bentrmpt

Great stuff. Reminds me of when we watched SEC football in a gringo bar in Santiago, Chile.

exilencfc

And thus the legend of eightblack grew a bit larger.

brooklynflyer82

i thought the stories about a family vacation in Orlando were great, funny stories about traveling to tokyo are even better

krazykanuck

It was rough waiting for that next instalment, but worth it. Reminds me of the first time I got really drunk and not because I wanted to. I was 14 and with extended family on vacation for NYE at Atlantis in the Bahamas when I began getting handed really delicious island concoctions by some family members who wanted to have some fun since neither of my parents were there. I was very confused why the walls were moving and I kept walking into them. Needless to say my mother was not thrilled when I got home and somebody from the trip told her.

Great stuff eightblack.

havepointswilltravel

"....Toto Washlet toilet with Power Deodorizer..
You don't want to know what Toto is in Pidgin English of West Africa.

nemme99

HAHAHAHA. Maybe the first mistake was ordering red bull and vodka, but number one son is having quite the adventure.

myefre

Where else is the number one son going to get drunk?

percysmith

I was having a nice long dinner with my wife at a 1* Michelin restaurant in the middle of Caen after comparing my gas bill for the last two days with yours (the rate is the same, but I only drove half the distance you did) when I came across this TR.

"I'm going to drop everything" I told my wife "Use the Google Translate to explain to the manager and and other guests in French I will be laughing hysterically til closing time."

And I did. Didn't even finish by the time we finished the degustation (and the manager served us in HK speeds as we're last guests) and was still laughing in bed til I read this.

Now I want to regugitate my food. Excuse me for a few minutes.

m3red

The makings of another legendary trip report!

derekmines

Damn funny stories Simon... wish I'd known you were in CO, I was in Denver a fortnight ago, would have been good to catch up.

JALlover

so excited about the next part!!

eightblack

The next day was typical of why you don’t let males have anything to do with sightseeing.

At 4.30am, there we were, both looking at the ceilings again, trying to resist the admission that jetlag doesn’t really affect well oiled travellers like us. And for the record, when I say “well oiled” I am referring to the older eightblack member, not the younger one.

You get the idea.

“Lets go to the fish market”
“The what?”
“The fishmarket. It’s a cracker. Famous as well”
“What are we going to see there?”
“Fish”
“Really. Cant wait” with a very obvious hint of teenage sarcasm
“Cmon, it will be good for you. Besides they have some of the best, if not the best Sushi you will ever eat. Last time I came here with a bunch of FT’ers, we waiting in line for at least 3 hrs to eat at this tiny little restaurant”

“Dad, you and those frequent flyer weirdo friends of yours need help”

Unperturbed, I made the young child take a wash and get dressed and at 5am we were down in the lobby once again, looking for transport options to get us to Tokyo’s famed Tsukiji Fish Market.

I distinctly remembered from last time, from the Japan Do, that you had to get there even earlier than what we were planning to – in order to get a decent squiz of the place. But knowing that both our attention spans would last no longer than 11 milliseconds, I would be happy with a quick walk around the place and then sashimi for breakfast at one of those little tiny hole in the wall type places.

Son on the other hand was about as excited as he is when told to give his grandmother a hug.

Yet another million yen cab ride in yet another meticulously clean cab, driven by a man donned in white gloves who took his profession to a whole other level.

We pull up to the gates or entry-way of the fish market, and instead of the gaggle of people and those little three wheeled gas powered trolleys trying to maim and kill pedestrians, there was serene calm. Not a soul to be found.

Then I saw it. The sign.

It basically said that during the month of whenever, there were 2 days the market would be closed. And today was one of those days.

“Dad, you’re an idiot”
“But…”
He held up his hand in disgust
“I cant believe you dragged me all the way here to see an empty market”
“Were going to Plan B” he exclaimed
“What’s Plan B?”
“The World Cup is on again this morning”

I sigh a heavy sigh.

And with that, he jumped back in the cab, his fingers flying across the touch screen of his phone, and within seconds, the directions to the same little weird Irish Pub spat out from his phone and barked directions in Japanese to the driver.

It was déjà vu. Again.

So there we were, not 24 hours later, sitting in the same place, on the same stools, watching what was a much more boring game. This time though, I had taken control of the drinking situation and insisted the child drink coke, instead of red bull.

By the time the game was finished, we decided that it would be good to eat a real meal and agreed that breakfast was in order. Back to the hotel we went. But this time, we tried the Hilton across the road from the Hyatt, which Mr Food Critic thought was eminently more suitable for his delicate palate. Or the fact that the 3 croissants he stuffed in his face tasted somewhat better than the ones he jammed in there yesterday.

Not wanting to sit around the hotel for the rest of the day, I was determined to get out and see Japan. So I made an executive decision that we would indeed visit the new Tokyo Skytree tower thing.

More rolling of the eyes.

“Do we have to?”
“Yes”
“Why?”
“Because I said so”
“What will we see there?”
“Plenty”
“Like what?”
“Like how about I open a can of whoop a-s-s if you don’t shut up”

Reluctantly, he succumbed to my executive order and about an hour later, we were winding our way through the labyrinth of the Tokyo train system, on our way to this Skytree attraction

According to the website, Skytree is the tallest functioning broadcasting tower in the world.

After what seemed like an eternity, we roll up. You guess the next part.
Yep. Joint closed due to high winds and some pending monsoon thing.

Son looks at me with complete disdain and contempt.

Being typically Japanese, the Skytree ticket office was sealed off with police looking tape with poorly translated instructions, telling us that basically if they allowed foreigners to travel to the top of the tower, they would, in all probability, be blown to smithereens and end up somewhere near Sapporo. Well to the north.

Because I was now officially the world’s worst tour guide, son insisted on a soda and an ice cream. I was in no position to negotiate so we found an ice cream place that had the best, most delicious ice cream I had ever eaten. And that’s saying something, given that I now live in good old USA, where ice cream making and more importantly ice cream bragging is considered a national sport.

I wish I could tell you more exciting things happened. But they didn’t. Our last meal, my son says, was probably one of the best. Because we were heading to the airport to catch an afternoon flight back to the states, we decided to eat lunch at the Hyatt. One last hurrah.

I ordered some sort of bento and my son ordered some sort of noodle dish. Both were amazing and we both couldn’t believe that this came from a hotel kitchen.

“Dad, we should have eaten here everyday”
“This is my new favorite place to eat. Besides the cheap hole in the wall noodle places we ate at besides the train stations”

One thing I did forget, so let me back the bus up a bit.

The night before, I was calming my nerves in the bar of the Hyatt (a very dark place with not a lot of ambience), but if you need a near perfect deep, deep undercover place, where the light is dim and the black walls cover everything for a secret rendezvous, then this is your place. That or the fact you want to drink Japans most expensive G&T, which is what I did.

I am sitting there minding my own business, looking at work stuff on the iPad. Then my phone starts bleeping. Text message says:

“Dad, can you come back to the room quickly”

This is not the sort of message you want to receive from a 13 year old who is on his own in a hotel room in Tokyo.

Flashes of destruction were flying into my head as I made my way to the elevator

Maybe he’s finally clogged the Toto washlet…
Maybe he set fire to something…
Maybe he ordered a massage and 3 Geisha girls are in the room (actually you can blame me for that, not him)

I burst in the room expecting the worst, when I see him sprawled out on the bed, writhing in pain.

“What happened?”
“My neck”
“Your neck?”
“Yes”
“I slept wrong and woke up and jarred it”

And he had.

So for the next day and half, he walked around unable to move his head from the neck up. The Japanese staff took pity on us, thinking I had a child with special needs and that we must have been visiting Japan to see if we could obtain some sort of special medical treatment.

At lunch, one of the nice young wait staff asked in broken English, what was wrong with him

“I beat him for not doing his homework” I exclaimed
She smiled
“Really” she said
“Yes, gave him a damn good thrashing”
She smiled again, not quite comprehending
My son was too busy stuffing his face with lunch to notice or care and besides, he is used to my antics.
“Dad stop being an idiot”

The young lady, not quite sure what to make of all of this went back to her station whereby she proceeded to regale the story to her colleague and then using karate chopping hand gestures to explain the child beating part. There was a dramatic gasp by both and then they scurried off to work in another part of the restaurant, never to be seen again.

Thankfully we were on our way home – but it didn’t make it easier with a son who looked like he had a bent frame and moaned at every opportunity.

We were flying UA (on the old Continental version of their 777) so their flat beds were angled, but the hard product was fine.

Because we wanted one last hurrah of all things Japanese, we went to the ANA lounge at Narita and my child proceeded to inhale 3 bowls of udon noodles. He’s not a fan of UA’s catering. Actually, lets be honest. No one is a fan of UA’s catering. I was on a flight recently and the FA said there was a steak option and a chicken option. You know the drill.

I decided to be adventurous and have the steak. It looked like steak. It was even rare in the middle. It had pepper sauce on the side. And mashed potato. And even some sort of vegetable. But I can assure that in all my 48 years of eating steak, this substance did not come from any part of a cow. Dead or Alive.

Anyway, I had loaded up with instant noodles and snacks from the local 7-11 store with the boy even insisting I buy him his own small bottle of soy sauce. But it was all a moot point, because as soon as we were onboard, he was out like a light. And there he stayed for practically the entire journey back to the land of Uncle Sam.

It wasn’t that simple though. You see, as were sitting in the quiet comfort of the ANA lounge, a rather nasty looking bout of rain came hurtling through the airport. Even the normally unflappable baggage handlers all ran around, waving their arms in fear and looking for something to hide under.

What I learned later was that it wasn’t just a bout of heavy rain. It was the tail end of a monsoon and it ground flight operations out of NRT for the next 2 hours. At least. I completely forgot about our connection once in Houston.

As some of you know, I moved to the US about a year and half ago. The moving is the easy part. The living there permanently has some challenges. I know you don’t want to hear them, but I am going to explain them to you anyway.

If you marry an Aussie, the process is simple. You fill out a form, pay the government some money, have an interview with someone you learn has been in the country not a whole lot longer than your spouse, and voila, its all done.

When my wife and I lived in Australia, she was the odd one out. We took the kids to the immigration interview (actually only one kid, the other one didn’t exist at this stage). I have no idea. But you know that already.

So, there we were, waiting in a room for our name to be called. We dragged in all the wedding photos, testimonials from family stating that I didn’t buy my wife from FarmersDaughters.com and that we were in fact, quite fond of each other and produced a small child together.

The woman interviewing us was Russian. Recently immigrated to Australia herself.

“Gimme baby” she ordered
We reluctantly handed across the 5 -month old child where she proceeds to attempt to bounce the child on her knee.

Lets me be honest here for a moment. When our son was born, I thought there was a mistake. Like my wife dropped him on his head when I wasn’t looking. Or she had eaten 2 pints of Ben and Jerry’s each day for the entire pregnancy. Because when the child did eventually appear in the delivery room, he was huge. I’m not talking puppy fat. I’m talking “holy cow, what is that”. If there was such a thing as Baby’s Biggest Loser on TV, we would have entered him in it. He looked like the Michelin Mans boy.

Years ago, when we flew from LA to MEL to relocate, we were on QF and luckily we were up the point end. Back then, the F cabin had bassinets that were beside the seat in the middle. I was so worried about it that I had to go online and find out the dimensions of the seat. It maxed out at 21 inches. I still remember it. It wasn’t the length part I was worried about – I was more worried if the bassinet had a weight limit, because I was sure we were about to test it.

And if were being honest with each other, those baby photos we have all over the house. Our son looks like a white teenage mutant ninja turtle who had discovered Mexican food. They’re just not the best photos. Its like at parties or at work, and someone proudly exclaims that they are a new parent and then whips out a tablet to show you 122 photos of their newborn.

Everyone gushes and ahs and says “what a gorgeous looking baby”. But they’re not really. What they WANT to say is “man, I hope that thing gets better looking as it gets older”

Anyway. Where were we?

Right. Immigration. Australia and the US. The differences. Now I remember.

So the Australian process is a piece of cake compared to the US. If you satisfy the government worker that you are not coming to live off the government, then you’re in. Bring all your friends as they say. And if you happen to be married to one of us, it’s a piece of the proverbial cake. If you have a kid (even an obese one), it’s the icing on the cake. Stamp the form, pay the fee. Welcome to Australia, here’s a jar of vegemite. Now get out.

But in the US. Holy cow, what a saga.

Let me start by saying that come this November, I will have been married for 16 years. To The Same Woman! My own mother thinks it’s a miracle, my wifes mother thinks it’s the work of the devil.

I reckon that if you can put up with an American woman for 16 long arduous years, that the government should give you a condo in Hawaii and a cheap Korean car. Not crawl up your butt with a toothbrush and then once inside, rotate it for good measure.

In my wife’s wisdom, she decided to engage the services of a professional attorney as she said “there’s no way I am letting you get involved in this”

That woman has no faith.

So about a year and half ago, we roll up to the law offices of one Pascal Schunk Esq in Denver and proceed to tell him our situation. Trying to make light of the seriousness of it all, I was attempting to inject some humor into the conversation and all the while my wife is kicking me under the table, telling me to be serious for 5 minutes.

“Where did you meet?” The attorney asked
“On the internet” I proudly exclaim
He leans in, “really?”
“No he’s being an idiot, we met in Washington DC” my wife snaps
“No really on the internet”, I whispered
“Got a bargain on this one” (and pointed to my wife)
“She’s the youngest of 4 sisters. There’s one still available if you’re interested but she’s a little on the large side”

My wife is in full attack mode now demanding that I be serious. I cant feel the pain anymore in my shins as they have both gone numb from all the kicking.

The attorney looks at my wife, completely ignores me and says “is he always like this?”

“Sadly yes”, she sighs
“We may have a problem then” sounding like a magistrate in court.
“Why?”
“Well, he clearly can’t be trusted in any interview”

So from that point on, I wasn’t allowed to converse with the attorney, wasn’t allowed to email him and had to blindly do whatever it is my wife told me in order to get through the whole “welcome to Murrica, here’s your gun” process.

See the thing is – everything revolves around your social security number. We don’t use silly things like this in Australia. In the US, you need a SSN to get a drivers license, a bank loan, a credit card, store accounts. Just about every transaction you make – someone wanst to know your SSN.

And everyone when they ask for ID, wants to see your DL. But you cant get one without the other. Technically.

When you apply for a green card, despite the fact that we have produced 2 hideously expensive to run children and have been married for an eternity, no one cares. I had to have a full medical, chest xrays, gave more blood than I care to remember and fill out a mountain of paperwork. Actually I lie. I wasn’t allowed to fill out anything. Wife and the attorneys paralegal did all that.

You file all of this and then wait. And wait some more. In the meantime, you can’t leave the country. Now as some of you know, my job requires me to travel. Quite a lot if I’m honest. This was minor problem.

It took 4 months for the first part to come through. The first part is your Authorization to Work. It’s a small plastic card with a rather unflattering photo of you on the front.

This means you are legally allowed to stay in the states, while they process your green card. You can take this to the Social Security office to apply for a SSN, which as I said, you basically need for everything in life.

Now things were looking up. I could also leave the country. Getting back in I discovered was quite another matter.

Quite proud and excited at the prospect of buying my own pick up truck, I scurried off to the Social Security office in Boulder and applied for a SSN. Now let me tell you something dear and gentle reader. If you want to see a part of the real America, a day in the life of the average man or slightly unhinged woman, spend a day in your local Social Security office. What a bizarre place.

You take the official letter from the government and give it to another government person

“I’ll take a SSN please”
“Fill out all of this” he barks
I comply and hand it back
“Now what?”
“Now you wait”
“For what?”
“For us to verify who you say you are”
“But Homeland already did that”
“I need my SSN”
“Too bad”
“How long will it take?”
“It will take up to 30 days”
“You’re kidding”
“Can I pay an expedite fee?”
“No, this is the US government”

Dejected I wander home and wait. A week later a letter arrives in the mail telling me that the efficient US government couldn’t verify my identity and it was regrettably advising me that at this time, a SSN couldn’t be issued. Basically, we think you are running from the law and we have notified INS. Go hide somewhere.

Or something like this.

My wife was absolutely convinced that I had cocked this up somehow. I pleaded ignorance.

So I apply again a week later and voila, the government machine spits out a number.

I was well and truly chuffed. Now I was nearly an American. I could leave the country, my boss could get off my case and I would travel to and forth with gay abandon, taking advantage of the US citizens line at immigration.

Except that never happened at all. Not even close.

When you do apply for your green card, and your work permit is issued, all it means is that the government wheels have slowly started to turn. Your work permit is valid for 12-months and if the crazy immigration people haven’t completed your green card application by then, all they do is renew your work permit for another year.

On the bottom of this little plastic card are the rather innocuous words “Serves as I-512 Advance Parole”

This means you can leave and come back in. In theory anyway.

My first trip away (I can quite remember where) was to Europe I think. I think the port of re-entry was LAX, which was probably the first mistake. Like an excited school kid, I hurry to immigration once we land, and excitedly jump in the US citizens line, thinking, man this is going to be great. I’ll be in and out within minutes.

Except the man with the H&K thought differently. The questions started coming.

“Where do you live?”
“Colorado”
“Are you married to a US citizen?”
“Sadly yes”
“What?!”
“Nothing, Yes, yes”
“We can’t process you here. You need to go to secondary”
“Secondary what?”
“Sir, just wait over there”

Moments later another man with a gun comes to collect me and I am hauled off to a room with every other illegal alien in the airport. You cannot use your phone, your laptop and your luggage has to be left outside. If you want to pee, you have to raise your hand like a school kid and yet a third man with a gun will escort you to the bathroom

I kid you not. I have been doing this now for the last 6-months. Every single time I re-enter the US, I am dragged off to the room, made to wait up to 2 hours, while someone from the government crawls up by bottom with a weed wacker, with a wire string. Not a plastic nylon one. It has started to hurt. A lot.

I am convinced my wife ticked this option when she and the attorney filled out the paperwork. Just to annoy me.

I forgot to tell my son of this ordeal when we landed in Houston, on our journey home from the land of the rising sun.

He scurries off to immigration, proud owner of a real US passport and tells me to hurry up.

“Trust me, there’s no hurry”
“We have a connection”
“No we don’t”
“We don’t?”
“But it says here the flight to Denver leaves in 90-mins”
“We wont be on it”
“Why not?”
“You wait”

And wait we did. As soon as we hit the counter, alarm bells start sounding and we are both dragged off to the room where we wait 2 hours for them to recheck my credentials and take yet another set of my finger-prints. He’s outraged.

We actually made the later flight and you know what, I am somewhat immune now to having someone from the US government crawl up my backside with a flashlight. Maybe I’m getting tolerant in my old age and simple grateful for the attention. I don’t know.

I do know this though. I have taken way too long to regale you of my summer holidays. Things are well and truly back to normal now. Kids at school, wife screaming at kids for not doing their homework and leaving their rooms in a state of unhealthy disrepair. I’m still no closer to getting my green card but despite all that, I am eternally grateful to this community for the things I’ve learned and been able to do. We had a great summer. And I’m betting our kids did too.

Thanks for reading. Thanks for all the kind comments. And thanks for making FT what it is. A quiet, yet slightly crazy and largely unbalanced community of travelers. Count me in. Always.

theassassin

What a read!! Well worth the wait.

MikeFly

Thanks for the great read.

Here's some hope or despair (you choose), I have had a green card since God invented dirt. Last year it was time to renew it - I got it this year; 10 months later. They put a sticker on the old one making it good for another year. Of course, the GE kiosks didn't know this so lines for me it was. I did use the line nearest to the kiosk and claim it wouldn't work - thank goodness it was never the same officer so my ruse lasted the entire time.

travelislife

Brilliant! Absolutely love Japan. Bureaucracy, USA, what can you say, supposably they have it all figured out, luckily the rest of the world doesn't follow blindly, though I do worry about Australia at the moment!