Matsuri...Murasakino Style

Summertime in Japan conjures up different mental images, depending on how well you know Japan. People who don't know much about Japan might have fleeting images of hot days and sun-drenched temple vistas, postcard-style.

However for people who know Japan well--ranging from periodic visitors to...oh...crazy foreigners who keep finding themselves living in Japan...to Japanese people themselves---summertime in Japan means much more.

Summertime means, yes, humid and hot days, ranging from blazing sun to sheets of rain hurtling themselves from the sky.

Summertime means Semi (pronounced "seh-mee") --gigantic Japanese cicada--perched on any and all available trees and walls, shrieking their car-alarm chorus to the heavens.

And Summertime means MATSURI.

A "matsuri" is a festival. There are huge formal matsuri, such as the Gion Matsuri, held in the historically famous Gion district for a week every July. This crown jewel of Kyoto festivals--which dates back to the year 869-- includes huge human-propelled floats, music both pop and traditional, a wide variety of displays of traditional arts and crafts, parades and miles (or in our case, kilometers) of food stalls.

For us this year, the Gion Matsuri fell just after the kids and I arrived in Japan. So while we did try to join in the festivities, our enjoyment was short-circuited by a heavy cloud of jetlag.

Not so yesterday.

Yesterday was our neighborhood festival. Similar neighborhood festivals occur throughout the summer all over Japan. Some are larger, centered around a particular shrine or temple. Others, like ours in Murasakino, are much smaller.

All along our tree-lined winding street, food stalls, beer and soda filled ice buckets, charcoal grills and children's games were set up in front of shops, all undoubtedly sponsored and manned by the shop owners.

At 4:30pm, the official start time for the festival, people trickled, then poured out of their houses, ready to enjoy a summer evening of family, friends, festival food and beer. Younger girls, and some older teenage girls, wore bright summer kimono called "yukata", made out of light cotton and covered with flowers and designs in glowing colors. Men had long towels draped around their necks to absorb sweat. Children carried the spoils of their street game wins: water-filled balloons bouncing on elastic bands, bags of fluttering goldfish in water, candy, inflatable swords, and tiny bouncing balls.

As we walked along the street, we were first struck by the food and drink prices. When we visited the Gion Matsuri, food and drinks were pricey, especially for a family of four. Here, at our smaller neighborhood festival, prices were 50 to 75% lower than those at the Gion Matsuri. To our delight, we found ourselves shoveling out 100 yen coins, sampling favorite matsuri foods. And since a big part of any matsuri are the edible goodies, we enjoyed ourselves in fine style.

And what are matsuri foods? As with American county fair treats, a good number of them involve frying or grilling. However this is where the similarities end. Bob started out with grilled squid on a stick, followed, of course, by a beer. We sampled mitarashi dango, a family favorite consisting of pounded mochi balls impaled in 3's along a bamboo skewer, drenched in a sweet soy sauce glaze and then grilled over a charcoal fire. Beef and chicken sticks of grilled yakitori followed. All around us, however, were more and more foods that were too numerous to sample: slender iced Japanese cucumbers on sticks, yakisoba noodles, grilled hotdogs on skewers, takoyaki (the much maligned but very tasty 'octopus balls'), sticky, gelatinous sugar lumps on sticks that kids dunked in flavored sugar crystals and then ate, the summer heat causing the goo to drip slowly into their mouths.

For me, any matsuri visit was not complete without a cup of kakigori, for me the quintessential matsuri treat consisting simply of snowy shaved ice topped with snow cone flavors...in my case, strawberry ('ichigo'). And I will freely admit it....I had 2.

In my mind, the huge and famous festivals are certainly lovely, exciting and without a doubt worth a visit.

However, there is a lot to be said for finding a small neighborhood celebration, and taking a stroll and a taste. You may not see the flash and pomp, but you will certainly get a bit closer to the heart of everyday Japan.

Ice, Ice Baby

Today I write about the needs of modern people. I write about innovation. I write about ingenuity.

I write about ice makers.

Now, we have lived in our share of apartments. And when renting, one seldom is graced with an expensive enough, or high-falutin' enough refrigerator to have it possess an automatic ice maker. Ice makers are, after all, luxury items. Ice itself could be seen as a luxury item.

After all, a person parched in the desert probably won't ask for ice. Potable water is the primary thought in their heads.

When renting, we have happily played the ice tray game--take empty plastic ice trays. Tote them to the sink. Fill them with water. Carefully walk the sloshing ice tray back to the freezer, where at least 30% of the time the water will spill down arms or on the floor. Bonus points are given for carrying multiple ice trays at once, which have the capability of sending sheets of water down your arms and into your armpits.

Here in Japan, I have discovered the compromise folks. The missing link between automatic ice makers and spill-prone ice trays.

I give you OUR REFRIGERATOR.

Now, all the nifty drawers in our refrigerator are great. The tallness of it. The lithe silhouette.

But it is the ice maker that makes me smile the most.

Inside the refrigerator, right over the ice drawer, is a long, slender, rectangular water container with a twist off cap.

You fill this with water. Slide it back into it's slot until you feel the spout connect with the refrigerator spigot.

There is a little button on the inside the refrigerator you can push to tell it to start making ice.

Water is pumped from the water container into an ice machine. When the ice is frozen, the ice maker will plop it into the ice drawer.

Need more ice? Fill up the water container again, twist the lid back on, slide it into position.

The marvels of the modern world.

Which goes to show you, something doesn't have to be all that fancy to be convenient.

In fact, I think I have a hankerin' for some water right now.

With ice.

Teen Stomach Challenge: Japan Style

During our first 2 years in Japan, way back in 1995, before kids and international cats and Phd's, our challenge was simply figuring out the basics: how to pay a bill, how to tell flour from cornstarch, how NOT to get lost.

During our next 2 years in Japan, in 2005, our lives revolved around easing Patrick, age 8, and Aya, age 6 into living into Japan (and at times, easing Japan into living with THEM). By 2005, Bob and I were comfortable and confident enough living in Japan to give up the paranoia and mistakes of our first stay. In 2005, while Patrick and Aya were still too young to be left alone when I went grocery shopping, they were still young enough to be more than happy to tote along with us where we went, the adventure for them simply in BEING in Japan.

This time around, we have a whole new challenge:

keeping Patrick and Aya fed.

Or conversely, keeping enough food in the house at one time to feed them.

There seems to be a severe disparity between the size of the packaged food here, and the rate of emptiness of our resident teen stomachs.

Back in Davis, I bought 3 to 4 gallons of milk per week; most of this milk was poured into Patrick.

Here, milk is sold in 1 liter cartons (Think quart). I am finding myself buying milk on a nearly daily basis.

Back in Davis, a wide variety of bread is sold in long loaves that have anywhere from 20 to 30 slices.

Here, the primary bread available are loaves of delicious, soft white bread, sold in 8 slice packages. I am finding myself buying bread every other day.

We fly similarly quickly through rice, margarine, strawberry jelly, grated white cheese, ketchup and, oddly enough, carrots. The list goes on: ramen, potatoes, eggs, lettuce, tofu.....

And peanut butter.

Imported American-style peanut butter is sold in tiny camp-store sized 12 ounce jars that cost the equivalent of $4 to $5 each. We would probably go through 2 or 3 jars of peanut butter per week, but I have spread out appropriate threats to eat other foods besides peanut butter sandwiches; it would not do to bankrupt ourselves on peanut butter.

However, we may end up just simply bankrupting ourselves keeping Patrick and Aya fed.

I suppose it is a very good thing that I will not have a conventional teaching job this year, since I suspect I will be spending a great deal of time toting myself to and from the grocery store.

There is hope, however. This fall a Costco will be opening in Kyoto.

....but will Costco-sized food fit in our very Japanese-sized house?

I'll keep you posted.

Riding the Seesaw....again

9:31am

Fried rice and scrambled eggs (made by Aya)

Coffee

Living abroad is, in my distorted little mind, like riding a seesaw.

You push off and go up. If it is a big seesaw (akin to living really far away from home, like in Japan) the trip up is exhilarating.

Then gravity (and the person sitting on the other end) takes control, your stomach begins a quick slide into your socks and you hit bottom, sometimes with enough force to bruise your tailbone...and your pride.

At times the trip between exhilaration and hitting bottom is a slow ride; other times it is whip-fast, giving you no time to process where you are.

Living abroad is amazingly akin to a seesaw ride.

There are exhilarating highs: exploring hidden nooks in shady temples, finding treats and treasures in shops large and small. Against all odds, being understood speaking a language that is not your own.

And there are ego-crushing lows. Getting lost. Not being able to read even the most basic words on street signs, on packaging. Not being able to understand simple instructions or commands. Seeing that unavoidable look of frustration and embarrassment flash across the face of the person in front of you before they tuck it away and replace it with a pleasant mask and renew their efforts to express themselves in English.

The lows are humbling, healthfully-so I believe. I can't sit on my graduate school laurels or 20 years of teaching experience when I can't even tell the difference between salt and sugar, or read the bus stop sign.

This being my 3rd trip to Japan, my 3rd time on this seesaw, things are infinitely easier now than they were back in 1995, when we first got off the airplane in Nagoya. I can navigate buses and trains. I seldom get truly lost. And yes, I do know the difference between salt and sugar. My Japanese language skills are a far cry from Dr. Bob's (Mr "I've-never-met-a-language-I-didn't-like"). However, I can usually hold my own. And the longer I am here, the more I remember and pick up.

Nevertheless, I am back on the seesaw. Up and down. Up and down.

Until next time....

Murasakino: Exactly what, yet not quite, what I expected.

8:15am

Coffee and toast with strawberry jam

Typhoon 6 roaring away outside

By this time I am sure everyone has had quite enough of the tales of our journey from California to Kyoto. It is now time to sink our pointy little teeth into Japan itself.

The previous two times we lived in Japan, we lived in Nagoya, a 40 minute train ride Northeast from Kyoto. Nagoya has plenty of foreigners, but not nearly at the level we are finding them here in Kyoto. While Nagoya has twice the population of Kyoto, Kyoto has perhaps, at a guess, 2 to 3 times more foreign visitors. Both cities have plenty of street signs translated into both Japanese and Romaji (Japanese written out phonetically in English), as well as English-language printed and announced instructions for trains and buses. Here in Kyoto, all this translation is spread out across much of the city, but does not go into too much depth. The foreign language assistance seems to be designed for a tourist population; I would suppose that tourists staying a week or two would not need to know the best place to get tortillas, or how to network with other foreigners for kids' play dates. This type of information exchange was readily available in Nagoya, but seems to be a bit harder to come by here in Kyoto.

What this all boils down to, I suppose, is that Kyoto is going to be a very interesting new chapter in our Japanese lives. Visually, I probably appear to most of the Japanese people I run across here as just another tourist. Un-amazing considering the waves of tourists that I have seen wandering the streets, fanning themselves at bus stops or poking at menus in restaurants. However I am not a tourist, so I'll have to work a bit harder to get to know this beautiful, historic city.

Case in point, our neighborhood of Murasakino. Our house is tucked away on a side-alley between a long, narrow winding street of neighborhood stores on one side, and Daitokuji, a sprawling temple complex on the other. Daitokuji, founded in 1319, is the head temple of one of the Japanese sects of Zen Buddhism, a beautiful destination for anyone seeking to know more about Zen Buddhism, Zen gardens or tea ceremony. With Daitokuji as our neighbor, we find a consistent trickle of visiting foreigners wandering surrounding streets, boarding nearby buses.

The nearby street of neighborhood stores is tremendously quaint and ideal for strolling (at least, when there isn't a typhoon blowing us to bits). Most of the stores have shady awnings overhead, with potted plants festooning the entrances. The older buildings have microscopic storefronts with sliding glass doors blocking off the family living quarters behind. Plant stores are wedged next to tiny shops selling pickled vegetables, green tea or stationery supplies. Tucked here and there are small organic bakeries, drug stores, noodle restaurants, late-night bars and tiny bookstores with piles of manga tied into bundles and stacked to the ceiling. The street itself is so narrow that it can only accomodate one-way traffic, with cargo vans elbowing their way between family cars, scooters, bicycles and pedestrians, all of it coming together to create a mystifyingly quiet and polite mishmash of activity.

A 15 to 20 minute walk away (or a 10 minute bike ride) is our nearest large department store, Vivre (pronounced "Bi--boo-ray", since the "v" sound in Japanese most closely resembles "b", with a sort of "bwee" sound to it). The main department store of Vivre is ringed with a strange combination of shops, including LL Bean (jaw-droppingly expensive, by the way), several stores of groovy, floaty, lacy women's fashions, and a few restaurants. I have not yet fully explored Vivre and its environs. So far I have been to the grocery store portion of Vivre, however, and have found it terribly addictive.

I am, I admit, a sucker for large Japanese grocery stores. I can't help it. Every Japanese grocery store has its hidden secrets, the tucked away foreign goodies or especially tasty treats. The grocery store at Vivre is satisfyingly large. Once the typhoon winds and rain leave, I have big plans to go there alone, where my enjoyment of it all won't be tainted by family members eager to simply finish as quickly as possible in order to leave.

It is very important not to go to a Japanese grocery store while hungry. If you do so, you will not make it out alive. Or at least, with any money left.

The larger grocery stores have not only the basic ingredients--bins of huge apples, picture-perfect gift melons wrapped in tissue paper, each costing upwards of $60, trays of paper-thin sliced beef and pork, bins of udon and ramen noodles and aisles of sauces, marinades, vinegars and different types of shoyu--but also deli-like sections devoted to a wide variety of goodies. One corner features freshly prepared tempura vegetables and shrimp, crisp tonkatsu cutlets and trays of potato and corn croquettes. Another section is filled with sashimi and sushi, side by side with onigiri (rice balls with various flavorings wrapped in crispy squares of seaweed). Yet another section has obento, or prepared lunches in sectioned plastic boxes.

Some "foodies" feel the need to rove across the earth searching for new, weird foods to try; I am content just to hang out in a Japanese supermarket, periodically wiping the drool from the corner of my mouth.

Mmm....I'd love to continue, but frankly, there is a puddle of drool on my keyboard now. I better go nibble on something before I decide to brave the typhoon and head off to Vivre.

Until next time....

The Return 3: So Much Luggage, So Little Sanity

7:09am

Kitchen table.

Coffee and french bread with cheese.

Hello all...

Don't worry. I am not going to have endless sequels to this particular posting of "The Return". How boring. "The Return 22: Aya brushes her teeth". Ridiculous, right? Right.

When I last left you, We had arrived in Kyoto. We had begun sweating.

After the hugs, Bob reached into his messenger bag and pulled out a bottle of water. He twisted off the cap and poured some into each cat dish in each carrier. 3 furry noses slowly inched their way forward to the front of the carriers. 3 sets of huge, paranoid eyes peered at us as 3 tongues slowly lapped up some water.

With the cats sufficiently rehydrated, we lurched out way to the train station that adjoins the Kansai Airport. Bob bought us reserved train tickets to get us to Kyoto station (an hour and a half ride). Getting ourselves, cats and luggage through the train turnstiles was rather comical, especially since Bob knew the next train was only 5 minutes from departure. All four of us frantically hoisted and dragged luggage and cat carriers while the bemused station agents watched and giggled behind immaculately gloved hands.

We stuffed ourselves and our belongings into an elevator which would take us down to the train level.

Elevator doors slid open to reveal our destined train, sleek and gleaming white, whirring, doors open, seconds ticking until it left. We quickly boarded the train and stowed our considerable luggage in the racks provided on this particular train (Non-airport related trains do not have luggage racks. But then again, normal trains usually do not need them.).

We found empty seats, stowed the cat carriers in a convenient space behind our seats and collapsed. Patrick and Bob sat in front of Aya and I, amusing themselves by exchanging sarcastic quips. As for the girls in the group, well, we took turns dozing off.

Sleeping on trains is, for me personally, a skill unique to my life in Japan, and one I have not had to use elsewhere. It takes balance and a certain type of 6th sense to pull off. One cannot fall deeply asleep, especially if one is traveling alone. One must also try to not fall over into the lap of a stranger. I am pretty sure that it is considered rude and weird in most train-traveling countries to have strangers suddenly collapse in each other's laps; here in Japan, having a "gaijin" or foreigner (namely, me) collapse into random laps would be off-putting, to say the least.

When sleeping on trains one must also develop the "whiplash-location-check" skill. This involves jerking awake (thus the whiplash), checking the electronic readout in the car to see what stop one is at, peering out the windows, then falling back into a doze. This is an advanced skill that requires patience and strong neck muscles.

My "whiplash-location-check" skills are rusty, but they quickly came back to me. Thus the hour and a half train ride from the airport to Kyoto Station went something like this:

SNAP! Random train station. Doze off.

SNAP! Huge "Meiji Company" building shaped like a massive chocolate bar. Doze off.

SNAP! Clumps of people on bikes waiting at train crossing, fanning themselves. Doze off.

And in this delightful way, we made our way to Kyoto Station.

Now, recall, if you will, my comment from the "The Return 1" about my black carry-on bag...you know, the one containing my blue tooth ipad keyboard, the massively important papers and my camera?

Remember how I said that this bag would become an important character later?

Well, later is now.

Because as we got off the train at Kyoto Station, I realized with a sick flopping in my stomach that the all-important black bag WAS NOT WITH US. Not at all. Not hiding. Not in the train (Bob and I left the kids with luggage and cat mountain and went back on the now empty train).

The bag was not with us.

It was, as far as I could ascertain, probably sitting in the elevator back at the train station in the airport. Tucked far into an elevator corner, hidden from our consciousness by the massive piles of stuff and people we had to stuff into the small elevator cubicle.

"Oh no" you are saying "What a shame! Gone forever! Oh no!".

Aha, my friends, but you are forgetting where we are. We are in Japan. And in Japan, lost things have a funny way of returning.

Bob found a station agent and explained our predicament.

The station agent took down my name, our address in Kyoto and a description of my bag.

Within 20 minutes, the agent returned to us. He had called the train station back at Kansai Airport. The bag had been found and taken to the Lost and Found unopened and unscathed, and would be shipped to our house in 2 days. We would pay 1200 yen (around $10) upon delivery.

Poof. Problem solved.

By this time I was so tired and jet lagged that my head felt like it weighed 3 tons. The kids were too tired to even bother with serious bickering. With Bob leading the way, we loaded ourselves into 2 taxis and, with Bob and Patrick riding in the lead taxi and Aya and I following in taxi number 2, we wound our way through the bustling Kyoto streets, onto increasingly quieter and narrow streets until we pulled up into a narrow one-way street in a dark, quiet neighborhood. Taxis were unloaded and bowing taxi drivers were paid. Bob led us from the narrow one-way street onto an impossibly narrower street that more resembled a thin driveway than an actual street. It was barely one car wide--and I'm not talking the width of a Hummer. I'm talking the width of a Smartcar.

Our house---which all of us had only seen in Bob's posted photos so far-- was wedged between two other houses. A space the width of my head was all that separated our house on each side from the surrounding houses. Bob unlocked the sliding front door and led us inside.

At this point I do have to pat Bob on the head for a job well-done on furnishing our place. He was lucky enough to stumble upon some departing foreigners who were heading back to their home in Turkey, and was able to purchase everything they had. It was a win-win situation. We got furniture, kitchen supplies, dishes, and they got he relief of not having to twiddle their thumbs waiting for their stuff to vanish before leaving (I have been in their shoes folks...).

On first glance, our house is like a doll house. Each room has sliding wood or glass doors. Each doorway is barely 6 feet tall. The optical illusion created by the framed doorways and low door height (well, as compared to American door heights at least) gives the impression of tiny Alice in Wonderland portals. Cute as a button for Aya and I. Cause for concussive alarm for Bob and Patrick, who are both hitting 6 feet in height.

After the first glance, however, one realizes that this house is nearly the size of our place in Davis, and rather larger than the house we had lived in before in Japan. This house is also 20 years newer than our previous Japanese house, so while the wooden floors do creak and echo when objects are dropped upstairs, this house feels substantially stronger and sturdier.

My only grump is the stairs, which have been modeled after the steps in much older Japanese houses--namely, they are incredibly steep and narrow. No wonder Bob slid down them a few weeks ago. None of us are particularly fond of the stairs, and at any time one of us must go upstairs we pause and stare up, at the 60 degree staircase angle, contemplating the journey. Coming down is even more fun, since each step is only about 8 inches wide.

However, I cannot truly complain, even about the ladder-like staircase. And so, I give Bob a smiley sticker for a house well done.

Next time: Meandering around Murasakino

The Return 2: Bickering Sardines and Other Fun

8:25am

Kitchen Table in front of a fan

*I thought it would be interesting to note the time and location of each posting. My own little research project. I might add daily details as they occur to me.

As promised, here I am. This time, I am on my much-less-imposing, aging, grunting and coughing iBook. Yesterday's posting was from Bob's new, incredibly large, weirdly fast and ever-so-slightly mocking new Apple computer.

Patrick finds Bob's new toy utterly alluring (in fact, he is on it now, headphones squeezing his gray matter, busy blurting unintelligible gibberish to equally computerized buddies back home in Davis).

Aya is in raptures over watching streaming Hulu episodes of "Glee" on Bob's massive computer screen.

I find it a bit overwhelming.

So I have untaped, unpacked and freed from its styrofoam prison my faithful iBook. My fingers are happily nestled into the smooth depressions on each key of the keypad. In between the keys are the crumbs and dust of our former kitchen, now 5000 miles away. Yahoo.

But I digress.

When I last wrote, Patrick, Aya and I had just handed our 3 very confused cats over to the nice United Airlines people. We spent a few moments watching their sticker-and tag- festooned carriers slither away on a conveyor belt into the bowels of the airport (hopefully to end up in the bowels of our airplane).

Freed from the weight of 4 suitcases and 3 cat carriers, we now had (1) Patrick's skateboard backpack--an ingenious contraption of a backpack with heavily reinforced straps across the front designed to hold a skateboard. (2) Aya's bag, which contained a mystifying collection of hairbrushes, barrettes, sugarless gum, lip gloss and tiny notebooks and (3) my mini-backpack and rolling carry-on bag (containing incredibly important papers, my bluetooth ipad keyboard and my camera, among other things). Please note the rolling carry-on bag. It will be an important character later.

First things first. I had my priorities and, in spite of the grumblings of my narcoleptic children, I was determined to carry them out.

Newsstand.

No trip for me is complete with out a visit--or two--to the airport newsstand. Books, magazines and newspapers are the flame to my bespectacled moth. That's right. I'm a reading junkie.

I controlled myself this time. I found a single paperback book that I had been eyeing in other bookstores for weeks. Patrick and Aya each chose snacks to take with them on the airplane.

With my newsstand yearnings satisfied, we turned to the food court. Waiting passengers were sprinkled here and there, some hunched rather miserably over paper cups of coffee at tables, others passed out across booths, luggage strewn about, half eaten food on trays littering their tables.

It was still well before 9am, so we opted for appropriate morning food. I ate a bowl of beef udon from the Japanese food court counter. As I expected, it contained udon and beef in a bowl of what seemed to be rather depressed dashi broth. However, it also contained other mysterious ingredients, such as cabbage and large hunks of celery and carrot slivers. Weird.

Aya had a cheeseburger with fries, explaining that it would be her last "American" cheeseburger. She was in full reminiscence mode, declaring with each ketchup-dripping french fry that it was her "last french fry eaten on American soil", her last sip of "American Diet Coke". She informed me, once I had returned from the coffee counter with a cup of iced coffee, that I was about to drink my last "American coffee".

Honestly.

Patrick declared himself not hungry, but instead amused himself with stealing Aya's french fries. To which she informed him that "he should order some french fries for himself, as they would be his last "American " french fries.

In this manner we whiled away the hour and a half before we needed to endure the joy of the passport checking line that divided the public part of the international terminal from the elite "travelers part" of the international terminal.

The line was slow and endless. Aya was especially curious about the reason for having to remove our shoes, to which I had no satisfactory answer. Patrick mumbled sarcastic comments such as "Maybe they think we have a bomb hidden in our socks", which helped immensely. Aya fretted about the possibility that she'd be chosen for a random "pat down".

However, no pat down ensued, nor were any explosive socks discovered. We toted ourselves past the blindingly lit duty free stores and down the escalator to our gate.

More waiting.

More lines, this time to get on the plane.

Once on the plane, we discovered that we had been seated next to each other, sure enough, but configured so that 2 of us were sitting near the window, and one of us was sitting across the aisle.

I don't really have to tell you what happened, then, right?

That's correct. Bickering ensued.

The kids had anticipated sitting in a line of 3 seats, so that, ideally, they'd each pass out on one of my shoulders, effectively trapping me in my seat.

But now, one seat was a much-coveted window seat. And only one of them could pass out on my shoulders.

If I sat in the single seat across the aisle, they would be sitting together. Those of you who are parents know why I threw out this possibility right away. I didn't think United Airlines, or our fellow passengers, would appreciate a WWF wrestling match right there in the airplane.

Which left either Patrick or Aya sitting near the window, and thus next to me.

We began with Patrick sitting at the window, with me next to him and Aya in the single aisle seat.

Here is the action for the first 4 hours of the flight**:

Aya: (poke poke at my shoulder) Mom, I want to sit near the window. It isn't fair that Patrick got it. He always gets what he wants.

Me: Aya, let's wait until the halfway point, and then switch, okay? I'm trying to sleep.

Aya: (poke poke) I want to sit there now. I need to lean on the wall to sleep.

Me: Please wait.

Patrick: She just wants everything her way. I claimed this seat first. Totally fair.

**repeat every 5 minutes

Oh, there were distractions. Lunch time meal service came around, featuring something that might have been meat and potatoes, accompanied by something that might have been carrots and string beans. Or, you could have something that might have been stir fried veggies with something that resembled rice.

Patrick ate his roll, my roll and his brownie.

Aya ate her roll, the brownie, and the quasi mashed potatoes.

I ate my whole meal, including the scary little salad, because I knew I'd need the energy to endure further bickering.

And there were movies and TV shows, but the images in the little seat-back screens were blurry and dim, and prone to being undecipherable every time the person in front of us leaned their seats. They also tended to flicker and pulse every time the plane hit turbulence. I watched some blobs from a movie that supposedly was "Jane Eyre". Aya and Patrick watched some blobs from what was reportedly "House".

The half way point in the flight came. I leveled the appropriate threats and managed to get Patrick and Aya to switch places. "Accidental" elbow jabs and pinches did occur as they each slithered into the impossibly narrow aisle and wedged themselves back into their new seats.

Here is the action for the next 4 hours of the flight**:

Patrick: (Poke poke) Mom, I want my seat back.

Me: (yawn, open eyes) Patrick, you and Aya just switched. I am trying to be fair here.

Patrick: (poke poke) I got that seat first. It's not right.

Me: (glare) Fair is not always right. Could you please just relax and be okay with this?

Patrick: She sucks.

Me: (eye roll) Fine. I am noting in my mind that she sucks. Now chill out.

**repeat every 10 minutes

And, after 10 hours of this familial bliss, our airplane did land, the lady in front of me did remove her seat back from my nasal passages, and we did crowbar ourselves out of the plane.

In Japan. Again.

And la la la, into a tram, down escalators and into a cavernous white rectangular room. 15 or 20 individual immigration kiosks lined one long wall. The bulk of the room consisted of winding mazes of red and green aisle tape, corralling all of us foreign visitors into a long twisting snake of jet lagged misery. 40 minutes of shuffle-stop-shuffle-stop. Patrick and Aya's complaints escalated every 5 minutes until I ordered each of them to stop talking entirely or I would "go insane and do unspeakable things". For once they heeded the warning. Perhaps it was my stop-light red eyeballs that unnerved them.

Once our visas and passports were checked, we were expelled into baggage claim where our suitcases were already enjoying a luggage carousel ride. Patrick fetched a luggage cart while I heaved each monstrous bag off the conveyor belt.

Time for the kitties.

I went to the "Animal Quarantine" counter. A uniformed woman smiled up at me and clearly began summoning her English skills to the front. However, I was one step ahead of her, and excused myself in Japanese before I simply (and I am sure ineptly) explained my purpose.

A uniformed man popped out from behind the counter and led me to a corner of the baggage claim under the main staircase where the 3 cat carriers awaited. Alarmed little glowing eyes peered out at me from the back of each carrier. Aya squealed, collapsed on the floor and began cooing into the carriers. The uniformed man smiled kindly and gestured back towards the Animal Quarantine counter.

The process was unexpectedly smooth and quick. The uniformed man asked me to accompany him to the back room with the carriers. I removed each cat, one by one, from her carrier and held her up so he could scan her microchip. Once this was complete, I filled out more paperwork, and handed over the original copies of all the documents I had lovingly and painstakingly completed over the past 8 months.

Poof and pop. Done. Our 3 cats, formerly rescued kittens, were now international travelers and residents of Japan. Meow meow.

We rounded the corner, suitcases, cats and jet lag in hand, and emerged out into the waiting area for international flights.

Aya spotted Bob first, dropped everything (including one of the cats) and threw herself at him. Patrick and I shook our heads, and heaved everything out of the way of other incoming passengers. As you can imagine, lots of hugs.

Once the glee of reuniting had ebbed, we noticed something else:

we were sweating. Profusely.

Ahh, Japanese summer.

Okaeri Nasai.

Welcome back.

The Return 1: 24 hours of Pre-Flight Joy

Welcome to my first blog...at least, THIS time around....from Japan!

Yes, Christina--rampaging lunatics at her side--has returned to Japan. It took me a few days to shake off most of the jet lag before writing, since writing while under the effects of jet lag tends to result in whining.

I will try not to whine.

Our last full day in California passed in a blur, to be honest. We had been staying with our lovely friends Rob and Amy for the previous week. Tremendously generous of them, considering that with me I brought 2 teenagers, 3 cats, 4 huge suitcases and a need to borrow their car. However, when you consider that they were ALSO MOVING TO A NEW HOUSE at the same time as we were staying with them....well....I'm pretty sure they deserve a medal or at least a plaque. A nice plaque mind you.....wood with inscribed metal. None of that paper stuff.

Fate must have been having a good chuckle at our expense on July 10th, the day we were to leave Amy and Robs, bound for an SF airport hotel for the night before our flight-- you see, their movers arrived the morning of July 10th, at nearly the same time we needed to load Amy's car and leave. Rob got the dubious honor of staying with the movers, while Amy got the even more dubious honor of chaperoning our 3 ring circus to the hotel.

This is where things get blurry. Not that I am forgetting anything per se, but this is where my mind was multi-tasking, running through flight departure times, cat quarantine needs, listing the things I inevitably forgot.

You know, normal for me.

Our first stop, before hitting the hotel, was my mother-in-law's house. Our cats--already in various stages of freak out after spending weeks of watching us empty out our duplex in Davis, only to be unceremoniously dumped into a spacious Elk Grove house that was also in a state of moving flux--were lovingly de-crated into mom-in-law's garage. Grilled Cheese sandwiches, chips and apple pie soon followed before we had to re-crate the cats (Raku, our timid little rescued Ragdoll, took some convincing, as she had wedged herself behind the washing machine and was peering out at us with huge blue eyes). Hugs, kisses, tears.....and we were off again.

Next stop, La Quinta Suites. My mom had arranged to meet us there, where she had also reserved a room. Cats were once again de-crated. I set up a litter box, food and water. Huge suitcases were heaved into spare corners. Amy, Patrick, Aya and I met with mom, and then loaded up into the two cars and headed off to the Hungry Hunter.

This particular Hungry Hunter restaurant was done up in full "Bonanza" style. I almost expected Hoss and Little Joe to mosey out from the kitchen with a side of salt pork. Rustic wood walls, wagon wheels, huge stone fireplace, big heavy wood tables. Fake distressed wood flower boxes filled with fake spring flowers adorned fake windows above our heads near the tall peaked rafters. The food was pricey but very good, and our waiter was doting and charming enough to glean a hefty tip from us at the end.

Our wake up call came at 5:15am the next morning. Aya--already hyped to the point of no return--was up at 5am, primping herself. Patrick was glaring at me from under his hotel pillow, one bloodshot eye shooting darts of displeasure my way. Still, we all managed to get dressed and wander down to the hotel breakfast bar to meet mom, where we all unenthusiastically ate various combinations of cereal, fruit and bagels.

Then it was more hugs, kisses and tears as we re-crated the cats, re-packed the suitcases and boarded the hotel shuttle for the airport.

It was far easier than I expected to get the suitcases and cats checked in and sent on their way into the bowels of the airplane. Filling out the final paperwork at the check in counter took some time, but I didn't mind all that much since (a) the kids were too tired at that point to bicker (b) I had spent so much of the previous 8 months preparing cat paperwork that, miraculously, I had done everything right and (c) all of our suitcases were, happily, under 50 pounds--a fact that I was not at all confident about the previous night at Amy and Rob's when I was madly trying to weigh them on a tiny $7 Target scale I had purchased for just such a task.

Once divested of our giant suitcases, we toted the cats to the export inspector, who had me remove each cat, one by one, from their carrier so they could check out the latches and innards. Each carrier checked out. Final pats and caresses were given to our furry companions and then they were on their way. Poof.

Let the bickering begin!

Next: The Return 2: Bickering Sardines

The Proof is in the Packing

For those of you who actually READ my drivel, I do apologize for being incommunicado for two weeks. But you see, packing (and its good buddies "donating", "cleaning" and "dumping") is its own obsession and lifestyle. It comes with its own rules and excuses. For example:

1. The sooner you donate the dishes and switch to paper plates, the sooner you don't have to cook.

2. Clear packing tape, like lamination, makes all things better

3. Teenagers cannot pack. What they do to a suitcase cannot be called "packing". It must be called "stuffing", "shoving" or even "mixing dirty clothes in with clean, and then smashing them all together in the suitcase."

4. The air conditioner will cease to function precisely when you need to run up and down the stairs repeatedly to clean and pack.

5. When you go to the hardware store to purchase required bolts, spackle and tools necessary to return your rental property to it's original state, you will forget to buy exactly one item per trip. This will result in infinite trips to the hardware store, which will in turn force you to purchase Jamba Juice drinks (with the energy boost, of course).

6. In cleaning the vegetable drawer, you will invariably discover microscopic dried baby carrots, one incredibly sprouted onion and something squishy, frightening and greenish-black in a tied off plastic bag that might have originally been a bell pepper, a head of lettuce, or a zucchini. Or maybe not.

7. However many boxes you buy for packing and mailing, you will always need one more. Ditto for packing tape.

8. You may expect to become best friends with the UPS guy (Correy, who generously gave me a massive bag of styrofoam bits), the post office people (Jim and Sonya, lovely folks), the Goodwill Express people (Mary and Alex both told me they'd miss my visits) and, if you are me, the fine veterinarians, technicians and vets-in-training at the UC Davis Veterinary Training Hospital (where I am known as "the lady with the tower of cats", courtesy of my habit of stacking all 3 cat crates upon my mother-in-law's furniture dolly,and rolling them in together. Like a cat magician. Alakazam.)

....And these are just the first 8 rules of packing! If I weren't so (a) tired (it is 11:30pm, after all) (b) sore and (c) sweaty, thanks to the malfunctioning air conditioner, I'd keep going.

Suffice it to say, I have used my 2 weeks of non-blogging well. However, prepare your eyeballs, for once we arrive in Japan, I predict plenty of blog-worthy material to percolate through my life.

Until then, take my advice. Avoid packing at all costs.

Nighty night everyone. And remember: He (or she) who packs last, packs alone.