. They had seen all this and so much more. English and Spanish overlapped as people came and went from the apartment. I would love to say that I remember everyone I met that night, but I only remember Juanita. For no reason in particular, she gave me the impression that she wasn’t to be trusted. I was right.

The next morning, Rob made me get my hung over ass off the mattress-on-the-floor bed in Jasmine’s spare room to meet her friend Carlos, who knew of a vacant apartment in his building. Left to my own devices, I probably would have left that small task for a day when I wasn’t completely overwhelmed by everything in Jasmine’s kitchen that was different than the United States. I think I spent twenty minutes looking in Jasmine’s refrigerator, inspecting the milk in a box and the sour cream in a bag. Once I saw the coffee maker that looked like a bug net suspended over a cup, my day was planned. Rob had to drag me away when I discovered that Costa Rican limes have orange rinds instead of green.

Not being one to coddle, Jasmine sent us off walking to meet Carlos, a quickly sketched map in our hands and a distinct fear of becoming so lost that we were never found in the front of our minds. This is a country with no addresses. Literally. There’s no mail service, so there’s no reason to start naming streets and putting numbers on buildings. All directions are given by landmarks. In one suburb of San Jose, it’s common to give directions based on the location of a local resident’s red Camaro. Some of the landmarks haven’t existed in years. Because of the national reliance on landmarks to find any location, it is illegal for a business to change its name, even in the event that it becomes a completely different business. If Julio’s Liquor Store went out of business and a daycare opened in that building, the daycare would legally have to be called Julio’s Liquor Store.

We became pretty hopelessly lost on our way to find Carlos. We made it down the hill, turned right at the soccer field, cut across the vacant lot, and past the brown apartment building, but after that, the map deteriorated into a random collection of scratch marks as if Jasmine had run out of lost interest in the map before she got us all the way there.

As always happens when one gets lost upon arriving in a place that they will someday know by heart, we later realized that we had been walking in a circle around our destination. While poor Carlos stood waiting on the sidewalk in front of his building, we missed him on every lap around the neighborhood as we tested every street except for the correct one. Eventually, he spotted us, flagged us down, and took us to his landlord. If we took the apartment, we’d be right across the hall from him.

We looked at the apartment and sat for what seemed like hours, listening to the terms of rental. To this day, the only thing I can recall of what we were told was that we were lucky that she had an extra phone line we could rent. Apparently, a phone line in Costa Rica was an actual cord that you could own, and even take with you when you moved. If you were lucky enough to find a free one available for purchase in the first place. The amount of bribes involved in the acquisition of a phone line made it a valuable thing, indeed.

We took the apartment and rented the phone line.

I think it may have taken us fifteen minutes to unpack once we moved our four suitcases from Jasmine’s house to our own. It was, after all, only four suitcases. Even in the days before insane luggage restrictions, that’s about three hundred pounds of clothes, a boom box, and the Timberland boots that we thought we’d need for all the hiking we’d be doing. We tucked everything away in our one bedroom, furnished, windowless apartment and sat down on the couch, which we would soon discover I was insanely allergic to, and waited for our new lives to begin.

We sat there for quite a while. We had already been lost once that day and were hesitant to venture out and not be able to find our way back. Rob put on some music to make it feel homey. We talked about buying food at the nearby grocery store, but Jasmine was coming later to take us to dinner. We had books, but it seemed vaguely pathetic to ditch your life, move abroad, and spend the first night reading. We tried chatting, but there was so much that we didn’t know that we weren’t sure what to say.

So we waited.

Shortly before Jasmine was due to arrive, the doorbell rang. Excited, we grabbed the many keys it took to get into or out of the building and rushed downstairs, unlocked the first set of deadbolts on the inner door of the building and fumbled for the keys to the locks on the outer gate. When we threw back the door, there was a tall brunette who was clearly not Jasmine. Before we could even laugh at ourselves for being so frantic only find that it was someone ringing the wrong buzzer, the girl held up a bottle of rum and said, “Hi. I’m Margarita. I’m one of your new friends.”

Over the course of the next hour, our apartment gradually filled with people, all of whom showed up with a bottle of rum and declared themselves to be our friends. By the time Jasmine arrived, we were half in the bag and in love with our new social circle. She was intentionally late so that everyone would have a chance to arrive before she did. There was nothing Jasmine could have done to better highlight the shift between what our reality had so recently been and what it was about to be than to surreptitiously fill our apartment with twenty strangers and our kitchen counter with Cuban rum.

Hide and Seek

2010-11-17T05:22:00.000-08:00

I was twenty-seven years old the year Rob and I took a leap into the unknown that would change our lives forever. We’d been married for four years and had managed to get ourselves into a hopelessly bizarre life from which there was no escape. If our lives were a game, we were at that point when you’ve made so many questionable decisions that nothing short of a complete do-over could rescue us, as if we were playing hide-and-seek with ourselves and lost. I had managed to find the worst waitressing job in Northfield, Minnesota and he was a retail manager in an outlet mall in the middle of nowhere. Our only friends in the state, Shauna and Gustavo, had just moved to Costa Rica, leaving us alone in a remote blue collar town, watching it snow eight months of the year. There was no stroke of good fortune, no cashing in on some hidden ability in our future. Nothing was going to improve.

The moment that we started to realize that it was time to get off our asses and change our lives snuck up on us late one night toward the tail end of our seemingly once-in-a-lifetime vacation in Costa Rica. We were sitting in Los Balcones, an open-air restaurant on the second floor of a shopping complex called El Pueblo. It was an enclosed shopping district built in traditional Costa Rican style, white stucco and tropical wood. We sat on the balcony of the restaurant with Shauna, Gustavo, and their circle of close friends around a long table covered with corn tortillas, freshly grilled meats, a bottle of Cuban rum, an enormous cache of empty bottles of local beer that continued to grow over the evening, as the Tico way of tabulating a bar bill is to count the empties at the end of the night. Clearing away the bottles would screw up the whole system. Below us, we could look down on the stream of people and cars as they wound their way in and out of the complex, through the palm trees that lined the street. Everything was different here, even the air smelled tropical, warm and clean. It smelled like hope and adventure. Every second of just being there was soothing, and it was enormously different from the pointlessness of the life to which we were about to return.

Just that afternoon, we’d returned from a road trip the central part of the country where we’d watched an active volcano explode, fireworks, ash clouds and the whole show. Earlier in the week, we’d baked in the sun on the pristeen beaches of Manual Antonio and hiked in the Braujillio Carillo rainforest. This was not just a vacation. This was an education in all of the things we’d deprived ourselves of without even knowing we were doing so. Each small pleasure pointed to our failure to achieve true contentment in our daily lives. Maybe the lesson we needed to learn was bubbling under the surface all week, but it really came down to a single moment of that evening in Los Balcones, at the tail end of our vacation. That was the night, just as we were about to return to our normal, mundane existence, that we came into the life-altering knowledge that we’d been living wrong.

It wasn’t Shauna and Gustavo who clued us in. It was their friend Paul. All we needed to hear was one simple sentence.

“You can live here on four hundred dollars a month.” Paul told us as he casually mixed himself another rum and coke. Nothing is his demeanor showed an awareness that this announcement would change our lives.

That was it. In that short sentence, the world opened up to us. We could be poor anywhere. Why did we need to work our tails off in town we hated, just so we could be broke all the time. We had no children, responsibilities, or aspirations; no reason whatsoever to continue the path we were on. Maybe we had been looking for what our lives would become in all the wrong places. We limited our search to our immediate surroundings, when perhaps it was never there. Perhaps it was out in the wide world that we’d never seen.

Paul continued to tell us about the reality of living in Costa Rica. Any native speaker of English could find a teaching job. As a couple sharing an apartment and therefore the rent, we would still have to eat a lot of rice and beans and live like backpackers, but we could survive. We could hold the feeling we were experiencing at that moment indefinitely.

At the time, we didn’t discuss it. In the years since then, we’ve talked about that conversation, about how we both felt the appeal of breaking out into the world, but for some reason, our usual couple ESP failed us. Whatever yearning to step up to a life of new adventures we felt, we kept it quiet. I thought I was being uncharacteristically sensible. I have a long history of making pronouncements I didn’t follow through. There was always something crazy I wanted to try, someplace I wanted to run off to. Wherever I was, I was sure that something better was out there, waiting to be chased down. That night in Costa Rica, I kept my urges to myself. I’d piped up too many times to be taken seriously again. But I kept the idea of Costa Rica stored in a corner of mind for weeks after we returned, like a squirrel with a nut in his cheek. Everything else that I thought about had to get past this idea that I had another choice. Daily aggravations, blizzard-impeded drives to work, the bills that kept coming to make us pay for a life we didn’t love. Instead of passively accepting these things, I now thought, “Maybe I don’t have to do this anymore.”

It was after I had a little fender bender on an icy street that we finally broke our silence. Once the decision to chuck it all and move was made, we never looked back. Soon tickets were purchased, belongings were sold or stored, and we were on our way. It was like starting our lives over together. Being a couple was never a question. We were in that for good, regardless of the circumstances. Since we left Minnesota, through all of the adventures we’ve had since, we’ve held on to one source of security. If we are together, we can make a home wherever we choose.

Hopefully, the choices we've made will empower our kids. They'll always know that they're options are inexhaustible. They will have seen enough of the world to look for opportunity beyond their surroundings.

Great Expectations

2010-09-13T00:47:00.000-07:00

I took Maya to Starbucks on Saturday because I needed to get her out of the house and it was 90 billion degrees in Tokyo that day, and when I want my daughter to do my bidding, I bribe her with Starbucks. It's a pretty effective coercive tool because she knows exactly what she wants there and she's never disappointed. I like the anonymity of being in a environment in which my daughter can say whatever bizarre four-year-old thing that pops into her head. Unless there's an English speaker nearby, which there rarely is, I can generally avoid embarrassment if Maya decides that she want to have a twenty minute conversation about poop.

Much to my chagrin, the only indoor seat on such a sticky hot day was next to a large American girl who was having what I assume was a conversation class with a very tidy looking Japanese lady. I assume this because the Japanese lady handed the American some cash. After ten minutes of enduring this conversation, I'm not sure the right person was being paid.

What I heard went so far beyond normal complaining. Normal complaining is what we do when out computers fail us and we spend all day trying to fix them instead of accomplishing real work. It's what we do when we're embarrassingly late because of traffic.

This was different. And I know I shouldn't have been listening, but we were so close we were practically touching, and I couldn't really pretend to be fascinated by Maya's Frappucino sipping technique, so there I was, hearing every wretched detail of this girl's life. I think she was an art student doing a home stay. Chief amongst her complaints was the her homestay hostess wanted her to help out around the house. This was not what she expected when she entered the arrangment. Also, her teacher gave her an individual assignment to complete the class instead of a group assignment. Again, not what she expected. Her boyfriend agreed to a plan in which they would do the same thing every Wednesday, possibly forever, and he had the audacity to try to mix things up one week. She certainly didn't see that one coming.

After about 15 minutes, I desperately wanted to look at her and say, "It's time for you to stop expecting things."

I'm not talking about lowering expectations. I wanted to tell her to eliminate them altogether.

When did we all decide that we need to plan every nanosecond of our lives? Yes, if I'm going to have a baby or drive in a strange city, I kind of want a heads up on what to expect. But when it comes to travel and relationships, why try to predict every bit of the journey? If we really have no way to know what awaits us, isn't that what makes the whole experience delicious? If there's no anticipation or surprise, why not stay home?

My anonimity was blown when the American girl mentioned making gingerbread cookies at Christmas and Maya decided it would be absolutely hysterical to start chirping "Cookies!" over and over. Such is the humor of preschoolers. With my cover blown, I collected my daughter and made a hasty getaway before I became part of this conversation class and got sucked into the madness.

When I thought about all of this later, it occurred to me that most of the complaining that I do is based on my own expectations not coming to fruition. Today, I thought I was prepared to spend six straight hours with twenty fourth graders. My plans were made, every activity was prepped. Then, I got there and my computer wouldn't connect to the printer, so all of the work that I did couldn't do anything more productive than sit on my screen. A two minute job turned into an hour. School activities beyond my control ran long and suddenly I was forced to abbreviate and juggle my perfectly planned schedule. Nothing went as expected and I spent a good portion of my afternoon in a funk.

About a week ago, I took Maya for her first mother/daughter manicure. It was a reward for her because she stopped biting her nails. Before we left for our appointment, Rob asked her what color she wanted her nails to be. She put her little hands on her hip, cocked it to the side, and said, "We just have to wait and see what they have."

Out of the mouths of babes.

Barry Manilow, I am so freakin' sorry.

2010-06-07T19:11:00.000-07:00

I have two things to say today.

First of all, to Barry Manilow.

Please be careful today. Seriously, look both ways before crossing the street, dry your hands completely before you turn on the hair dryer.

I'm not kidding.

I woke up with Copacabana in my head this morning, and last time I woke up humming a song I haven't heard in twenty years, someone died.

Seriously- guess who was hummin' the Different Strokes theme song for no good reason last week.

Yep, that's right.

Late last year, I went to dinner with girlfriends and we were talking about how much we liked Brittany Murphy, how she seemed more grounded than other celebs her age.

Sorry, Brittany.

I'm a celebrity jinx.

So, Barry, please take care today. I can't handle the guilt.

The other thing I have to say is that my students found something online that I must share.

This seems kind of cruel to the fish, since they're essentially spending their whole lives three feet from their final resting place. But for humans it's super convenient when one of them kicks the little fishy bucket. I guess you just have to weigh the pros and cons of that for yourself.

http://www.fishnflush.com/iq_fnf/

The Slope

2010-05-29T16:08:00.000-07:00

I was on a field trip with my students the other day, touring old Japanese houses, when I saw this sign.

It actually stopped me in my tracks for a minute, which means I had to make the kids stop, as well,

because I had to have a picture of it.

Of course, they wanted to know why, instead of photographing the houses, I was taking a picture of a sign.

I said they'd understand when they got older,

This time of year, I have a way of doing a belly-flop and screeching down that slope.

There's too much going on, lots of end-of-the year excitement, and about a million social events.

Under these conditions, I tend to behave poorly.

Even more than usual.

So, I've drafted a list of rules for myself to follow in the next two weeks.

1) Avoid authority figures at all cost.

2) Think before talking.

3) Stay clear of public speaking.

Forget the fact that I've broken all three of these rules in the last 24 hours.

I think the real reason this sign makes my stomach flip is that it reminds me that every part of our lives, every aspect of who we are is inextricably tied to every other thing in our lives.

It's all part of this schema we've created that is specific only to us.

It takes so little to turn it all upside down.

When we're young, our slope may be slippery, but we're supposed to fall, get muddy, and scoot down the rest of the hill on our bums.

Once we have big people lives with kids and houses, we should probably use the handrail.

I tend to forego this basic precaution, which means I could do something in one part of my life that bites another part of my life right in the ass.

But honestly, the other part of growing up is that your balance is better.

I may be a lot more reckless than I should be, but I protect what's important.

Yes, the slope is slippery, but I'm really not interested shying away from the hill completely.

Bloggers Without Make-up

2010-05-14T20:34:00.000-07:00

So. I missed Bloggers Without Make-up Day, which I totally would have done. Considering that my make-up has normally worn off my noon, and I'm too lazy to reapply, just about any picture taken of me in the afternoon would qualify.

Christmas morning- I'm pretty sure I'm not wearing make-up. Notice how I chose a picture with a cute little princess in the foreground to distract you? I'm clever that way.

Unfortunately, I was horribly ill on the no make-up day, and it wasn't Bloggers In Tortuous Agony Day, because no one in their right mind would participate in that. Or it would have to be for a really good cause.

I woke up as normal that morning with some small pain in my stomach, but thought it would subside. Two hours later, just as kids were walking into my classroom, which is the teacher equivalent of a theater curtain going up, I realized that I couldn't possibly even stand up without holding onto something, much less spend the day herding a classroom of ten-year-olds.

A sub was quickly found and I got myself home, where I slept for about 17 hours, only waking occasionally, just long enough to realize that my back had joined in the pain party and I could barely move.

I knew I should Google my symptoms, but I didn't have the strength. If I don't have the strength to Google something, it's serious. I just lay there, clutching my cell phone and sending Rob sad texts with all the vowels left out because I was too tired to type them, and after 17 years, he should be able to understand me without vowels.

The next day, I managed to crawl to my computer. Five minutes later, I texted Rob.

Me: I'm either in renal failure or having a heart attack.

Rob: No, you're not.

Me: Google says I am.

Rob: Google smoogle.

This morning, I called my mother, the nurse, to corroborate my evidence.

Me: The internet says I'm in renal failure.

Her response: Fuck the internet.

Now, if all health-care providers would just say "Google smoogle" every time we diagnosed ourselves with ebola based on the symptoms list on About.com, maybe we wouldn't end up in the waiting room for 27 hours while they have to explain to people like me that they have a cold, and that no one really gets polio anymore, which is the other thing I kind of suspected that I had.

We would walk in and say "The internet says I have polio." And the doctor would say, "Fuck the internet" and tell us to drink lots of liquids and rest. Yeah, it's kind of tough love, but it probably saved me a fortune in needless, painful medical tests.

That's why married a sane person chose a medical professional as my parent. It keeps some of the crazy at bay.

Epiphany

2010-05-10T19:47:00.000-07:00

Last night, I was watching a Michael Moore movie and it occurred to me that I have a really good life. It also occurred to me that I don't do much to share my good fortune with the world in any meaningful way. Then, I went to bed. At about 2:30 in the morning, I woke up with this idea. It might be great, it might not. We'll see. But I need your help to find out.

I've created a website designed as a host blog for sharing the daily lives of people around the world. I'd like to see how daily life unfolds in different cultures and with experiences that are outside my own. We are surrounded by people of all income levels, jobs, and various experiences that are absolutely fascinating. I would like to create a space where people can come and share a single day of their lives, from dusk to dawn, so that we can learn what it's like to spend a day in someone else's shoes.
Please send this to anyone and everyone who might be willing to participate. I'll post one submissionevery day for as long as they keep coming. For guidelines and information on how to submit, please visit the site. And yes, you can blatantly use it to promote your own blog. If you just "happen" to be attending an event that pertains to a specific cause on that day, that's fine, too.
http://dawntoduskadayinthelife.blogspot.com/

Did I mention that if I make any money, I will donate it to Habitat for Humanity? So, Twitter this, Facebook it, post it on your blog, but get the word out. The more diversity we end up with, the better.

More importantly, think about what you do and how sharing might affect someone else. Consider submitting!
That's all,
Cbella

Not My Fault. All of the blame clearly lies with Sky Mall and its evil powers.

2010-05-06T04:14:00.000-07:00

I have a theory. No, really. This is a good one. Trust me.

I've decided that Sky Mall has tapped into a marketing technique that is only available to a few vendors.

Mind Control.

Before you doubt me, think aboout it.

You know that scene in A Clockwork Orange where Malcom McDowell was strapped to a chair with his eyes held open while violent images were flashed in front of him repeatedly.

Okay, so I know that he developed an aversion to violence, but I think the Sky Mall works the other way.

Instead of being repulsed by horrible images, we are lulled into a state of languid namaste by a combination of white noise, five dollar beers, and the cute puppies and kitties in the Sky mall ads.

Being strapped to an airplane seat for many hours makes us completely vulnerable to whatever strange mind tricks anyone has in store for us.

All of this culminates in a general state of sensory deprivation that renders us helpless.
We're sitting ducks.

An enormous percentage of us will eventually turn to the Duty Free and Sky Mall to help pass the time.

The problem with the Duty Free catalogue is that it's too short.
Just as we're about to drink the Kool-Aid, it's over.
Sky Mall, on the other hand, is roughly the size of the Vogue September issue.
Or a smallish dictionary.

And it's not just the size that matters.

It's the progression.

First, they warm you up to the whole idea of mind control by featuring a game that you play with your brainwaves.

So, now you're already thinking about how cool telekinesis is and how you'll be the hit of every party once you learn to operate a corkscrew with your mind.

You're so absorbed in the fantasy of telekinetically bitch-slapping the annoying guy from work from across the room that you don't even notice that with every page you flip,

you're gradually losing perspective

of what is and isn't a necessary component of a happy, fulfilled existence.

Not that the ping pong ball gun isn't cool,

but anyone who's been to Bangkok knows that

YOU TOTALLY DON"T NEED A GUN TO SHOOT PING PONG BALLS.

(And if you don't know what I mean, a quick Google search should clear that up for you.)

Really, ladies, a little dedication and practice could save you twenty dollars
and the shipping costs.

However, considering the texture of marshmallows, you might actually have to shell out cash for this gun if you want to shoot gooey confections.

I can only think of about ten million uses for this, both personally and professionally.

However, as much as I like the rapid-fire feature, it's really low on the stealth factor.

If I'm going to riddle my mark with marshmallows, I don't want them to see it coming.

Is discretion a lost art?

You know what would be awesome?
A marshmallow shooter disguised as a tampon applicator.

But I digress.

About four hours into our last Tokyo-United States flight, I decided that perhaps my son's education in the particulars of Punjabi cage matches was seriously lacking.

How can he be expected to recreate his favorite matches if he doesn't even understand the basics?

What I don't understand is this, are you supposed to fight or escape?

OR is the idea to keep your opponent from escaping?

How am I supposed to use this toy during a special parenting moment if I don't even understand how to guide my child's play?

Before I could completely freak over my Punjabi-related parenting deficiencies, a quick flip of a page allowed the great minds at Sky Mall to usher me out of the stressful world of toys

and into a blissful home decorating trance.

I instantly felt calmer and was able to embrace the fact that everything I thought I knew about decorating was completely off base.

See how they do that? Halfway through the catalogue and I'm totally in.

I don't just want this. I need colored lights in my showerhead.

And you know what else I need?

This...

Because I have absolutely no idea where to keep my batteries, so I just keep carrying them around asking strangers to hold them for me when I need to use my hands. Forget riding a bike, because how can you work the hand brakes and carry all of your batteries at the same time?

I had to have my four-year-old hang on to a big bag of them just so I could turn the pages of the Sky Mall catalogue.

You know what's really hysterical?

When you go through the metal detector at the airport and they can't figure out why you keep beeping.

So, you double-check and make sure your keys and your change are out of your pockets,

but you still keep beeping,

so they get out the little wand and scan your whole body.

I LOVE THAT!

The TSA guy laughs.

I laugh.

It's just all-around good fun.

I'm almost disappointed when that doesn't happen.

But I'm in luck.

With stainless steel fibers in my wallet, I'm guaranteed to set off every metal detector in every single aiport I go into all summer long.

In all the uproarius fun.
I could almost forget that the whole point of this wallet is to prevent identity theft, because apparently today's thieves can steal your information from inside your pocket.

Anyway, about five, maybe six hours into a twelve hour flight,
these things become essential to my well-being.
Things don't get ugly until about hour eight,
which is when I'm ready to swipe my credit card through that little phone on the back of the seat and start ordering things to be delivered to our house,
which leads to my having to explain to my husband why our backyard looks like this.

It doesn't help that I don't really remember ordering most of these things. I only remember an intense sense of longing followed by deep tranquility and peaceful sleep.
Clearly, this is not my fault.
Sky Mall gradually pulled me in,
hooking me with moderatley useful items for which I could genuinely find a place in my life.
Once I started, I found that anything could be useful,
or at least interesting.
Especially the giant Yedi.
No one is going to break into the house with the mutant ape man in the backyard.

That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

The Cross-Eyed Doll

2010-04-23T05:34:00.000-07:00

One of the most wonderful things about Japan is that you never know where absurdity will pop up.

Maybe it's my attention deficit talking,

but I find that being too immersed in the significant and the sublime starts to wear on me.

I need that little splash of irreverence and color to hold my attention.

The word immature comes to mind, but I'm rejecting it.

It's not a lack of maturity, but rather a belief that variety keeps us young.

Or at least young-ish.

Immature and young are different.

I know this because I'm old.

Well, old-ish.

So, I went the flea market expecting to behave like an adult.

I was in the company of two intelligent women who are much more in control of their impulses than I am, so I told myself that I could totally hang in their company.

No antics.

I would find wonderful antiques for our house in the States,

especially a geisha haircomb in mint condition that costs less than a hundred dollars.

Everyone laughs when I say that.

I've been to a few of these Japanese flea markets, and they're always great.

When I was a kid, flea markets were a mix someone's old crap and someone else's new crap,

but sometimes people would find a hidden gem because the dealer didn't realize

that it was something of value.

Japanese flea market vendors are very knowledgeable about Japanese antiquities.

They'll bargain a little, but the truth is that they know the exact market value of each piece.

We fell in love with this gadget before we even knew what it was.

Luckily, we our little group included a native speaker who we just about wore out with questions.

The strange device in the picture is an ice crusher.

Back when people bought ice in giant blocks, they would put it in this and turn the crank until the pressure crushed it to bits, which they would use to make pre-war, Edo period margaritas.

There are basically three categories of items at shrine sales.

Real collectibles, both affordable and extravagent.
Things that you can afford to buy just to say you got them in Japan.
Truly inexplicable items that are truly, deeply wonderful in a way that can't be described with words.

These fellas were hangin' at the first booth, and they ended up being the source of great finds.

They were also flirting with my friend Deb in that adorable way that old guys flirt.

She found a weathered little wooden geisha that haunted her from the moment she saw it.
Ulitimately, she had to buy it.
As finds go, it was a great one.
Not expensive, but truly unique.

My finds were in the inexplicable category.

Why, oh, why is this baby doll cross-eyed?

I didn't buy her that day, and now I have to go back and get her.
This was one of those instances in which you take a picture and people see it and say,
"Why didn't you buy it?" Saying that I was preoccupied by finding geisha combs doesn't cut it.
They just tilt their heads and say, "No, really. Why didn't you buy it?" And I say because I was thinking about hair combs. And then they just walk away from me shaking their heads.
My friend Caroline thinks that Cross-Eyed Kunichan, which is what I'm calling her, is sad. I haven't attached an emotion to her. I'm mostly curious about how she came to exist. Is there a whole line of cross-eyed Kunichan dolls, or was this one a mistake?
What parent is buying their kid cross-eyed dolls?
Granted, I'm going back to try to buy her next month, but not for my daughter.
I'm getting her for myself, which is completely different.

The deer head barometer is not something I'll be buying, even though I think it's fantastic.
Not for my house, necessarily.
But for someone's house somewhere.
It strikes a cord in my memory banks.
I had a grandmother who would have adored it.
She also put salt in her beer, so her taste might have been a bit questionable.
I'm thinking that honoring her memory by taking a photograph of the deer head is enough.
Actually buying the deer head barometer might be too much.

Even in the middle of downtown Tokyo, fairly large, peaceful areas are devoted to shrines and parks. Whereas many neighborhoods in Japan are predominantly grey in color, shrines are lush with green, red, and gold.
Even the fish are colorful.

However, the carp beg an important question.

Why do we keep trying to take pictures of them?

Yes, they're impressive.

Bright, rowdy fish that can grow to the size of a baseball bat have a real WOW factor.

But seriously, they're fish, and therefore underwater creatures.

Yet we insist on trying to photograph them.

We know the pictures are going to be crap, but we get sucked in.
Then, we pick out one carp that seems more photogenic than the rest and try to single it out.
Soon, we've got other people involved, and they're standing next to us, yelling,
"Here he comes!"
"He's headed for the surface."
"Quick!"
And then we check and realize we missed that grinning fish face, so we compulsively shoot about 75 more blurry pictures of it as it swims two inches below the surface.

It's time to admit that carp pictures never look good.
That's all I'm saying.

Whenever I go to a shrine sale, I also wish I'd studied up on antiquities before arriving. I grew up around antiques and understand why they are valuable, but the wares here have absolutely nothing to do with the Fiesta and Fire King finds I'm used to.

I just don't have a feel for how much I should be paying for a laquered pre-war pillbox. The nice thing is that, as a general rule, Japanese folks tend to err on the side of honesty.

So, the good news is that I found the hair pin that I wanted. And, I didn't embarrass anyone.

And, I found a cross-eyed Kunichan to keep me young for another day.

Now to work on the maturity issue.

Trust Me

2010-04-13T18:33:00.000-07:00

We occasionally like to head into Tokyo and just see what sort of trouble we can stumble into. No plans, no reservations, just a really big city full of possibilities.

I like to announce these outings to Rob with great ceremony, as if we were about to march into considerable peril. “This weekend we’re going to find the ten strangest things in Tokyo. Then, I’ll take pictures of them.”

Rob doesn’t even flinch. “How will we narrow it down to ten?”

To make things even more interesting, I declare that I want to explore a neighborhood I read about one time but don’t really know how to find.

See that expression of amused consternation? That’s right after I uttered the two most frightening words I ever say.

Trust me.

I should know better than to start out with that much bravado. Nearly an hour into the outing we were almost to our yummy Mexican restaurant, and I hadn’t seen one strange thing. I even stopped to take a picture of giant eyeglasses because I was worried that it might not get any better.

What if this was it? What if we got a babysitter, headed all the way downtown, and the only interesting or unusual thing we could find was a big pair of googly-eyed glasses?

The horror.

It wasn’t until after dinner that I learned.

There’s a secret to seeing and appreciating what’s around you. You will hear the fantastic, notable sights that surround you call your name if you take one preemptive step.

Tequila.

Case in point. I didn’t even see this on the way to the restaurant.

After two margaritas, I couldn’t pull myself away.

And you know that neighborhood I didn’t know how to find? It’s called Piss Alley or Memory Lane, depending on who you ask. You can call it either one, but anyone who’s known me for ten minutes knows which one I’m going to favor.

I read about it on CNN GO, and had the impression that it was to the left of the sex district. That’s all I remembered.

Two margaritas and I walked right to it, literally right up to the specific bar from the article.

It’s like it was beckoning me. I mean, really, with a name like that, I shouldn’t have been surprised by the sign over the entrance to the area.

Okay, so it really says Memory Lane.

But I did feel a distinct sense of belonging when we found Bar Albatross. There's just something about a bar about the size of a spider's hidey-hole and filled with bric-a-brac that is is completely charming.

It was the Albatross that really sold Rob on the Piss Alley thing.
No one can resist a bar where the bartender can hand your drinks up to you through a hole in the floor.

Once he saw this, he was all in.

Of course, you have to take your beer to the roof if you want to really appreciate the uniqueness of the Albatross. If you love a good run-down, industrial urban landscape as much as I do, this rooftop is as good as it gets.

Looking down over Piss Alley

But in order to get there, you have to squeeze up the teeny winding staircase.

And through the Hobbit door.

Rob looks calmer already.

Trust pays off.

As great as the roof was, the night was a’wastin’ and we were still short about 6 strange things.

I’m counting the whole Albatross as one, and I’m leaving in the eyeball glasses until further notice.

We sat in the bar for a drink with Mark and Kristy from Canada for a while, but despite the fact that Mark was about three quarters of the way through a bottle of tequila, they were still pretty normal folks. Fun,
non-bizarre individuals.

They weren’t going anywhere soon, so we said good-bye and headed off down Memory Lane.

Walking through the streets of Piss Alley is unlike what I’m used to in Japan.

I’ve seen back alleyswith tiny restaurants and bars in Tokyo, but they usually seem pretty uninviting. They always smell great, and the ramshackle nature of it all has a homey feel, but I worry that I won't be able to communicate and that will annoy other people.
Here, we were summoned into establishments as we walked by. Even from the street it was clear that both the owners and the customers looked relaxed, happy, and maybe just a little tipsy.

Each little eatery seemed to offer different fare, from grilled meat to bubbling pots of what appeared to be meat and onion stew.
We decided that the only way to truly enjoy the alley would be to have no more than one beer and a snack in as many spots as we could until we were full.
We made it though yakitori, gyoza, and yakiudon before we surrendered.

They're fuzzy because my flash can't cut through that much smoke.

By the way, the name Piss Alley comes from a time long ago when there were no bathrooms in the area. It was mostly frequented by men, and since the whole world is a man’s bathroom, the lack of facilities wasn’t addressed or corrected until fairly recently.

Having failed to complete my mission of finding ten bizarre things, I feel that I now have an oddity imbalance. I officially owe you and anyone else who reads this post a whole slew of strange sights captured on film.

It really shouldn’t be a problem.

Screw the High Road

2010-04-09T21:32:00.000-07:00

I got my stolen laptop back last week.

My mother-in-law mailed it to me, which was a great surprise, since I was pretty sure that I was going to end up hauling it back to Japan in my carry-on.

Carrying a four-year-old, all of her gear, and a laptop is fine for the first fifteen hours of the trip. It’s the last nine that starts to wear me down.

If you are new here, you may have missed the whole episode in which my computer was stolen out of my checked luggage. I was pretty sure it was a TSA theft, since there was an inspection notice in the exact spot where my laptop had been. It didn’t take long to find out that neither TSA nor Delta were the least bit helpful or sympathetic.

Basically, the company line is that if their employees steal, it’s your fault.

Okay, I should have known better than to pack my computer.

One the other hand, the airline/airport/TSA should give a shit that they employ thieves.

Anyway, when I fired up my newly recovered laptop, the first thing I saw staring back at me was a picture of the girl who had it when the police tracked it down.

Yep, there she was, smiling into the built-in webcam that I paid extra for, clearly excited about her new acquisition. In fact, there were a few shots of her and her boyfriend.

Clearly, all the money that I paid for the huge hard drive and massive amount of memory pleased her. The high definition screen really did a great job of displaying her jubilant expression.

Unfortunately, it was the high-speed modem, in combination with the LoJack program, that was her undoing.

Before seeing the pictures, the whole theft and the activity that followed were something that happened miles away, across the ocean, and it was being dealt with by a lot of people I’d never seen.

Her refusal to tell the police exactly where she got my computer was infuriating, but seeing her picture drove the anger home. Here she was, grinning widely on my computer desktop, as if she knew that there would be no repercussions whatsoever for the chain of events that ended with my property landing in her hands. And, because of her, whoever is rifling through the bags we check through the airport and taking whatever catches their fancy would also go unpunished.

Knowing that Delta and TSA are useless, I went where any modern girl would go for advice.

Facebook.

I asked my friends what they thought I should do.

Some people wanted me to post the pictures online. Some people said that the smart thing to do would be walk away. I felt like a cartoon character with an angel on one shoulder and the devil on the other. Personally, I’m vacillating. Every time I find something on the computer that is not functioning correctly as a result of the theft, I want to hang this girl out to dry. When I start it up and it tells me that it now doesn’t recognize its own battery, I blame her. When Plants vs. Zombies won’t load, I see her face.

So sorry, all you people who said I should take the high road. You’re better people than I am.

I’m not saying she’s guilty, I’m just saying I want to know.

What if she really had no idea and was just happy to receive such a great gift the day before college? I find that hard to believe, but it could be true. But then, if that were the case, wouldn’t she cooperate with the police?

Shouldn’t I really be mad that the police aren’t pursuing the fact that airline employees are stealing from suitcases in the Philly airport? How about the lack of security that allows baggage handlers to breeze in and out of the inner workings of the airport unchecked while passengers are screened like convicted felons? I mean, really, is my four-year-old more of a security threat than an adult baggage handler?

So, in order to put my mind at rest, I’ve decided to e-mail her and ask her what she knew about the computer and exactly why she won’t cooperate with the police. Maybe she’ll turn out to be a lovely person who feels just as victimized by the whole situation as I do.

I really do want to hear her side of this story.

Here’s the letter.

Dear Bxxxxxxx,

I’m the person whose stolen computer was confiscated from you by the Philadelphia Police. I’m sure that if you had realized that the police were going to take it, you would have taken the time to delete your personal information. Unfortunately, you left your pictures and e-mail address for me.

I’m hoping that you can help me understand a couple of points.

First, did you really have no idea that this was stolen property? My name, files, and pictures were everywhere, since the geniuses who stole it didn’t even bother to wipe the hard drive.

Second, why aren’t you willing to tell the police where you got it? You could be charged with a crime for having it in your possession, so wouldn’t you want to help the police if it means you can avoid having a criminal record?

Third, why can I no longer load Plants vs. Zombies?

Sincerely,

Christina Bell

The Penis Festival

2010-03-25T21:10:00.000-07:00

So, I’m at the penis festival, walking around alone with a beer in one hand and a leaky carryout container of cabbage pancake and mayo in the other.

The festival food booth guy I bought it from was a little less compulsive than what I’m used to seeing in Japan.

Then again, I was pretty far from Tokyo.

Folks in Tokyo are more likely to greet me with an attitude that says,

“I see you don’t speak Japanese. I will now work hard and do embarrassing pantomimes to get my point across.”

The farther I get from Tokyo, the more some people react in a way that says,

“You really need to get your shit together and learn Japanese, and in order to emphasize my lack of respect for your choice to live in ignorance, I will not be wiping the blob of mayo off the side of your carryout container.”

When I finally found a place to sit and eat amongst the makeshift milk crate seating provided in the shrine parking lot, it didn’t take long to realize that pancakes with cabbage are pretty mediocre.

I guess I should have seen that coming.

However, in light of my anxieties about eating alone in public, I had chosen the least embarrassing option available. The other culinary offerings at the Penis Festival might have attracted unwanted attention.

I had just managed to polish off my food without covering myself with mayonnaise when an old, chubby Japanese guy sat down across from me and pulled a beer out of his pocket. He plunked it down on my little makeshift table and made that universal “this is a gift” gesture.

Before I left for the Shinkansen that morning, Rob kissed me and said, “Don’t get into any weird situations.” I can’t be sure, but I think getting roofied by an old dude qualifies as a weird situation.

It turns out that there were several of these old guys going through the crowd recruiting women to come sit with them. I ended up hanging out with four really cool women and this guy, who tried repeatedly to feed us dried squid.

Oh, I get it. He has a banana at a penis festival.

That one almost got past me.

It was a strange beginning to a completely bizarre day. I don’t normally travel three hours by myself to visit festivals about genitalia.

I was writing an article, so I felt a lot less embarrassed about taking an insane amount of pictures of penises.

Not real penises. That would be a different type of article.

But every other kind of penis imaginable can be found there.

Some are strictly decorative, with others are for religious purposes.

That’s right, religious purposes.

If you’re looking for the sacred Shinto penis, think big and you’re on the right track.

This fertility festival is actually called Hounen Matsuri.

Foreigners call it the Penis Festival for obvious reasons.

There a quite a few people present who are there hoping to get pregnant or give thanks for their new baby. However, a lot of people are there to see a six-hundred pound penis marched down the street on a portable shrine.

The day after the festival, a lot of quick three-hundred word articles by legitimate journalists appeared, all of which basically said, “Hey, look, a big penis.” I was disappointed in those writers. We were in the same place at the same time, and they apparently didn't manage to learn anything about why there's a big penis procession.The history of the festival is really cool.

The kami of the shrine, which is kind of the Shinto version of being the patron saint of a place, is Tamahime.
She worked with her father to develop the area 1500 years ago.

Her husband, a prince named Takeinadane, died in battle. It is his penis that is being taken to her shrine every year. This reconsumation of their love sows the seeds that ensure a good harvest and fertility for the citizens of the town.

The penis used to be smaller, and it was attached to a straw man, but that was deemed too risqué, so the festival organizers went to the 2 meter, six-hundred pound version because that’s more modest.

There's also a cool flag.

The main event of the festival is the procession, in which Takeinadane and his penis are returned to his bride.

The rest of the time is for getting loaded on free sake and buying penis lollipops and good luck charms.

I eventually grew tired of these things and found that I still had some time to kill while waiting for the procession to arrive.

I spent some of my remaining time trying to figure out what the hell this guy had in his holsters.

He occasionally moved to a new location, where he would stand around looking cowboyish. I kept an eye on him, just in case he had big plans to treat the crowd to a song or do cool rope tricks,

but he never even opened the guitar case.

He just stood there.

I’m starting to think he wasn’t even a real cowboy.

I visited last year’s penis (and all of his penis friends), which has done its duty and will now be sold to a private home. Can you imagine putting this bad boy in your house? How would you keep guests from using it for extra party seating? You’d spent the whole night screaming, “Stop sitting on my giant penis!”

I can just hear the tattling around my house. “Mom, Maya’s coloring on the penis!”

I love this picture. I’m not sure why.

For me, one of the most fascinating things about Japanese culture is the blending of new and old. This festival is definitely an example of that.

All of the elements of the ceremony that have been in place for as long as anyone can remember are still there.

However, there are also loudspeaker announcements, a thousand cameras, drunken foreigners, and this guy.

The very existence of this festival captures part of what I love about Japan.

I adore contrast, contradictions, and absurdity.

In my mind, Japanese culture is a mix of these elements that, as a foreigner, I could spend a lifetime trying to understand. This is a culture that embraces a penis festival, but has strong taboos about saying the word vagina. A Japanese friend of mine told me that she can’t even think of a word that is commonly used to name the vagina. It just isn’t referred to in common speech.

Granted, there is a smaller festival at the nearby Vagina Shrine, but I don't know whether or not they ever say vagina.

This mix of modesty and brashness is seen everywhere.

Part of the fun of living in Japan is seeing it in action.

The Notebook

2010-03-11T20:53:00.000-08:00

There are a lot of things that worry me about raising kids abroad.

Let's see.

Topping the list is my inability to call an ambulance and direct them to our house.

I worry about their sense of belonging. After all, they are often the only blonde-haired, blue-eyed kids in the room.

There was that time that I lost Max in the department store and realized that I didn't even have the Japanese skills to ask for help finding him. That was pretty scary.

There are also many, many things that delight me about this experience.

My children are bilingual and will eat things I can barely pronounce, identify, or accurately describe.

My son makes fun of me for refusing to eat little fish with the heads still attached.

Apparently, I'm a wimp.

If wimp is another way of saying thinks twice before putting eyeballs and brains in her mouth, then that's me all over.

One of our favorite things about being a parent here in Japan is the childcare that we've had.

By spending their days with Japanese caregivers, our children have experienced Japanese culture from the inside out. The degree of immersion that they have enjoyed is something very few American kids get to experience, which is hysterical, because they have no idea how cool that is.

For them, it's normal to spend 8 hours a day speaking a language their parents don't understand.

Most of what we know about what happens at daycare comes from the journal that goes to school with Maya every day. I record her sleeping hours, pretend that I took her temperature and write down something within a few tenths of 36 degrees celcius, when we'll pick her up, and whether or not she pooped.

I'm not joking.

The Japanese fascination with the bowel movements of their children is something completely outside my experience.

It's recorded and discussed at length. It's the subject of meetings.

So, anyway, every afternoon, one of the teachers writes a narrative about what Maya did that day. Since she writes it in Japanese, the owner of the school translates it into English.

We went to the Fuchu No Mori Koen with the morning snack. Maya enjoyed playing with the soil well that she got dirty all over. She might feel so fear to play on the field that she didn't play it but saw the friends play then. She walked well and got so tired to have enough lunch. But she enjoyed snack.

I think the little pictures are the best part of the notebook. We don't get them every day, but we get enough to understand that our daughter and her friends are doing crafts.

They're gardening.

And they are occasionally chased by a yellow-bosomed creature in a neon wig.

But, mostly they're learning to be bad-ass preschoolers.

I thought it was just a fluke that they included a picture of Maya looking like she was about to throw down with someone.

Then came this one.

There's clearly some sort of tough-kid preparation going on on here. See how sweet the girl on right looks. That's because she knows about this subversive training, but gets to stay in the gang if she doesn't tell. The little guy on the left may appear to be the tough one, but I'm thinking it's the little girl in the front that you need to watch out for.

Look at the gleam in her eye.

She might be small, don't mess with her. She will take you out.

And check the matching orange hats.

Do all the neighborhood daycares have different colors?

Is there a big rumble after naptime?

I'm kind of okay with Maya learning to be tough. I've spent my fair share of time on the playgrounds of the world, and I know that they can be frickin' brutal. A little attitude and some basic fighting skills might serve her well.

Between both of our kids, we have about three years of these journals.

But the best entry ever came last week.

We went to the Fuchu-no-mori Park. Maya climbed the slightly elevated hill and went down and cooked with a tree base again. Maya was said no to have to enter hear a house by me when I went near. Maya did tender shit after lunch and sat down for a while. Maya may have a stomach ache.

Yep, you read that right.

Every night, Maya comes home and says "Read to me the book that says what I did today."

I began to read this out loud and was so distracted trying to formulate some visual image of cooking with a tree base that I read the tender shit part out loud without noticing.

Max was listening and fell on the ground laughing. I figured he'd already heard the word once and the cat was out of the bag, so I called Rob at work to read it to him, which I could barely do because I was laughing so hard.

Max was listening. Hearing me say it again made him practically convulse with giggles. I thought I would have to call an ambulance and then I remembered that I don't know how.

Always the reasonable one, Rob said, "Are you sure that's what it said?"

But on the next page, in the section where they record any bowel movements that occur at school, it was repeated.

I kind of wondered at the time whether the problem was that she might be ill, or if it had to do with the noncoformity of the shit.

Was it not the official day for tender shit?

Last summer, Maya attended a daycare in New Jersey three times a week.

(I can hear you polishing up my Mother of the Year award, but it's my vacation, too.)

Anyway, there was no notebook.

Nobody asked about her poop.

And there was no yellow-bosomed monster.

Teachers didn't wear uniforms or bow.

Kids wore shoes inside the school.

Don't get me wrong, all of the teachers were nice. There was just a degree of compulsion missing from their daily operations,

which is ironic because anyone who knows me knows that I'm a huge slob.

I guess what really is making me so happy about Maya's daily care is that I don't have to wonder whether or not routines are being followed or details are being attended to.

Say what you will about Japanese culture, when it comes to trusting someone with my children, I'll take obsessive conformity and perfection any day.

Fish

2010-03-08T16:54:00.001-08:00

Pirates of Harajuku/Part 1

2010-03-07T04:17:00.000-08:00

IN WHICH I GET ON MY SOAP BOX IN DEFENSE OF A WORTHY CAUSE

Harajuku is easily one of the coolest places in the world.

Unfortunately, I found out last night that thanks to shameless consumerism, of which I'm usually a huge fan, Harajuku has been rendered just slightly less cool.

Now, when you step off the Yamonote Line, instead of seeing Snoopy Town and The Purple and Yellow Store, there's a GAP the size of the American Embassy.

I have nothing against the GAP, and I'm sure that particular spot is prime real estate, but come on.

I know I'm complaining about one store replacing another. It's not like they slashed and burned the rainforest, but Harajuku shopping is sacred. not that the rainforest isn't, because it is completely sacred and fabulous. Just in a different way.

I not usually much of an activist, but this shit is important.

The Gap definitely doesn't have a Nudy Boy shop with an upstairs Wonder Rocket.
I'm sure the folks at Abercrombie and Fitch would consider it, and probably will after this posts, in which case I want part of the profits.
And if they put rabbit heads on their Nudy Boy mannequins, I want double.

Here are some more things the Gap needs to consider selling if they want me to stop resenting their presence on sacred ground.

Only in Harajuku could the outfit on the bottom right look boring. If I walked into a faculty meeting wearing that, people would talk. Unless the meeting were in Harajuku, which would mean our school just got a whole lot more fantastic, but I digress.

But as long as i'm on the tangent of faculty meetings, they would be a lot more fun if we all had to wear these.

But that's mostly because I would look great in a samurai kimono.

I hold Gwen Stefani responsible for the invasion of H&M, Forever 21 and Topshop into Harajuku's streets.

When the demise of the last bastion of unadulterated cool comes around, it will be her fault.

I know she was excited to find some cool chicks hanging out and waving their freak flags high.

We all love that.

But she didn't even learn to SAY HARAJUKU RIGHT before she wrote that stupid and song and watered down the whole beauty of the area to little dolls on top of perfume bottles.

Uncool, Gwen. Very uncool.

Pirates of Harajuku/Part 2

2010-03-07T03:24:00.001-08:00

IN WHICH WE MEET ACTUAL PIRATES

In an effort to shorten the lifespans of our friends, Rob and I occasionally invite them to join us for an evening of heavy drinking and cholesterol.

Seriously, these are really healthy people. They run and bike and eat well. If someone doesn't do something, these people are going to live forever.

That's where Rob and I come in.

Last night, we went out for Brazilian Barbeque.

You don't order. You just wait until the meat guys stop by to see if you want them to carve a slice of beef, pork, lamb, sausage, or chicken hearts off their giant skewer.

This was taken during that portion of the evening when we were still sober, and therefore civilized.

Luckily, paying a set price for whatever you want to drink for two hours tends to loosen people up.
A lot.

See that green drink in front of Sandy? That's a caipirinha, the national drink of Brazil, made with a sugar cane aclohol called cahaca, sugar and limes.

I think the literal translation of caipirinha is "Where are my pants?"

When we ordered them, the waiter asked, "Are you sure?"

which kind of scared us until we realized he was saying, "Do you want sugar?" I don't know who the hell is ordering these without sugar, but they are a better drinker than I am.

Mark took one drink this concoction and realized that it's about as strong as a shot of lighter fluid, even if you put sugar and limes in the lighter fluid.

He decided to try a Moscow Mule, but it was too fizzy.

So he ordered a gin and tonic.

And a glass of red wine.

Eventually, we started to worry that the waiter was going to come tell us that the bar needed its glassware back, so we helped Mark drink some of the rejects.

All told, we must have collectively consumed at least one cow and the better part of a pig.
Becky got all misty-eyed and called her dinner "a barnyard on my plate"
because she's a huge animal lover.

It all made Dave wax poetic about a similar restaurant in Kenya.
Granted, I was at the other ended of the table, but I'm pretty sure that story went like this.

Dave: They specialized in gay meat.

Rob and Christina (in unison): How could they tell?

Dave: Tell what?

Rob: Whether or not the cows were gay?

Becky: By their horns.

Dave (ignoring everyone): Eventually, Kenya outlawed hunting, so a lot of gay meat places shut down.

OH...

GAME MEAT!!!

Always on the lookout for special forces, Mark and Becky recognized the guys at the table behind us as members of the Israeli CIA, because everyone knows that the Mossad are crazy for meat.

Apparently the Mossad are completely different from the Masai, which cleared things up for me, because these guys were clearly not Masai.

Later, we learned that they aren't Mossad.
They're PIRATES.
How cool is that?

See the one who's trying way too hard to look sexy- that's Chris.

Apparently, he's the hot pirate.

The moustache guy is the elder pirate.

The rest just stand around saying things like "Aye, matey" and "Scurvy made me teeth fall out."

Then the models came in.

Rob told me this morning that he thinks the guys were famous Japanese athletes, so that would explain why everyone else in the restaurant was fascinated by them and why one of them is trying to cover his face with his hat in the picture that I took, which seemed weird at the time because I didn't care at all about having the guys in the picture.
Our table was much more interested in their stick-armed dates.

We took a shot at guessing where the girls were from, and Dave gallantly offered to speak to them in Polish for us,
which would have been extra awesome since Sandy found out that they're from New York.

I still don't know why Sandy had Flat Stanley in her purse, but it just goes to show that mothers really do have one of everything with them at all times.

I guess she told her daughter she'd find some exotic place where Stanley could be photographed, and it doesn't get more exotic than real live pirates.

Drunken pirates are really accomodating.

I don't know why Sandy wanted them to hold their arms out like they were flying. It doesn't make sense. They just look like airplanes, not boats.

Years ago, Tracey Ullman did this bit where whe was at a bus stop and no one was talking to each other, so she started singing "The Lion Sleeps Tonight." Strangers bonded as they broke into a choreographed song and dance number.

It was brilliant.

And it totally doesn't work on Japanese trains.

Becky had already attanied seemingly unreachable levels of awesomeness by attempting to orally stimulate the phallic image on her sugar pack.

But it was her attempt to engage the 300 people who were literally smashed into our train car in a sing-a-long that secured her position as the reigning Queen of Amazingness.

We did get a couple of drunk guys next to us try to hang with our effort at social unity and breaking the societal boundaries that isolate us.

Everyone else was completely uncooperative, which means that they just aren't interested in promoting social harmony.

I know it wasn't because they didn't know the words, cause how hard is it to just sing "Owem-away" a hundred times?

Next outing, fried food on sticks.

And we'll have to find something even cooler that pirates.

Who am I kidding?
There's nothing cooler than pirates.
Especially pirates that will make plane arms for a picture like they're pretending to be pilots.
Oh, hell...
I guess pilots are pretty cool, too.
Right?

Now They Tell Me....

2010-02-28T19:10:00.000-08:00

This is part of a poster campaign in the Tokyo Metro stations to remind people to keep some of their more obnoxious behaviors in check on the train. This is by far my favorite. Don't we all occasionally need a reminder not to get tanked and pass out on public tranportation? I do.

What K Taught Me, A Cautionary Tale

2010-02-27T19:05:00.000-08:00

Since order and conformity are valued in Japan, there are visual directions posted everywhere.

No one wants to run the risk of some renegade coming out of nowhere and finding a different way to perform daily tasks, so large images accompany most expository text.

I'm pretty used to seeing pictures demonstrating how to dispose of garbage properly, how to put your child into the baby contanment seat in the toilet stalls, and the proper usage of the antibacterial wipes provided for wiping down the handle of a shopping cart.

All of this is valuable because if you mix combustibles with non-combustibles when you throw things away, you're polluting.

If you put your baby into the holder head first, that's just bad parenting.

And stupid.

Last weekend, when meeting friends for drinks in a local British pub, we stumbled upon the mac-daddy of instructional materials.

This is so awesome because sometimes I get confused about how to order in a pub.

But now I know how it goes.

1) Look at the menu.

2) Ask a lady for what you want.

3) Receive your drink.

4) Say "cheers" instead of "kanpai" because this in a pub, not an izakaya.

5) Consume one pint of beer.

In case you were wondering where the beer goes after you drink it, the diagram clearly illustrates that it will end up in your belly.

Finally, someone has cleared this up for me.

So, as we happily referred to the directions each time we needed to order, my friend K came back from the bathroom and said I just had to see the picture she took in the loo.

She must have sensed my hesitation to look over pictures she took while in the bathroom, but she was spot on.
It was right up my alley.

That's right, K is the most awesome friend ever.

That's right. It's the Holy Grail of visual instruction.

How to Wash Your Hands.

And here's the embarrassing part. I don't understand all of it.

I'm right in there through step 7.

It's step 8 that's throwing me for a loop.

Apparently, I've been washing my hands wrong my whole life.

What is this mysterious cone of cleansing that has eluded me? Is it the hand blower?

But why would I use the blower after I've already wiped my hands on a towel, as per step 7?

And step 9? Am I applauding my own cleanliness?

I'm so confused.

And clearly unsanitary, since I've been flubbing this whole post-bathroom cleansing ritual my whole life.

Crap.

Fish Sushi

2010-01-27T20:30:00.000-08:00

We got brave and took the kids out to dinner last night. You know how some children just sit nicely in restaurants? Those children aren't mine.

I've tried to minimize the amount of time Maya spends in restaurants ever since the weekend last fall when Rob got the "swine flu" and I took the kids to a mountain lodge in Kiyosato by myself. (Incidentally, nowhere in the symptoms list for swine flu does it list an unexplained need to watch an entire season of Entourage in one day.)

This picture was my response to the "Is everyone behaving?" text that he sent while we were having a nice soba dinner.

No, everyone wasn't behaving.

So, last night we went for fish sushi, as Maya calls it.Sushi snobs tend to avoid the conveyer belt sushi because you just don't know how many laps around the belt each dish has taken.I always thought, "How bad could it be?" Well, when Rob and Max have time to name the dishes as they go by and greet them upon each passing, that's too long. Every time the oddly beige, scaly looking former arthropod that they named Bernard went by, we'd say, "Hey, Bernard, " and take another shot at trying to identify it on the menu. We never figured out what it was.

So, here's the drill. You sit down, make yourself a cup of green tea from the hot water tap on the table, and start grabbing whatever looks good off the belt as it passes. Unless it's not busy, and then have the chef make your dishes fresh. Trust me. You don't want to waltz in off the street and end up eating Bernard.

By the time this picture was taken, Maya had hit the waitress up for an empty Hello Kitty cup and refused to let her put anything in it, dropped half of her tamagoyaki on the floor, burned her little nose with wasabi, gotten her foot stuck in the booth, and whacked the back of her head on the underside of the table.

Max pulled some salmon roe off the belt and then decided he didn't like it halfway through a bite, which was especially gross since the little pink eggs all seemed to be connected by some kind of horrible membrane that he couldn't seem to break.

Overall, a pretty low-key outing with the kids.

Helpful sushi warnings.

1) If it looks like eyeballs, it probably is.

2) If it looks like it came out of a diaper, that's sea urchin.

3) Tuna should be reddish pink. If it looks like a pork chop, don't eat it.

4) A good sushi chef is watching you. If he sees you dosing your tekka maki with a ton more wasabi than he put on it originally, he just might double or trip the amount he puts on your next one.

5) No, you haven't had enough beer to withstand putting the whole ball of wasabi in your mouth. I don't care who double dares you.

January Pictures- A String of Unrelated Thoughts

2010-01-23T17:58:00.000-08:00

In an effort to never get my book revised ever, I spent the morning picking out my favorite pictures from this month, starting with the gang from last night. After an evening of gorging ourselves on bacon-wrapped grilled food on sticks, I guarantee that every single one of these folks has the same nasty taste in their mouth that I do today.

Welcome to Tokyo, home of pachinko parlor mascots with oversized naughty bits. Honestly, I wasn't even disturbed by the personified green pea until I realized that for no good reason, they gave him a massive unit.

Not a restaurant, I hope.

***

Max has a Wii game called City Folk, which you make a character and then gradually acquire emotions for him/her as you progress. Until then, the character just walks around like socialite after a Botox party, unable to form facial expressions.

Max's character is now able to express joy, irritation, and anger. Can you imagine if that were how things worked in real life? I would like to express happiness, but I have not yet acquired that expression.

I'm thinking of submitting this expression as an option for the game designers, but I'm not sure what to call it.

This is S, who claims he can't be embarrassed. He clearly as no idea what what it means to say that in front of me.

***

Maya started ballet classes this month. She loves it because she gets to wear a pretty outfit and twirl.

I love watching my defiant three-year-old follow sensei's instructions. She doesn't follow mine- ever- so this is a completely new experience for me.

When I signed her up, my friend C, whose daughter is also in the class, helped me translate the paperwork that had to be filled out. It was all pretty run of the mill until we got to the space that asked what I was hoping to gain by putting Maya in ballet.

"You mean, like where she's going with this?" I asked.

I had just watched my daughter turn herself into a sideways pretzel and twirl in the wrong direction for an hour. I'm pretty sure she's not headed for a life of dance.

I thought about writing deformed arches, but sensei hadn't been able to get Maya to stand on her toes, so I just wrote an eating disorder.

But the truth is that I have a secret plan to keep her from getting a ballet-related eating disorder. I'm going to teach her to associate ballet class with cake. So when she finishes dancing, she'll always have this urge to fill herself with sweets.

Don't all the top ballerinas follow each rehearsal with a piece of cake the size their head? I thought so. Yep, this plan is foolproof.

After class, Maya and I went to the department store, where she picked out a new pair of shoes for me.

Perhaps I should clarify for her exactly what I do for a living.