Palm Springs, California
● Went for an early-ish run this morning in Palm Springs, California (33℃), and came across quite a few homeless wackos, the kind that have that crazy look in their eyes as they yell at imaginary demons. They were mostly huddled at bus stops, goin’ nowhere, and at a convenience store. I wonder what they did the afternoon when it can get unbearably (albeit dry) hot.
Halfway through the run, nature called in a fierce and unforgiving way. Had I been in Japan—where convenience stores almost outnumber shrines and temples—I wouldn’t have sweated it. But here, public toilets are scarcer than hen’s teeth. When I started percolating, I looked for potential spots to relieve myself. But here in PS there are signs EVERYwhere warning of an “armed response”. Not wanting to orphan my young sons, I hurried home as fast as my short, gentle steps would take me.
Japan really does public toilets like no other country. As a result, I’ve grown soft. Here you really can’t let your guard down without sacrificing a pair of skivvies.
● The very last people you’d want to see in their bathing suits, seem to have ZERO qualms about strutting their generous stuff here.
● A friend of the bride and groom was surprised to learn how many of us there were.
“You ALL drank milk from the same bottle?!?!”
“We all drank milk from the same TIT,” I shot back.
Of course by the time I was born, that tit was like an ancient rusty pump. Tumbleweeds rolled across the dry desert floor. No wonder I ended up the runt of the litter. If only I’d had a little nourishment, I’d be over six feet tall today.
● There’s an old joke about a quadruple amputee who goes to a brothel and rings the doorbell. A whore opens the door and laughs. “What are you doing here?”
He replies, “I rang the doorbell, didn’t I?”
That’s kind of how I feel trying to get served here.
After fifteen minutes a waitresss comes up to me and asks, “Would you like something?”
“I rang the doorbell, didn’t I?”
● American money looks and feels like Monopoly money to me. Values are just WAY out of wack. $100 for a very mediocre lunch, but then twenty bucks for a nine-months pregnant bag of groceries. In Japan, it’s the opposite: ten bucks for an incredible lunch, fifty bucks at the supermarket for a miserable lime, a B-cup breast of chicken, and so on.
One thing I’ve noticed here is that the owner/chef is not a thing here. The kitchen staff is usually “brown”; the wait, staff old and white; the owner, often absent.
● Watching an ad for the Air Dragon power drill. Buy one, get one free! Who needs two? Or even one?
● A haiku
Unconsciously
tried to turn the washlet on
Wind whistles through leaves
Sun River・Portland, Oregon
● Sausage selection is surprisingly limited. There is a bigger selection (variety) available at my local Bon Repas. Sausages come in one size: long-distance truck driver turd.
● Fruit is nice and cheap here in ‘Mericuh. Cheese, too, but I haven’t had my socks knocked off by the flavor, yet. Slices could be a tad thinner. (More research is needed.)
● The American kitchen could use some scissors as packages are a bitch to open.
Thought about bringing our grinding stone with us to sharpen knives (as they seldom do the job they were designed for: cutting.
● Whereas Japanese homes are often blindingly illuminated by fluorescent tubes, the American home has been designed with Tanizaki Junichirō’s “In Praise of Shadows” in mind. It can be awfully dark at night, something I’m not used to.
● Speaking of the dark, the streets are pitch black at night. Thank god, no, thank Steve Jobs, my iPhone comes which a powerful flashlight.
● The US could do with a humanitarian air drop of washlets. Were I ever to return, I would have them installed in my new residence.
● California rice, though grown traditionally by Japanese farmers, just isn’t the same. The flavor is off; individual grains of rice lack “backbone”.
I think it probably tastes like the Japanese rice of oldentimes, say prewar. Since then, Japanese rice has evolved and brands have been created.
● Having been raised on The Flintstones, I took it for granted that husbands were naturally larger than their wives. Some of these women, though, are twice the size of their men. What do the men think when they come across an attractive, slim woman, especially the ones who are clearly mothers, yet managed to get through pregnancy with their bodies intact?
● Tattoos are out of control! Back in the early 90s, it seemed like a fun idea and even I considered getting one. But, but, but, that was when it was still a baddass biker/rocker or drunken sailor thing. Now teenage girls have them. So much for trying to look like a baddass (or a drunk sailor).
● Some of these lily white kids look like they have been chained in an unlit basement for the past two years. Break out the sunblock!
● Lawns are green even in the desert. Ask Japanese why there aren’t any decent lawns and they’ll say, “Too expensibu! Too difficuruto!” Well, it cannot be too expensive or difficult if it can be done here in the desert.
● Overheard two obese adolescent boys (high school age?) talking about their stretch marks. One of them said, “I like mine.” And I thought, the fat shamers have lost another battle.
● When and how did the trend of naming kids after presidents begin. I have heard boys snd girls called the following: Carter, Reagan, Buckley, Harris . . . There are no more Mikes, Jeffs, Bills . . .
● Sure are a lot of redheads Ore-gone.
● Many of the guys here are in pretty good shape or beefy—they look like they could kick sand into my face with impunity—suggesting to me that they spend quite a bit of time in the gym. Their wives tend to be on the dumpy side, though. Are they closet gay or are they engaging in extracurricular activities? There are plenty of apps that make it easy to satisfy urges. (Or so I have heard.) I mean, what motivates them?
● At Sunriver, the white supremist would be comfortable. Of the two or three hundred people hanging out at the pool, there is only one black man. Two Asians, one of whom is my wife.
● My boys don’t look Japanese at all, so their silence is often confused as shyness at first, then, I suspect, as autism. It’s only when you inform people (instructors mainly) that English isn’t their first language that their eyes widen and everything clicks.
● We have the boys enrolled in karate an swim lessons. Teachers here a much kinder than in Japan where Spartanism rules. Lessons are shorter here: 30 minutes for swimming, an hour for karate, compared to one hour if swimming and 90 to 180 minutes of karate in Japan. GAMAN! Despite the gentle approach, it is still effective, perhaps even more so.
● Toilet seat covers are made of lead, or at least seem that way. The seats are often loosely bolted to the toilet bowl.
● Kind of depressing to learn that “my generation” has become a genre of music and fashion.
● Mother and sister are off to Saturday evening Mass. I asked what the fasting period has been whittled down to as a joke, but wasn’t prepared to hear that it’s now 30 minutes. It’s like they have stopped trying.
● Cherries are fuckin-tastic here. And cheap. My God, why do Japanese pay a hundred bucks for mediocre cherries?
● I usually bring a couple thousand dollars cash from Japan. The bills are new and stiff like highly starched dress shirts. Whenever I hand one of these bills to cashiers, they look at it like it’s counterfeit. An American bill doesn’t look authentic unless it’s been run over by a pickup truck, used as a hanky, and leaves your fingers with a slight tingling sensation from cocaine residue.
More kids’ names:
“Joe (father) just took ‘Hudson’ to the slide.”
Dakota, Brooklyn, yes, Brooklyn, Hudson, Rainier (as in the mountain) . . .
● My generation and the one before it had pretty prosaic names. Twenty to thirty years ago, there were a lot of biblical fathers and prophets crawling around in diapers. The name Seth never registered and then BOOM there were tons of Seths in Hollywood. Now we’ve got presidents, states, monuments, classic cars mascarading as children.
● The french fry is a food group all to itself. Just saw a family of four each with their own basket of fries. I love fries, but I generally OD after a few handfuls.
● I used to poo-pooh the craft this, artisanal that, but these hippies have applied it to alcohol, god luv ‘em! Loads of cidre, spirits, and so on that demand my attention. And will get that attention shortly.
● Beer is damn good in Arr-gone. Trouble is I can only manage two pints before I feel like beached whale. Good buzz, though.
● In the parking lot, 13 out of 15 cars are SUVs, one is a pickup, and one is a sedan. The family van doesn’t seem to be very popular anymore. Good Christians used to fill up those vans with their kids—Seth, Ezekiel, Jeremiah, and Zackery back in the early 90s.
● Driving from Sunriver to Portland, I’d say three out of five cars were Japanese. Remember when guys in hard hats would take a sledgehammer to Japanese imports? Them was the dayz.
● Still waiting for a father named Bob to yell for his son Nixon to get out of the pool before the french fries get cold.
● The tattooed slacker barista of tomorrow will be named Taft or possibly McKinley.
● So nice to be surrounded by beautifully built facilities, buildings that were designed to last generations rather than torn down after a generation and replaced by another shabby looking prefab insta-structure.
● Driving from Bend to Sisters we passed a pot farm. Stuff should never have been made illegal in the first place. That said, it’s still odd to see them growing it right out in the open like it’s no big deal.
● Boy, this town (Portland) sure does shut down early. I’m used to bars staying open till “27:00”. That kind of math is cruel for a drunk.
Lots of bars here close around eleven. Asked the bartender at one of the only places open what time they closed. He gave a noncommittal answer at first, suggesting they stay open REALLY late, then said, “Twelve.”
That said, rush hour started around three-thirty. My wife couldn’t believe that people were already heading home. “How many hours do they work?!?!” In Japan, people finish up work around seven or eight. I often finish at nine-thirty. Seven or eight on lighter days.
Years ago PM Miyazawa—remember him?— said he wanted to make Japan a world leader in leisure. I laughed when I read that article. I cry a little today.
● Finally got an Airbnb I liked. There have been quite a few duds since the last winner back in 2015.
After I checked in, the “owner” said, “Um, don’t tell anyone you rented this place through Airbnb. Just tell them you’re a friend of mine visiting from Japan.”
“Gotcha.”
Place even came with a parking space which is a must in NW Portland. Sheesh, it’s harder to find parking here than back home.
This rental has an oddly late check-in (7pm). When I left the building this morning I understood why: the leasing office is on the first floor. So, they are sneaking renters in after hours to avoid detection. Kind of feel like Anne Frank.
● Every ballgame I have watched so far has had a Japanese player in it.
● The homeless situation in Portland is nuts. I’m surprised the Trump tax cuts haven’t trickled down to these poor bastards yet. What gives?
● Speaking of the homeless, a hell of a lot of them are clearly off their fucking rockers—yelling at the thin air, carrying on long and intense conversations with themselves, yanking the hair out of their mangy heads, foaming at the mouth. What gives? And why don’t we have as many raving lunatics in Japan? In Fukuoka (pop. 1.5 mil and growing), there are three homeless people downtown. They are the same three I’ve been passing for over twenty years and they never bother anyone. Clearly access to affordable healthcare has something to do with it, but probably not all. (Rumor has it the meat in Yoshinoya beef bowls is made with the meat and rendered bits of homeless people and shut-ins.)
● Pernod is not a regularly stocked liquor.
● Loads of local distilleries in town, but I’ll be damned if they don’t stay open very late. Same with a lot of the boutiques here. There is an interesting optician just up the street from us. I wanted to pop in and check out their frames, but the shop closed at five-thirty. FIVE-THIRTY! It’s as if people are afraid of success. And when do people shop?
● Just had my first craft gin and, hmm, . . . Must keep searching.
● Pumped $600 out of the ATM. Now I’ve got 30 $20-bills. Good grief.
● Great conversation with an old friend who works in the pharmaceutical industry. Eye-opening! Healthcare is such a racket in the States. His company sells an anti-constipation drug, something that is in high demand due to the opioids epidemic—heroine causes constipation, or so Ewan McGregor told me in Trainspotting. My friend told me that he can’t sell to doctors in Portland because most of them have been brought under the umbrella of the big hospital chains, such as Providence/Legacy. (When did those two merge?) Primary care doctors are directed to funnel patients to the big hospitals were the real money is being made. This is especially true with the elderly because of Medicare. “Nobody” has to pay for it because it’s on the government’s tab. Japan’s system is so much better. Death Panels and all. “Your 90-year-old mother has broken a hip, you say? Walk it off!”
I think one solution would be to make healthcare progressively more expensive the older you get to stop old folks from getting care that doesn’t really add much quality or productivity to people’s lives.
● If you look at the top paying jobs in Oregon, you’ll find that most of the top ten are in the medical industry. There are lots of walking wounded in NW Portland. Lots of medical professionals walking around in their orderlies. That always strikes me as terribly unhygienic.
● Portland has got to be one of the best cities in the US for public transportation. There are several streetcar and light rail lines, lots of buses. They run fairly frequently. Fares are reasonable—only five bucks a day for an all-day pass (2 dollars for kids). The only drawback is the passengers who—particularly in Fareless Square—are, shall we say, colorful? Payment is on the honor system which means many people push their luck by not paying.
● Rent is TOO DAMN HIGH! So are mortgages. How much take-home pay do you need to earn in order to afford rent of $2,000 or more in addition to all the other running costs, such as health insurance, a car and all its related costs?
● More kids names: Cranton . . .
● There used to be a skit on SNL about a person of unknown gender. Co-workers and friends try to surmise whether “Pat” is a he or a she, by asking questions like, “So, what do you carry your money in? A purse? A wallet?” Pat replies, “A fanny pack.” And so on. In the line ahead of me at OMSI were two beefy dudes and some kids. Something seemed a tad off until I realized the bigger of the two guys was actually a woman. Interesting couple, I thought. Then the guy on the right opened his mouth and I finally understood it was a lesbian couple and their kids.
● At OMSI, there was a special exhibition on robots and I would say that 2/3 of the robots on display were Japanese—AIST, HiBot, Murata, Topy, ITA, Inc., Muscle Corp., Yaskawa, FANUC. Two Korean companies’ robots were included as were a few from Chinese companies. A handful of American universities (U Penn’s Kod*lab, Virginia Tech, MIT) also had some clunky homemade prototypes. Japan is clearly winning the race to make humans obsolete.
● Downtown is Weedtown. If I inhale another person’s pot, I may just get high. Not that I’m complaining, man.
● About twenty years ago I noticed the move from cash to plastic (debit) and it seemed so odd to me at the time. It still does. Japan remains a cash society par excellence, though IC cards and prepaid cards are nibbling at the edges.
Geffner, owner of Escape from New York Pizza, makes a good point about not wanting to share all his personal information and consumption habits with credit card companies, something that many Japanese would also bristle against.
But there’s one appeal of plastic that the article fails to mention. At least with plastic, you know where it has been. For the past week I have been stuffing tip jars with skanky one dollar bills. I hate the custom of tipping, but I also hate the idea of those filthy bills being in my pocket.
● I think I could spend half a day in Whole Foods and not get bored. Love how the use of plastic is kept to a minimum—fruit and veggies in brown paper sacks, wax paper over the berries, reusable shopping bags.
As I was looking at the deli items, I could understand why Americans don’t cook. Why bother when the stuff in the store would taste so much better and be easier to make?
● The Oregonian is now only 20-pages long. Amazing.
1 page of weather
3 pages of comics, horoscopes and crosswords
1 page of TV listings
1 page of market news
2 pages of classified ads
5 pages of sports
The rest is news and ads
● Can’t get over how many women here, young ones included, are going braless. Not that I’m complaining. They’re their boobs; they can do with them whatever they like.
● Speaking of boobs, I entered the locker room the other day and was greeted by a pair of F-cups. For a second there, I thought I had entered the women’s locker room by mistake. I hadn’t. Those imposing knockers belonged to a young man.
● The Japanese Garden in Portland is really worth the visit despite the steep entry fee. Admission at a number of facilities has been ridiculously expensive. A year pass at our newly opened science hall in Fukuoka is only 10 dollars. Admission for four to OMSI was almost $100.
● The bull’s ring, i.e. piercing that goes in one nostril and out the other, is quite popular, remarkably so. Whenever I see someone with one from the corner of my eye, my first thought is that the person needs a hanky.
● Tattoos and body piercings are so commonplace it’s almost comical. I wonder if there is any economic advantage to having tats, and if so, at what point is there a diminishing return? I suppose it would depend on your profession. A chef or barber in Portland just wouldn’t be taken seriously if he didn’t have sleeves of tats, thick framed glasses, and a impossibly full beard.
● Only six days left in Portland. I knew our time here would fly.
● At which point does the morbidly overweight individual come to the conclusion, “Okay, this weight problem has gotten WAY out of control! Time to cut down on the crap and start exercising!” I gain five kilos and the alarm bells go off.
● メルカリ (Melkali, sp?) has come to the US.
● Well drinks SUCK!
● “Kobee” Burgers are ubiquitous on menus here. Not sure what it is supposed to mean here.
● I find myself giving an AARP member’s bonus tip here. Waiter at the Sheraton ought to be playing gateball, not waiting on tables. 25% for you!
● The driver of the shuttle limps from the hotel lobby to the bus. He walks like a man who has been run over by the very same bus he is in charge of driving.
Waiter at the hotel bar is good-looking, but clearly stiff in his movements. As I have mentioned before, he should be taking it easy in a retirement community, not serving me a Ruben sandwich.
So many older people here work the kinds of unskilled jobs that much younger people in Japan have. In Japan, when you do see older people working, it tends to be a reflection more of the uber-tight labor market than anything. There are “silver human resource centers” that find part-time jobs for old folks. Many of them work not so much for the money than to have something to do during the day, to keep active and earn some extra pocket money.
● Cross the Willamette (“Will-LAM-et”) river and the racial make-up changes dramatically. On the west, it’s predominantly white; just across the river on the east, it’s mostly black. Older black woman near me on the MAX had short PURPLE hair and BLUE eyebrows. They matched her tights.
● Have seen surprisingly few high end cars—no Maseratis, Lamborghinis, etc.—the kinds of cars I see on a daily basis back in Fukuoka. I think I have only seen two Porsches, two Teslas. Benzes and Bimmers have also been conspicuously absent or few.
● What the heck is “draft coffee”? Some places write it “draught” which, I guess is supposed to make it sound, er, look, more sophisticated and therefore pleasing to the palate.
● Anyhoo . . .
I’ve been trying every coffee shop I can but just haven’t been blown away yet. Barista on 23rd came close, though. Coffee roasting took off about fifteen years ago in Japan and the variety of roasts, flavors, and drinks available is possibly the best in the world. Many baristas and roasters in Japan, including several in Fukuoka, have won international contests. One common feature of the coffee I’ve had here is the bitterness. Again, Barista is the closest I come to a mild, full-bodied roast. The coffee at Coffee People, one of—if not THE—oldest in Portland, and voted “The Best in the City” almost killed me. Couldn’t finish it. Granted my palate has changed considerably since moving to Japan.
● Only four more days in Portland. I knew the time would just fly. All in all, it’s been a great visit. Lots of quality time with family. Some pretty good eats. Interesting events.
● The only downside has been all the homeless people. There’s one guy who is permanently parked outside Salt and Straw, a very popular ice cream joint.
He has a dog, of course. Some go-getter several years back caught on to the idea that a dog will evoke more sympathy than a message scrawled on a piece of cardboard.
It would be interesting to interview these bums and try to understand what they are thinking. I doubt though I’d get a straight answer.
Yes, I realize that many of them have legitimate mental health issues, but a lot probably don’t. (I know one Japanese man who would take off from time to time and live in hotspring towns till his money ran out and he got the boot. He’d then camp out in a park for weeks. He was nuts, but he knew what he liked: freedom.
● Numbers still don’t add up to me. Even if you earned a take-home pay of $100,000, I imagine it would still be a struggle to own a home in NW Portland, pay for health insurance, maintain a car, send your kids to good schools, and all that. We’re pretty lucky in Japan, considering.
● After a week in Portland, you think you’ve acclimated to The Wierd, but then you come across something or someone that stops you in your track an just makes you shake your head. On Sunday morning, I went for a walk along 23rd when two drag queens walked by. “That’s something you don’t see everyday,” I thought to myself and watched where they went. Apparently there is a “Drag Brunch” that is held at one of the restaurants on the street. But that was nothing compared to the guy I saw this evening who had a bandanna over his face, a wild hat that I can’t quite describe, knee-length tights with tassels, and on his bare chest, a bikini top. It didn’t phase all the families in the park, which I found more remarkable than the guy himself. Then there are all the people who are just out of their gourds. One guy was having a deep and meaningful freak out before a potted plant this morning. Not sure if he was on something or off of something or just your garden variety of Portland nutter. I walked past him like nothing had happened. A block later, a woman started talking to me.
“Pardon,” I asked, removing my earphones.
“Do you know where the fire was yesterday?”
“Fire?”
“Yes, there was a fire in the neighborhood.”
“No, sorry. I was downtown all day yesterday.”
“Okay. Thanks. Have a good one.”
“Um, yeah, you, too.”
The other day in front of Salt & Straw, the sidewalk was being washed down, displacing the bum that is usually parked in front of the shop with his lounge chair and mangy old dog. He yelled something at me.
“What?”
“They sure don’ do that in California!”
“That’s because they don’t have the water!” I yelled back.
“Huh?!?!”
And on down the street I continued.
Back in the day, I used to chat with the homeless guys. But in those days, there were only a handful of them, as reliable as the rain. There was a guy outside Cinema 21, another near EFNY Pizza, a guy who milled about the supermarket that’s now Trader Joe’s. You knew them. They knew you. Now these unlucky badtards are EVERYwhere.
SAn Diego・L.A.
● Maybe when I was 19, I didn’t know shit from Shinola, but Roberto’s in Mission Beach, San Diego was the place for a midnight burrito run. The menu has changed, and like everywhere the portions are bigger. The flavor was sub-mediocre as expected, but I HAD to go and DAMMIT I’m glad I did.
● Amtrak runs a convenient line between San Diego and LA, but, boy, is it ever a clunker, even in “business class”.
● Cambodian Uber driver says, “Oh, you have Japanese wife. That’s good!”
“Why?”
“They respect husband.”
“Not always!”
“Cambodian wives, too. When a Cambodian woman gets married she washes the man’s feet. To show respect. Ask American girl to do that and she yell back, ‘Wash own feet!’”
● One thing I haven’t figured out here is why all the bartenders give me a straw even though I ask to have the rim of my margaritas salted.
ANA Crowne Plaza charges 15 bucks for a margarita, by the way. With the tip it comes to about ¥2,000, or three times more expensive than one at El Borracho. Sigh. And it’s a mediocre margarita at that.
● The other day my wife commented that I no longer make margaritas at home. “You used to buy bags of limes and make squeeze them. Why don’t you anymore?”
I looked at her like she’d been knocking back tequila in the kitchen. “Because we had kids.”
“Oh.”
● Well, it’s another lovely day in LA. We really got lucky pretty much everywhere we went on this trip—sunny and hot, but not too hot. Even the 40-plus of Palm Springs wasn’t that bad thanks to the swimming pools and Uber.
The bar has been raised with this trip. Definitely. A month off with no work, no writing. Just goofing off every day and having the occasional drink. I think I may have to do this again soon, especially considering how oppressively hot it has been back home. Not looking forward to that, but I won’t mind sleeping in my own futon with my bean bag pillow and having rice in the morning. I nice slug of shōchū wouldn’t hurt, either.
● Sadly, no whacky tabacky for me on this trip. I did however enhale enough passive pot smoke in Portland and Venice to chill out a horse.
● What the hell is komBOOcha? Ah! It's kombu cha (昆布茶).
● School rings sure are ugly.
● Air conditioning is turned up to eleven pretty much everywhere I go. It was so damn cold in the Oregon Shop, I couldn’t bear to stay in there. It was refreshing to get back out in the 32℃ heat.
● Speaking of heat, thanks to the lack of humidity (at least compared to Japan), I rarely sweat here. Back home, I often have to change three times, pealing off one sopping and rank t-shirt and replacing it with a new one. Wear the same shirt two days in a row and you’ll end up reeking like a mop.
● NW Portland is quiet at nights—and DARK—but every night around four there are loud pops and explosions that continue for several minutes. Looking into reviews of the building, I found that other residents (particularly those living in the street-side apartments; ours faces the back) complained of the noise which was coming from the hospital across the street. Apparently, a recycling truck picks up all the glass bottles from the hospital and crushes them in its compactor. Imagine paying upwards of two grand a month on rent and having to hear that every single night.
● Read that “cold brew” and nitro-infused coffee started here in Portland by Stumptown Roasters. There are over forty coffee roasters in the city. Wonder what the number in Fukuoka is. I can think of ten off hand.
● Asian food has really taken off here. Some of it is pretty darn good; some, not so. Emphasis like at many places tends to be on volume and “creativity”. Kind of miss my regular joints back home and their boring, but delicious meals. (I am dying for curry.)
● Today, my younger son, who has a green belt in monkey-ism, fell from a bar at the streetcar stop and hurt his elbow. It was bound to happen, both boys can’t help climbing shit.
When he held his elbow and complained about the pain, my thoughts turned lovingly to insurance. We have travel insurance which covers all kinds of things. Most people will tell you it’s a waste of money, but we have had a number of incidents over the years—including an ambulance ride and emergency room visit for my wife back in 2008 that had a $5,000-plus price tag—so we are still in the black. For our present trip we purchased a plan that cost about $400. That seemed a bit steep to me (another plan was $800) until I came to the US and started asking people about their healthcare plans. No one was happy; everyone felt they were paying way too much. Twelve hundred a month with a $7,000 deductible for one family; $1,600 a month with a $5,000 deductible for another. Before long that travel insurance I bought which also includes life insurance, liability insurance, etc. seemed like a bargain.
● America is not the world and Portland, Oregon is not America. We spent our final week in So.Cal where I was raised. One of the things that struck me while I was there was how few weirdos there were. I didn’t come across anyone talking or yelling to himself, didn’t see many homeless—I only saw two in SD. The people were normal sized. Tats were fairly uncommon. People seemed “normal”. At least in SD, they did. Venice Beach was another story.
● Portland, because of its pervasive homeless problem, just feels awfully dirty. I kept yelling at my boys to stop climbing, sitting on, touching this or that, and then yelling at them to wash their hands when they failed to listen to me the first time. One afternoon, my boys were playing in a fountain. Nearby was a batshit woman sitting fully clothed in the water, yelling at kids and parents. Almost everyone ignored the woman. Near a trash can, another homeless man lay passed out. Some passersby looked at him and called an ambulance. (Thoughts turned again to health insurance.)
● It always surprises me how there is no distinction at many US airports between international and domestic departures. Everyone goes through the same rigamarole of security, but no customs/immigration check. It’s as if they are saying, “We don’t wanna know. Just leave.”
● Lost almost three kilos while in the States. Funny
● On out way home from the airport yesterday, we dropped in at our favorite yakitori-ya and what a fantastic meal it was. So simple, yet so delicious. And cheap! Only fifty bucks for the five of us, including Isami imo-jōchū on the rocks for myself. That first swig of shōchū was the welcome home I needed.
● As much as Portland’s food scene is lauded, it really pales in comparison to Fukuoka’s. My socks were knocked off by that first skewer of chicken. My mind was blown by the gapao rice I just had for lunch.
