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Hello Mom! We had an awesome time in Japan with Sally and Harry for Harry’s milestone birthday celebration! More trip details to come from our time in Tokyo and Kyoto. We’re almost home now; experiencing a slight delay on our connecting flight out of Minny. As we sit here with “the great unwashed”, as John would say, I am still basking in the glow of our final hotel room in Japan. We got the superstar treatment from our friends at CIRE Travel and Aman Tokyo. I fear we are absolutely ruined for all future hotel stays!

Corner suite

Enjoy the video and see you soon!

Way back in early February, Amy and I were finding ourselves using the fireplace in the rental house just about every night. We’d had a couple of weeks of snowfall, and the temperature kept dropping, and with the price of heating oil, a little open flame in the living room was a welcome addition to our nightly TV viewing. It was a struggle keeping the house warm at times.

The rental house, while located right on the beach, and roomy enough for us to entertain guests, was a bit of a barn. It’s a summer place, with an open floor plan, a lot of windows, and a big airy stairway that leads up to the bedrooms. But we were there in the winter, and breezy and open was a bit of a problem. It took a lot to heat the place, and all the windows and open space provided ample opportunity for heat loss. I had to do something about it.

I went around and shut all the doors, and turned down the thermostats in every unused room. Any room we weren’t living in was turned into cold storage. That was easy enough. Then I went to buy some plastic sheeting and blue painter’s tape from the Ace Hardware to close off some of the openings around the stairway, which acted like a big heat chimney. Here’s a picture of the house – see that big glass column on the left side? That’s the open stairway. That’s nothing but heat loss.

After closing off the stairway, I had to tape off the front sunroom, which led to the front porch. It was built over the porch decking material, and there was no sub-flooring or insulation underneath it. The floor was literally open to the elements and really drafty. But that wasn’t the worst of it. After the first big snowstorm, a bunch of snow blew under the doors into the sunroom, and left a big drift basically INSIDE the house.

Once all this was done, things were better, and the place was able to heat up a little more efficiently. But it was still winter, and still cold. At this point Amy and I started to play a game of cat-and-mouse, where I’d go into a room and turn the thermostat down, and she’d come into a room and turn the thermostat up. And then we’d have one of these debates that’s as old as thermostats themselves:

ME: “Why are you turning up the thermostat in the bathroom?”
AMY: “Because it’s cold up there.”
“Yeah, but you’re downstairs…”
“But I want it to be warm if I have to use it.”
“So turn it up when you get in there.”
“I won’t be in there that long.”
“If you won’t be in there that long, then don’t worry about it…”

And on and on like this until “Bang! Zoom!” and Ed Norton comes lumbering in from a day in the sewers, and asks me if I want to go shoot pool down at the Raccoon Lodge before Trixie gets home…

We soon started lighting a fire every night for some additional heat and ambience. The only issue we faced was finding firewood. It was a real problem here in Maine. When we first moved up, our rental agent told us that most places had already sold all their firewood for the season, and as Amy called around to all the local sources, it turned out the next delivery we could get wouldn’t be until maybe April. Maybe! And as it turns out, it’s actually illegal to bring out-of-state firewood into Maine. So if Amy’s sister ever brought us three boxes of wood when she came to visit from Philadelphia, that would have been illegal, and so she wouldn’t have done that. And the firewood she wouldn’t have brought us would have only lasted us a little over a week anyway, so it’s probably better that she didn’t bring it, due to the illegal nature of the whole thing; a thing that didn’t happen. So about two to three weeks into our stay, we started a desperate search for firewood.

Thankfully, I remembered that the Ace sold bundles of mediocre firewood at exorbitant prices. With little to no other options available, exorbitant was the exact price I was willing to pay. So over the course of the next two or three weeks, I’d haul myself over to the Ace and pick up a few bundles of firewood. What I found interesting about this wood was that it came in some form of shrink-wrap, and the company name on the shrink-wrap was some French-Canadian consortium. Which got me to wondering: was this firewood French-Canadian? And if it was, wasn’t that illegal? But I wasn’t asking any questions. I needed to keep the house warm, and I wasn’t about to report any Quebecois firewood dealers. Je me souviens, amigos!

Things really started to get pathetic when we began burning Duraflames. I really don’t need to explain this much more, other than noting that my brother sent me a text insisting I had perhaps lived in Manhattan too long. Pre-engineered carbon logs are expensive, and not pretty, and we needed to find another solution.

Inspired by my brother’s mockery, I turned to the one place that sells everything: Craigslist. I figured if you can find used office furniture, a discrete dalliance, or some inexpensive hit-man on Craigslist, it shouldn’t be too difficult to find some firewood. And I was right. There were a number of listings for firewood, from all over Maine, so I left a message for a guy who seemed reasonably priced and delivered to our area. He called me back. It was like a junkie trying to score some wood.

“This John?”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“Yeah, how much wood do you need?”
“Probably about a half of a cord.” (What the hell did I know?)
“Okay, we got oak and maple and birch.”
“Um…yep, that all sounds good.” (What the hell did I know?)
“Okay, but um, I think the best I can do you is a cord.”
“A full cord?”
“Yep. Don’t really do halves.”
“Okay, well, we need the wood, so sure, a full cord.”

I figured he’d tell me the first taste was free, but instead he quoted me a price that was even more than he listed in the ad. I was ignorant and desperate, and I didn’t feel like heading back to the damn Ace to buy more Canadian wood and Duraflames. We made all the arrangements, but then a big snowstorm hit, leaving a few more feet of snow on the ground. He called and rescheduled for another less-snowy day. But sure enough, that day he showed up with a dump truck full of firewood, and promptly got stuck in a snow bank in front of the house.

I’m not sure what this fellow’s job history looks like, but I can only assume he was once in the Navy, or perhaps the Merchant Marine, because for the next hour or so, he cursed like a sailor as we tried to get that dump truck backed into the driveway. He said some words I didn’t even know existed, and I’ve seen things in Thailand that would make your hair curl. The driveway entrance was narrow, and had been plowed so much that massive snowbanks lay on either side. Every few feet, he’d back up the dump truck, hit a bank, and get stuck. Then the tires would spin, and we’d dig out the wheels, and he’d lurch it back and forth and back and forth until things would catch. Then it would happen again, and we’d go through this same dance repeatedly, until finally he got fully into the driveway, picked out a good spot, and dropped a pile of firewood about four feet high.

Amy came out to offer him a fresh-baked cookie, and I asked him if he wanted a beer, but he wanted nothing more than to high-tail it out of there like a guy who’s just crop-dusted an elevator. Meanwhile, I had on little more than a down vest over a light jacket, and a crappy pair of fleece gloves that were covered in ice by this point. My fingers were purple, and I was numb to the bone. I wasn’t expecting to be out there over an hour in sub-zero temperatures.

That night it started snowing again. I feared the pile would be iced over by morning, so I grabbed the remaining plastic sheeting from the stairway drill, and covered the firewood. The next morning, sure enough, there was a five-foot tall mountain of snow in the driveway, and somewhere under it lay a pile of firewood. I decided I’d need to move this firewood into the basement if it was going to be of any use.

The good news was that the house has a side door that leads directly into the basement. The bad news was that the path to this door was under two feet of snow. So I spent the next morning shoveling the path to the door, working up a fierce sweat, and using some of the new words I’d learned from the firewood guy, which I surmise may have a French-Canadian etymology, considering his occupation. My plan was to spend my lunch hour every day (I work from home) bringing in as much wood as I could, until I had it all stacked nicely in the basement. On Day One I moved what seemed to be about 100 logs, maybe one-fifth of the pile. On Day Two, I did the same thing, working out a system – move a pile to the door, open the door, and move the pile into the basement. All was working well and progressing nicely. Until Day Three.

On Day Three I was hit with an unexpected roadblock. As usual, I put on the down vest and fleece gloves and went out the basement door. I moved the first pile of logs to the door, and got ready to go into the basement. But when I went to open the basement door, it wouldn’t open. It was locked. I had somehow locked myself out, with no phone, a good fifteen-minute walk from town. A text message notification went off in my head: perhaps I had lived in Manhattan too long.

After mumbling a litany of mostly American and possibly French-Canadian curse words, I went around the house to check the back door we used most often. This door was locked, too, so I trudged through the snow to the front deck and those doors by the sunroom, which were not only locked, but taped shut with a double layer of blue painter’s tape. The windows were all locked as well. I moved some more firewood to keep warm, but eventually went to the front porch, leaned against the railing, and looked out into the ocean. I was locked out of our house. I was getting colder. I was screwed.

Just then a car drove by and I tried to wave it down, but they were looking at the ocean and didn’t see me. But it gave me an idea. Down the street was a parking lot where people would sometimes park and eat lunch and stare into the ocean, even in the dead of winter. I would go there, ask to borrow a cellphone, and call the local gendarmerie.

When I got to the parking lot, sure enough, I found a couple sitting in a car, looking out over the ocean. I wasn’t really sure what to do, or how to approach them. I mean, maybe they were in the throes of some romantic rendezvous, a pair of office co-workers, surreptitiously meeting without the prying eyes of the gossiping staffers in Accounts Payable. Or perhaps it was a Craigslist hook-up, with two oversexed bedmates who like lunch dates and winter walks on the beach. Or maybe it was just the opposite! Maybe she was hiring him, a discount Craigslist assassin, to have her husband done off in some sort of ruthless insurance swindle! There it was, the face of evil itself, parked next to the beachfront playground!

I cautiously approached the window, trying not to startle the curly-haired woman behind the steering wheel. She spotted me out of the corner of her eye, and curiously rolled down the window. Her skinny accomplice leaned over from the passenger side to get a better look. She had a container of salad in her lap, and he was eating a sandwich. Roast beef and lettuce, from what I could see, on white bread, with some kind of cheese. A measly down payment for a murder.

“Uh…hi. I’m sorry to disturb you, but I just live over there, and I accidently locked myself out of my house. I was wondering if I could use your phone to call the police?”

The co-conspirator with the jet-black perm was very kind and offered me her phone without hesitation. I called 911 and was soon speaking with someone at the Kennebunk Police Department. The raven-haired felon didn’t even flinch as she eavesdropped on my call to the cops.

ME: “Yeah, I’m terribly embarrassed, but I locked myself out of my rental house, and I was wondering if I could get some help getting back in?”
911: “You locked yourself out?!”
“Yes, ma’am.” (“Because I’m an idiot, and I lived in Manhattan too long,” I thought).
“Okay, what’s your address?”
I told her all the details.
“Okay, and do you have somewhere you can go and stay warm?”
I thought about talking to my new friend with the fright wig, but thought better of it.
“I’ll be okay, I have my boots on and everything, so…I’ll just wait on the porch.”
“Okay, we’ll send an officer to help you out, it could be ten minutes or so.”
“No problem.”

About ten minutes later, a squad car pulled up, and out stepped Officer Carney of the Kennebunk Police Department. I knew that because he introduced himself as “Officer Carney,” and his nametag read “Carney,” so I didn’t doubt him. I told Officer Carney about the situation. He was completely nonchalant, like schmucks from New York are regularly locking themselves out of houses in Kennebunk every week. But he was very gracious and understanding, and we immediately set out to find a solution.

Officer Carney and I walked the perimeter again, looking at doors and windows, and finding no means of ingress that wouldn’t be considered a B&E. We chatted the whole time – he got the lowdown on our move, and I found out he lived in the area most of his life. He was an incredibly nice, down-to-earth guy. Eventually we came to the conclusion that we should maybe just call the rental agent to see if she had a spare key, and if not, we’d call a locksmith. Officer Carney invited me to warm up in the car while he had dispatch call the rental agent, and sure enough, she had a key. We were soon on the move. I buckled up, for safety, like all vehicular passengers should, particularly those riding in a police car.

We chatted about the weather a bit, and then I told him, “You know, this is the first time I’ve ridden in the FRONT of a police car!” I thought it was the greatest line since I saw Buddy Hackett’s HBO comedy special in 1983. But I got the feeling Officer Carney’s heard that kind of thing before, despite the accuracy of the statement. We eventually got to the rental agent’s, and I sheepishly went in and got the key, returning to find my police escort waiting outside.

Once got back to the house, Officer Carney waited until I safely opened the door. I thanked him profusely, and gave him one last line about “hope I see you again, but under the right circumstances!” which is likely about as funny to him as “how’s the weather up there?” or “I got ‘em ALL cut!” But like stranded dump trucks, or getting paid in sandwiches, I suppose it all comes with the job.

From then on, I would leave the back door unlocked, and take a key with me just in case. And by the end of the week, I had all the firewood out of the snow and thawing in the basement. Of course the wood was way too green, and it snapped and popped like Rice Krispies when you burned it, but at least we had firewood.

Every time we pass a local patrol car, I turn to Amy and ask, “I wonder if that’s Officer Carney?” as if he’s going to wave hello, or stop his cruiser and ask, “Hey – how’d that firewood thing work out?” Or maybe he’ll flag us down one day and say, “Excuse me, but we’re looking for a pair of killers who used to eat lunch up by your old rental place – one’s a lady with curly black hair, the other’s a skinny fella whose hands smell like cheese.” I’ll have no reliable leads, other than the nutritionally challenged choice of white bread. Maybe that’s why the hired gun was so skinny.

Eventually, as winter turned into spring, I took down all the plastic and painter’s tape, and cleaned out the fireplace, and we moved to our new house. And when the summer came, the debates turned to opening every window (“I can’t sleep with those birds yapping every morning!”) and turning on the ceiling fans full blast (“It’s like living in a wind-tunnel here! I imagine Indiana Jones is gonna fist-fight some shirtless Nazi in our living room any minute!”). Sure, it’s hot now, but pretty soon we’ll be getting ready for winter again. Which means ordering wood well ahead of schedule, and carrying a house key at all times.

Way back in January, just before the unrelenting snow started, I came to a realization: I was going to need a car. Amy and I had purchased a certified pre-owned Subaru Outback in December, and it’s the first car either of us has owned in several years. There’s really no need to own a car in Manhattan – the costs are prohibitive, there’s ample public transportation, and it’s only a block or two to the grocery store anyway, so why bother? I hadn’t owned a car since I moved back to New York from Atlanta in 1994.

But now we’re in Maine, and there’s not much public transportation here. Nor is it feasible to walk to the Hannaford grocery store, since it’s about four miles away. What’s more, this was back in January, and the snow was ready to pile up, so walking, or even riding a bike around, just wasn’t gonna happen. If Amy ever went anywhere with the Subaru, I’d be stuck wading through the ice and snow to get some cold cuts so I could make a sandwich and watch the Rockford Files at noon on MeTV. This was not going to happen. I was not going to miss the Rockford Files. We needed a second car.

It just so happened that around this time, I was researching the Kennebunk town website to see how the trash and recycling program worked. As many of you know, Amy drinks a lot of chilled white wine, so we were pretty deep into the empties, as well as empty cans of Goya black beans, Newman’s salsa jars, and old sour cream containers from our Taco Tuesdays. The recycling was piling up, so I trolled the town website trying to figure out how we put it out, and when they pick it up. And that’s when I saw it…

Down in the corner of the homepage was a little “news and announcements” section, and the top piece of news (or was it an “announcement”?) was about the town’s surplus equipment auction. Turns out the town was going to auction off all their old junk, like old lawnmowers and chainsaws and fax machines and filing cabinets. There was a whole list of about twenty items they were getting rid of. And at the bottom of that list was a 1994 GMC Pickup truck formerly used by the town’s Parks and Recreation department. My heartbeat slowly started to rise. This was exciting news.

You see, back when I was a teenager and my sister was in college, my father started a tradition of buying his children a used car on their twentieth birthday. Why he picked twenty, I don’t know, but when you’re getting a car for free, you don’t ask a lot of meddlesome questions. My sister, the oldest of us three, was obviously the first to get a car, and as the first, it came as a surprise to her when she woke up on her birthday and found a turd-brown 1979 Buick Skylark with a big red bow on it parked in the driveway. The next year, my brother, this time not at all surprised, became the proud owner of a ’78 Dodge Omni 024, a sporty little car that survived a great deal of abuse, including the day yours truly, having just gotten my driver’s license, backed my mom’s new Buick into my brother’s front quarter panel. My brother took it surprisingly well, and it wasn’t until later that I came to learn that my dent was a simple addition to a long line of damages, mostly done in and around the vicinity of his fraternity house, and once at the expense of a women’s dormitory.

When it was my turn to get a car, I petitioned my father strenuously to buy me a pickup truck. As a 20-year old college student, I saw great usefulness in its hauling my stuff back and forth to school, which I knew would be a major selling point. I also knew it would be useful in hauling sorority girls and kegs of Milwaukee’s Best to parties, and that with the right amount of plastic sheets, duct tape and water, you’ve got yourself a swimming pool, but I didn’t relay that specific information to my father. He saw through me anyway, and I eventually ended up with a 1983 Buick Regal, a modest family sedan he chose because of its massive trunk, big enough to load my TV, a dorm fridge, a microwave oven, all my stereo equipment, all my albums, about 100 Grateful Dead bootlegs, a case of liquor, and a beer tap stolen from the Delta Sig house, plus a few school books and a garbage bag full of clothes. If I ever wanted a pickup truck, I was going to have to buy one myself.

Now the Town of Kennebunk, Maine was giving me that opportunity. I immediately turned to Amy and told her about the surplus items auction, and the pickup truck. I started to explain why this would be a good idea: an extra car, inexpensive, likely maintained regularly by the town, useful for hauling stuff. I didn’t tell her about the swimming pool or the sorority girls, though I envision her response would have been something along the lines of “if you think you can seduce a sorority girl, fatso, by all means, good luck!” Regardless, she thought it was a good idea. With that, Operation 52 Pickup was underway.

Bids for the surplus items had to be delivered to town hall in a sealed envelope by a certain date. That left me with a few days to figure out what my auction strategy would be, and how much I was going to bid. Potential bidders could also go to the town “Transfer Station” and take a look at the truck in-person before bidding. The wheels were starting to turn.

The next day, on the way to the Hannaford to buy white wine, black beans, sour cream, and Rockford Files lunchmeats, Amy and I stopped by the transfer station to check out the truck. The Transfer Station was closed that day, but among all the shiny new trucks, snowplows, and dump trucks sat an old GMC Sierra pickup truck. This had to be it. It was bright teal, with town municipal decals, and a yellow hazard light on the top. There was a big decal of the town logo, and it read “Kennebunk Parks and Recreation.” Amy and I gave it the once-over. We couldn’t get into the truck, but it everything appeared to be okay from the outside. It had the usual wear-and-tear of a ’94 truck, and there was a big dent in the tailgate and the right side of the bed, but it generally looked to be in pretty good condition. And then Amy literally kicked the tires. She walked right up to the front driver’s side tire and gave it a good whack, I thought she was gonna break a toe.

Me: “What are you doing?!”
Amy: “I’m kicking the tires.”
“What do you think’s gonna happen?”
“I dunno. But everyone does it.”
“It’s not like the wheel’s gonna fall off when you kick it.”
“Well, if it did, you wouldn’t buy it, right?”
“You’re damn right I wouldn’t buy it!”
“Then shut up, smart-mouth.”

She really had me on that one. I should’ve asked her to kick the whole car to make sure nothing fell off, but it was the cold of January and the Rockford Files was on in an hour. We had to get moving. But all-in-all, we were satisfied with the look of the vehicle. Operation 52 Pickup moved into its next phase: I had to start thinking about how much I was going to bid.

The town’s website gave an auction estimate of somewhere between five-hundred to a thousand dollars. That gave me a good starting point. I figured even at the high end, it was probably a pretty good price for the truck. I didn’t think it had a lot of highway miles, and it wasn’t a commuter vehicle, so it probably had low mileage for its age. And you had to figure the town kept it in pretty good shape, considering the maintenance was performed by a bunch of staff mechanics and paid for with tax dollars. So I was willing to bid on the higher side of that estimate. And hell, I needed a car pretty soon.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t fall asleep right away. My mind is always churning when I go to bed, and it takes me a while to go under. Amy, on the other hand, goes out like she’s got a light switch wired to her brain. She’ll hop into bed and next thing you know, she’s mumbling something incoherent in an alien language. But I’ll lie there for a while and start thinking about the most random things, like how much drywall it would take to finish the garage attic, or the names of the three girls who dressed like Pat Benatar in “Fast Times at Ridgemont High” (Maryann Zlotnick was one of them, I can’t remember the others) or trying to remember the lyrics to the second verse of “Centerfold” (“slip me notes, under the desk, blah blah something about her dress, I was shy, I turned away before she caught my eye…”). Some nights I’ll lie awake for hours before I finally drift off. But I don’t begrudge it, because some of my best ideas come about during those hours. Hell, if I would have written half of them down, I might have been a millionaire by now. One time back in 1996, for some strange reason I sat there randomly thinking, “What ever happened to Gerald Ford?” and by the time I woke up, I’d formulated the idea for a Voting PSA campaign I later produced.

I was having one of those nights back in January as I plotted my bid. I went over everything in my head, and determined that if I wanted to beat the other bidders, I’d have to start high. Should I bid $800? But what if there was some other guy out there like me, who would also bid high? Okay, $900. But why take a chance of losing this truck for a measly hundred bucks, just bid a thousand. My mind wandered through the mist of sleep deprivation, I kept turning it all over in my head. The town website gave the $1000 number as the high end, and what if somebody else just said, “okay, I’m bidding a thousand.” I refused to be beat. I decided to go for broke, and figured $1100, over the high estimate, would be a safe bet. That would be my bid.

I lay awake thinking. The wind howled outside. The ocean lapped up on to the sea wall. Amy was breathing heavily, off in some far-away reverie. And I continued obsessing about the truck, and the lack of sleep wasn’t helping. $1100 was what I would bid, but what if some other poor slob was lying awake across town right now, obsessing just like me, and he’d come to the same conclusion that he was going bid eleven-hundred bucks as well?! My mind raced with imagined jealousy. No way was I going to let that happen. I was gonna Price-Is-Right his ass right out of the bidding! Now I was gonna bid $1101. But what if that poor slob across town was just as sneaky as me?! What if that poor slob, sensing what a shrewd bidder I was, decided he was gonna try to outsmart my $1100 bid with his own bid of $1101? Listen, slob, you can’t outwit a calculating genius like me! Especially a calculating genius who hasn’t slept for hours, and who’s starting to imagine a hallucinatory bidding war with someone he’s never met in a heated scenario that never existed. I was going to OUT-Price-Is-Right that sneaky slob, and bid $1102! Take that! Victory is mine! Operation 52 Pickup will not be scuttled!

I hope my father isn’t reading this.

Anyone who knows my father knows he’s a demon negotiator. My old man could do a number on an Arab rug trader, and have him throw in the camel at no additional cost. I once saw him work over a vendor in the Dominican Republic so much, they nearly came to blows, and of course it ended with both of them laughing and happy, like they were best friends. He’s a master of the old “walk away.” He’ll walk away four or five times before he even decides to start talking, he simply refuses to be ripped off. One time – oooooh boy! – case in point: one time, when we were kids, my father dressed down a pimply-faced teenager when he felt we had been grossly overcharged for a family tourist attraction in Monterey, California. The language he used was so salty, and so entirely unexpected, that it’s gone down in the annals of family legend. Just mention the words “lone cypress” around my siblings, and you’ll get the kind of clumsy snickering you’d expect when you hear the words “diarrhea” or “Monica Lewinsky.”

But his masterwork, his real magnum opus, was the time he wore down a car salesman to within an inch of his life, and then signed the paperwork to buy the car. But wait…then he went across town and told another car dealer how much he paid, and told him to beat the price. When he did, my father called the original salesman and told him the deal was off because my mother “didn’t like the car.” My father would have figured out a way to get the pickup truck for a jar full of pennies and some old Reader’s Digest magazines. He’s really gifted at this kind of thing, honest to God.

But not me. The next day I went down to Town Hall and delivered the formal written bid, sealed in an envelope, letting the good people of Kennebunk know that I’d be willing to pay $1102 for their 1994 GMC Sierra Pickup. Here’s where it got interesting: I told the guy at the front desk I was submitting a bid. He sent me down to some other office to drop off the envelope with another administrator. I got there and told her what I was there for, and she said, “Oh, okay, very good. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with this, let me see…(she yelled into another office) HEY MINDY!! (or whatever her name was) THERE’S A GUY HERE WHO’S BIDDING ON A SURPLUS ITEM, WHAT DO WE DO WITH THESE BIDS?!” Mindy yelled back that she didn’t know what the protocol was, but why not just date it on the outside so they knew it was submitted on-time. And that was that. I guess they’d never done this kind of thing before.

Never done this kind of thing before?! No protocol?! I could only surmise that mine was the first bid they got, on ANY of the stuff – no bids on the chainsaw, no bids on the file cabinet, nothing! And the deadline was the next day. I’ll be damned. I should’ve bid on everything – the chainsaw, the file cabinet, the lawn mowers and the fax machines – I should’ve offered them a jar full of pennies and driven off with the whole lot thrown in the back of the pickup, and kept the Reader’s Digest magazines for myself! But it didn’t work out that way, it was too late. My sealed offer had been submitted, and my fate sealed with it.

I wholly expected to get a call the next day, telling me I was the only one who bid on the truck, so come down with my checkbook and take it off their hands. I waited all day, but got no call. I figured maybe they had to do some paperwork first. But then I didn’t get a call the next day, or the day after that. Then I realized it’s probably the kind of thing where they have to send a letter of notification through the US Mail or something more official and bureaucratic. But nearly a week went by, and nothing. I was starting to get nervous.

I left a message for the Public Works manager, and never got a return call. Maybe I had been sunk! Maybe that mystery slob from across town had actually put in a last-minute bid for $1103, and I got out-Price-is-Righted! Somewhere in West Kennebunk, someone was driving a 1994 GMC Sierra full of chainsaws, lawn mowers and fax machines, and there I would be, walking four miles through the snow to get lunchmeat and taco shells. I felt dejected, like a spurned lover. I started looking at pickup trucks on Craigslist, late-night, while Amy was asleep. “Hot 20-year old truck looking for older man for good times and long rides. Non-smoker preferred. No weirdos.” I hit rock-bottom, and finally admitted to Amy that Operation 52 Pickup may have been a bust.

Amy, however, wasn’t as easily defeated. She did a little digging around on the town website, and found another phone number for the Public Works manager. Within three minutes, she was speaking to the man himself, who told her, “Oh yeah, I owe you guys a call…” Turns out Operation 52 Pickup had been a success all along.

I was thrilled. We were instructed to go to Town Hall and pay for the pickup, then take the bill of sale and proof of insurance to the DMV to switch the registration and get plates, and then go get the truck at the Transfer Station. As we drove through town from place to place, Amy asked me a very important question: “So, what are you going to name your new truck?”

Huh. What was I going to name my new truck? Every car’s gotta have a name, or at least every car I’ve owned has had a name. The ’83 Buick I had back in college was “Maybellene,” after the Chuck Berry song, though my friend John called it “the Buick Loadmaster” because of its enormous trunk. And my last car, the one in Atlanta, I called “Dresden,” because it was repeatedly bombed by pigeons. But what was I going to call this pickup truck? I gave it some thought, and then gave Amy my answer: “I’m going to let it come organically. Something will let me know the name.”

We finally got to the Transfer Station, and there she was, proudly awaiting her new owner. Amy was pretty excited about all the decals on the side; I could see her imagining herself being driven through town in this official-looking vehicle, waving at all passers-by as if she were some municipal starlet, on her way to the grand opening of a new dog run or composting pile. But it wasn’t to be. Before they affixed the new plates to the pickup, they took off the yellow hazard light, and removed all the decals for insurance purposes. The shadows of the decals still remain, and you can still read “Kennebunk Parks and Recreation” in a slightly darker teal, if you look hard enough. But the only remaining vestige of its life as a town truck was when they handed me the keys, and there on the keychain, in bold letters, was written “#5.” And that’s become the name of the truck.

(A quick side note: as we went through the hand-over process, one of the guys at the Transfer Station related that #5 had recently been left idling in a strip-mall parking lot by a co-worker who ran in to get a sandwich. When the co-worker came out, the truck was halfway through the front window of the local Chinese restaurant, because he’d mistakenly left the truck in neutral. “You may not want to get Chinese food with the truck” he warned me.)

So now I’m the owner of a bright teal 1994 GMC Sierra Pickup named “Number Five,” which is oddly symmetrical, because the last time I owned a car was in 1994. I guess in the intervening years, we’ve both gotten a little older and a little rustier, but we both still move along pretty well, except for the occasional back-fire. I took the truck in for some minor maintenance work to make sure it passed inspection, but otherwise there haven’t been any problems, I love it. The best part is when I take some garbarge or recycling to the transfer station, and some guy in a uniform will say, “Hey, it that…?” And I say “Yes, it is!” Or the time I was driving to the Hannaford for taco supplies, and I drove past some guys doing roadwork, and one of them looked up and waved, yelling, “HEEEEYYY!!!!!” I’ve avoided getting Chinese food.

When my parents came out to visit us, I took my dad out for a spin. I think he liked the pickup. He said it ran pretty well (though I should get the transmission looked at), he asked about the mileage (114,000), and told me the torn headliner could get fixed pretty easily with spray glue from an automotive supply store. And then he asked me the big question.

“How much did you pay for it?”
“Uh, what’s that?”
“How much did you pay for it?”
“A little over eleven-hundred.”
He paused for a moment, and looked out the window.
“I can see this truck going for another five years with proper maintenance. That’s a pretty good deal.”

I’ll be damned.

Hey hey!! Hello there, loyal readers! After a nearly nine-month hiatus, look who’s back?! That’s right, we figured it was about time to post something on here and catch you all up on what’s been happening in the world of Amy and John. And what a different world it’s become!

Let’s recap a bit. The last time we spoke (or whatever you call this), it was December of 2014. Gosh, remember then? That was back before 2015, before all the snow, and the summer, and American Ninja Warrior repeats. It was way back in the days when Donald Trump was just a loudmouth television personality, and gas only cost $2.50 a gallon. Gosh, I wish those days were back!! Am I right, people?!

Back then we spent the holidays with our families, and, if you recall, in early January we loaded up the truck and moved to Kennebunk…Maine, that is. Swimming pools, movie stars… As we mentioned in our last post – the one from nine months ago (gosh Donald Trump, what have you been up to since then?) – we rented a big ole’ house on the ocean in Kennebunk. If it was the summer, there would have been no way we could have afforded a house like that, but we were lucky. We got it for a song, because honestly, who the hell moves to Maine in the frigid dead of winter? Amy and John, that’s who.

That’s right – we’re Mainers now. That’s what they call people from Maine. I’ve been a New Yorker, an Ohioan, a Georgian, and now, I’m a Mainer. Here’s what I want to know: what do you call someone from New Hampshire, our neighboring state? A “New Hampshian?” “New Hampshier?” “New Hampshirian?” (Standby for Google…) New Hampshirite! Okay, I guess it makes sense. Sounds better than “Utahan” or “Delawarean,” which are apparently real things.

But a note about being a “Mainer”: we’re not really Mainers. We’re a couple of soft New York City types who live in Maine. Unless your great-great-grandfather was born in Maine, and fought in the Civil War with Joshua Chamberlain, and caught lobster with his bare hands from a dinghy that he hand-crafted from a pine-tree felled with an axe purchased from Leon Leonwood Bean himself, you are NOT a Mainer. You’re just a person “from away.” And Amy and John are most certainly “from away.” That said, Mainers are some of the nicest people we’ve met, and that’s a refreshing change from living in Manhattan, where the people at Walgreens are trained in apathy, and every subway ride is Thunderdome.

So we moved into the rental house, which was great. It was this big Victorian house, with an open plan, and a fireplace, and three bedrooms for us and our modest belongings.  We had a tremendous view of the ocean. It was really stunning at times, and the sunsets were amazing.

When we first moved into the house, there was still grass on the ground, and the air was crisp, but not too bad. But two weeks later, things changed dramatically. It started to snow. And it kept snowing. It kept snowing for three straight months. And the temperature dropped drastically. That fireplace got a workout. And I got my first taste of oil heat, and the bills that come with oil heat. As many of you experienced, this past winter seemed to drag on forever, and the snow didn’t melt here until April.

But that didn’t stop us from exploring our new town, making new friends, and learning what it means to be a Mainer. To wit: here I am back in January with my new (well, new-to-me) pickup truck:

That’s a genuine 1994 GMC Pickup. That’s how I haul stuff up here in the Pine Tree State, I’m a Mainer now. A man’s gotta have a pickup truck. And I’m a man. I’m the kind of man who sits at a desk all day typing on a computer, wears J. Crew button-downs and salmon slacks, and eats food with chopsticks, but I’m a man nonetheless, damnit!

But that’s not the only purchase we made. Back in March, we became honest-to-God tax-paying citizens of the town of Kennebunk, Maine when we signed the paperwork on a new house. Yep, we’re homeowners again, and officially Mainers.

We love this house, and the location, a mile from town and less than two miles to the beach. It’s great being surrounded by woods, and birds, and chipmunks, and everything else including turkey and deer. It’s like a little cabin in the woods, but close enough to all the action in the resort area of town.

We call the house “Oxymoron Acres.” Why? Well, back when we were travelling, we’d often discuss what we wanted our dream house to be like. And it would always be the same thing: “Just a nice little house with a nice little yard. A homey place for us, and maybe room for some guests. A nice little kitchen where we can make dinner. Nothing complicated or too big to clean. Something modest. A garage would be nice. Maybe a walk-in closet. And a room for a home office. And a master bath with his and hers sinks. How about a separate dining room, and a living room large enough to entertain? Gotta be an eat-in kitchen, right? And a decent sized TV room, with plenty of windows. Built-in bookshelves for all our books and travel souvenirs. And a basement where we can have a bar or man cave. And outdoor space, with a deck and a grill and room to chuck around a ball. Could we do a chicken coop? Maybe we’ll put in an Olympic-sized pool someday. But, you know…just a nice little house with a nice little yard, nothing too big.” So yeah, Oxymoron Acres.

I owned an apartment in New York City once. It was great. I never mowed the lawn, never shoveled, de-iced, or plowed; never had to worry about maintenance, never fixed the hot water or broken appliances. Not anymore. Now I’m installing dishwashers, hanging ceiling fans, doing light electrical work, clearing brush, bending over in crawl spaces, putting in attic insulation, and chasing squirrels from my bird feeder. I hear noises in the night, and I say to Amy, at 3am, “What’s that? What’s that humming?… What do you mean you don’t hear anything, don’t you hear that humming?!” I’m the guy who goes outside, surveys the property, and then returns back inside to report, “those goddamn deer are eating all my hostas!” The furry bastards…

The other day I was working, and it was suddenly raining cats and dogs outside, a real squall. I looked up and noticed that there was water pouring down from one of the gutters. Clearly something was going on up there, and it wasn’t good. So yours truly, at about 2pm, strips down and puts on his bathing suit. Not some kind of Speedo, like I know you’re all hoping for, but one of those surf shorts down to my knees, with my belly hanging over the drawstring. I walked out into the torrential rain, and grabbed my ladder from the garage…

(A side note, by the way: I’m a Mainer now, and as a Mainer, I own a lawn mower, a ladder, a cordless drill, a snow shovel, an axe, a pair of LL Bean boots, and a beer fridge.)

Anyway, I went outside into this God-awful mess of rain, and set the ladder up on the side of the house. I climbed up there, and discovered a wad of pine needles the size of a brick lodged in the gutter. When I got it all cleaned out, the water flowed like Victoria Falls, fiercely and freely. There I stood proudly, on top of the ladder, in my swim trunks, sopping wet, hair in my eyes, having conquered the sort of task that makes you feel like you have a purpose in life. And that purpose is to pull pine needles and half-decayed leaves out of your gutters, like a genuine homeowner. Thank goodness Amy wasn’t around, or I wouldn’t have had that moment of saturated glory. Instead I would have been told to wait out the storm, and wear galoshes or something equally as embarrassing. But we all know the most efficient (and sexiest) way to unclog a drainpipe is half-naked, barefoot, and shivering.

That’s just one of the many experiences we’ve had adjusting to our new way of life. And that leads us to the real purpose of this post, I guess: to let you know that we’re alive and well, and that we’re rebranding this blog. With the adventure of our globetrotting over, a new adventure has begun: the adventure of settling down, settling in, and becoming Mainers. And that’s what we’ll be talking about until further notice: We’re Fine Mom won’t be our travel blog, it will be our “New Mainer” blog. For example, here are just a few of the things I want to tell you about, in more detail, in upcoming posts:

How I bought my pickup truck.

The record coldest day of the year, and how we survived.

A day at the DMV.

Recreational Lobstering.

How I met Officer Carney of the Kennebunk Police Department.

Fun at the Town Dump.

So you’ll get these stories and more; those from the recent past, and those that develop. That’s the new We’re Fine Mom 2.0. Sure, it’s no “losing a tooth on the Great Wall of China” or “using a pit-toilet in Botswana,” but there’s still wild animals, nudity, and that looming sense of discomfort you feel when you realize you’re not in Kansas anymore. Because you’re in Maine. We hope you’ll join us on this new adventure, and most of all, we hope you’ll enjoy it. We’re fine, Mom!! More to come soon…

Hello again, readers! Yes, it’s been a long time, but we figured we’d update you on how things are going since we got back home to the USA. Here are the big things I’m sure you’ll want to know about:

• So far, we have no jobs, though we’ve taken a lot of meetings, had a few informal interviews, and there’s some potential freelance work out there for us. Just nothing permanent yet…(anyone hiring??)…

• We bought a car! This sleek 2011 Subaru Outback has been shuttling us across the Northeast USA for the past several weeks.

• And regarding housing, we just signed a short-term lease on a rental house in Kennebunk, Maine, starting in January. Yep – looks like we’ll be settling in Maine and seeing how it treats us. I’m already researching lobster pots.

We’re spending the holidays with our family and friends, and while our journey was simply amazing, it’s been great to be back home and settling in a bit. We’re currently in Philadelphia, visiting Amy’s family for Christmas, and generally getting re-acclimated to American life – like cheesesteaks, cheesesteak hoagies, football, dentistry, clothes dryers, daytime television, 1-877-Kars4Kids, erections lasting more than four hours, and Two-for-Tuesday classic-rock rock-blocks of Bob Seger, Rush, and Pat Benatar.

Before our time in Philadelphia, we saw my family for Thanksgiving in Upstate New York. We stayed with my sister, and as many of you know, her house served as our home address while we were out of the country. It also served as the General Post Office for all things sent from overseas. My poor sister. Every month or so, she’d get an email from us: “Be on the lookout for a box shipped from X.” And sure enough, weeks later, she’d come home from work and find a box sitting on her front step.

We counted, and we realized we sent 14 packages home in the mail. One from Japan, two from Taiwan, two from Thailand, one from Singapore, one from New Zealand, two from India, one from South Africa, one from Austria, two from Germany, and one from Scotland. We probably spent over a grand sending all that stuff home. We also had three bags of stuff carried home by visiting friends and family, and we brought home a big bag of souvenirs as well. That’s just about 18 packages sent home in 14 months. That’s a lot of crap.

For those of you who haven’t seen it, this is a photo of all the packages stored on a set of shelves in my sister’s basement (well, the snowboards on the top shelf aren’t ours). She sent this photo to us before we got home, so there was still some stuff outstanding. Look at all that stuff. That really is a lot of crap.

Amy and I finally had the chance to open these packages and start sorting through everything. We dug through all the boxes and newspaper stuffing, opened all the wrapping, and started to rediscover all the things we’d collected during our trip. I barely remembered some of the stuff, and it was great fun to see all the things we’d forgotten about, and all the little mementos that reminded us of places that now seem only a distant memory.

Here’s some highlights for you, with photos and descriptions:

BEER GLASSES OF THE WORLD – everywhere we went, we collected beer glasses. We’ve got a bunch from all over Asia and Europe, plus some from South America, but that said, we’ve also got…

BROKEN BEER GLASSES – not a highlight at all, but the point is that of all those glasses shipped home, we only lost two. Though the one on the right, Hacker-Pschorr, was the beer tent we attended at Oktoberfest. Sad.

BEER MATS – I didn’t count, but there are hundreds. Hundreds of beer mats collected from around the world, and it’s kind of a neat collection…if you like beer mats. I have no idea what we’ll do with them. Put our beer glasses on them, I guess. Or use some of them to light the fireplace in Maine.

PORCELAIN BUST OF CHAIRMAN MAO – Look who made it home safely from China! In all of his glory, the Great Leader, unscathed…wait, what? What’s that you ask? Who is that blue fellow next to him?

It’s CAPTAIN SAVINGS! He’s the mascot of the Melt Me chocolate and ice cream shop in the Siam Center Mall in Bangkok, Thailand. And when I saw this piggy-bank version of the man, I knew I had to have him. Amy, on the other hand, questioned my sanity, and likes Captain Savings about as much as she likes getting a mammogram – she finds it unpleasant and awkward, but she puts up with it. Though she does enjoy him throwing a “Westside” gang sign. Just wait until Captain Savings is full of pennies – then how irritating will he be? (Very.)

“Hey wait!!…I can’t see anything, it’s all pixellated…” No, you can’t, because these are all the CHIRSTMAS GIFTS we bought for our relatives. So, no, you can’t see a thing…not until Christmas…

TUNNOCK’S TEA CAKES – these delicious little Scottish confections made it home mostly unscathed to be eaten as a Thanksgiving dessert. They were then demolished by my family in less than five minutes, in an act of blissful gluttony I now refer to as #TUNNOCKING.

…And while we’re on the subject of food… “THE LEANING TOWER OF FOIE GRAS” – we bought this big tower of discount foie gras in Paris at a food and wine festival by Sacre Coeur. That’s 58.30 euro of top-quality foie gras for the low, low price of just 50 euro. I repeat: 58.30 worth of high-grade French cat food for just 50 euro. That’s nearly 15 percent savings… Savings we’ll need for the antibiotics.

AN EMPTY BOTTLE OF NORTH KOREAN WINE – the wine was dreadful, cloudy, and left a bad taste in your mouth – just like Kim Jung Un! *Rimshot!* Am I right, people?… But yeah, I kept the bottle, because, well…who goes to North Korea anyway?… (PS – that joke might get me killed. Nice knowing you.)

VARIOUS FORMS OF GLOBAL CURRENCY – pretty cool stuff, I like to think, with all the various colors and denominations, and history. It’s pretty neat. But the best bill I found in the world was next…

THE FILTHIEST DOLLAR BILL IN THE HISTORY OF EVER – look at this thing!! I got this as change in Zimbabwe, where they actually use the US dollar as currency because their own currency is basically worthless (take a look at the ten billion dollar bill in the lower left hand corner of the currency photo above). It’s as weak as tissue paper. Compare to the somewhat new-ish dollar. I can’t imagine what that dollar has been through. I dare you to put this dollar bill in your mouth…

ADMISSION TICKETS – so, okay, here’s where we start getting into all the papers and such that we sent back. These are tickets to just some of the sights we saw around the world, including…

WRISTBANDS FROM VARIOUS EVENTS – “Hey, that’s a lot of boozing there, John…” Yeah, well, if you think all we did all over the world was drink, please notice the Opera Performance, thank you very much… (we got a beer beforehand).

VARIOUS TRAVEL EPHEMERA – tickets, tickets, tickets. Airplane tickets, train tickets, ferry tickets, funicular tickets, parking tickets, bus tickets, and, if you look very closely, bottom row, second from left: that’s for a pay toilet.

RECEIPTS – Why? I mean, what the hell was I thinking? Did I really need to know that a beer at the Lotte hotel in Seoul is 14000 Korean Won? I do like the blue “controle de cerveza” in the middle though – basically your running tab at the bar. I have no idea why, but I kept a bunch of receipts from various places. And all those receipts probably cost about $15 to ship. I couldn’t tell you for certain, though, because I don’t have any receipts for the postage.

Speaking of wasted postage/shipping costs, we discovered some other interesting items in the boxes. To wit:

AMY’S COLLECTION OF BARF BAGS. Does this need any explanation? No. Because someday, after we eat all that discount foie gras, I’m gonna need a few of these, and then we’ll all say, “Welp, I guess those came in handy!!”

BEER CAPS – this is a collection of international beer caps of global brands large and small, shipped at high cost from points all over the world, and put into a mixing bowl, sitting on a ping pong table, in a basement in Upstate New York.

CHANGE – This is various change, from various countries, which weighs about three pounds, and if you put it all in a sock, you could knock Kim Jung Un out cold with it. (I just want a simple funeral, really.)

A STICKER OF A TAKOTAMAGO – because someone needs this, desperately, for Christmas.

FYI, this is a takotamago, a little octopus with a hard-boiled quail egg shoved in its head:

Anyway….

A BUNCH OF SEASHELLS – Because America doesn’t have an ocean. On either coast.

Hey Hey Hey!! It’s A ROCK! No way! Why didn’t you mail ME a rock, dude?!

Hold the phone! Is that A BIGGER ROCK?! No more calls, please. We have a winner. “Best Useless Item Ever Mailed, 2014.”

Oh, forget it. It’s a WHOLE PILE OF ROCKS!! Estimated street value: free.

DRIFTWOOD – Because when you’ve got that many rocks and seashells, you better get a piece of driftwood and make some kind of diorama. Preferably with a paper seagull made from an old beer mat.

A WRAPPER FROM A MEAT PIE IN NEW ZEALAND – I must have really loved that meat pie. Apparently I loved it so much that I found it necessary to mail myself a reminder. Of my lunch. Eaten in a rental car. From ten months ago.

Though it is an award-winning meat pie. Back to the shipment…

A FOOT MASSAGE NOTE – Someone (not me) must have gotten a foot massage, and they (not me) must have gotten it on Tong Hua Street, and this person (not me) needed it translated. And it must have been one hell of a foot massage, because this paperwork survived to live another day.

MAP TO SOMEWHERE – It could be a map to Tong Hua Street and its various foot massage parlors. But I’ll never know, because I can’t read it. Which is why it’s apparently priceless and needed to be saved for posterity. This goes in my museum.

There’s also a lot of great things, honestly, like books from Japan, textiles from Asia, a beautiful brass Buddha from Laos, and a wealth of unique trinkets and t-shirts from all over the place. We’re really excited to find a permanent home in Maine, and then open the boxes for good and remind ourselves of an unforgettable fourteen months. In the meantime, it’s good to be home visiting with our friends and family.

Happy Holidays to everyone out there. Enjoy your friends and family as well, and best wishes for the coming year. We’ll see you with another update in the New Year, but meanwhile enjoy this hokey holiday photo we took at the mall. It’s a lot of crap.

WE’RE BACK!

Here are the answers to all of the questions you sent us over the last two weeks:

You’re taking a cruise back to the USA?

JOHN: Yeah, we decided to pamper ourselves on the final leg of the journey, and come home a bit more relaxed after 420 days on the road. No jetlag, no airport madness, and our parents with us as well, which was an added bonus. Amy has more to say about this…

AMY: We knew John’s parents were joining us but then my mom surprised us! She just showed up at dinner the first night on the ship. I was speechless. It’s been an amazing 7-day, trans-Atlantic journey with our parents on the QM2!

How many countries did you visit? What were they?

AMY: We visited 42 countries plus Hong Kong (which John thinks should count as a separate country, but it’s not…it’s China). The countries were (in order): Japan, South Korea, North Korea, Taiwan, China, Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos, Thailand, Myanmar, Malaysia, Singapore, Indonesia, New Zealand, Australia, India, South Africa, Zimbabwe, Botswana, Argentina, Uruguay, Chile, Brazil, Spain, Portugal, France, Monaco, Italy, Slovenia, Croatia, Bosnia & Herzegovina, Montenegro, Hungary, Austria, Germany, Luxembourg, Belgium, England, Wales, Scotland, Ireland, and Northern Ireland.

JOHN: We were only in North Korea for a few minutes, during our DMZ tour, but we’re counting that. Our visit to Slovenia consisted of lunch, and Monaco was a day trip. Everywhere else we actually spent a night, a week, or a month…

‪No visits to Russia, Turkey, Egypt, Dubai, Scandinavia, Morocco, Iceland, Cuba, Maldives, et cetera? Trip #2 somewhere in the future?‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬

JOHN: This is a question we get all the time – why didn’t you go to (fill-in-the-blank)? There’s just too much world, unfortunately, and we had some event deadlines to meet, so time was a limiting factor as well. Those are all places we’d like to go, but they didn’t fit into our plans this time around. I’ve actually been to Russia, Turkey, Egypt, and Morocco before, and Amy and I spent nine days in Scandanavia in early 2013. As far as Trip #2 – sometime, we hope, but it wouldn’t be on the same scale, and certainly not very soon.

AMY: We might go to Russia for the 2018 World Cup!

How come you didn’t go to Greece?

JOHN: We’re going to Greece! My parents had a home in Greece, and I actually went to grade school and high school in Greece. So the day after Thanksgiving, we’re heading to Greece to see some of my high school buddies. Greece is awesome!

AMY: Greece, New York, that is. Right near Lima, New York and not far from Rome, New York. Very exotic.

Does it feel weird to be coming home?

AMY: Not yet. I’m really excited to be coming home. But ask me again after a week…it might feel weird then.

JOHN: It seems a little weird that everything’s coming to an end, but I’m more excited to get home.

Where will you be laying your heads upon your return?

AMY: We’ll be bouncing around between NYC, New Jersey, Rochester and Philly for the holidays. Staying with family until Christmas, at least.

Are you going to bask in family for the holidays?

JOHN: Absolutely. We’re both close with our families, and we’re looking forward to the holidays and seeing everyone after a year away.

What are your plans when you get back?

JOHN: Well, this is the big question. We’re both starting to look for jobs, and things sort-of depend on what kind of work we can find, and where those jobs might be located. Either we’ll make a move based on a job offer, or we’ll just settle somewhere and get jobs locally. Right now we’re leaning towards Maine, likely Portland.

AMY: Plans for when we get back… Well, the ship pulled into the Brooklyn Cruise Terminal early this morning (Wednesday). We’re seeing my sisters for lunch, then we have to go to the Verizon store and get phones. We have 4pm dentist appointments. After, we’ll have drinks and dinner at our favorite neighborhood spots. And I’m getting my hair done on Thursday. Very excited for that! And drinks with all of you Friday night at the Galway Pub, right?

I’m guessing you must be somewhat looking forward to “sitting still” for a while when you’re back…

AMY: Well, we can’t sit still for too long…we need to find jobs! And we’ve been relaxing on the ship this past week. It’s been the perfect way to end the trip. I’m actually ready to hit the ground running when we get home. In addition to the job search and the house hunt, we have a ton of doctors appointments and a ton of friends to see!

When does the pretirement officially end? Are you giving yourselves some R&R on native soil until after the holidays?

JOHN: Pre-tirement “officially” ends when we get back to work. But yes, we’ll likely be relaxing in between the job hunt, the holiday visits, doctors appointments, and getting our affairs in order after a year away.

Once you’ve settled a bit what is the first thing you want to do in terms of relaxation American-style?

AMY: Sit on a sofa on Sunday afternoon and watch football in my pajamas with a cold beer and good snacks!

JOHN: I want a nice hot shower in a regulation-sized bathroom, followed by binge-watching all the TV shows we missed.

What is one thing that you missed so much and are dying to do in NYC when you return?

AMY: See above. I really miss lazing around on the weekends and doing nothing.

JOHN: Sushi at our favorite neighborhood place, and a beer with our favorite bartender at our corner bar.

What do you want to eat first when you’re back?

AMY: Sushi at Japonica on 12th & University.

JOHN: Tacos. Two “Chipotle Guaco-Locos” from San Loco in NYC.

What would be on your menu of choice for your homecoming given all the exotic stuff you have eaten?

AMY: I’m just excited for some home-cooking! With lots of fresh veggies…we couldn’t eat them in Asia and you can barely find them in the UK; it’s all potatoes (fried, mashed, and otherwise).

JOHN: Those tacos. Two “Chipotle Guaco-Locos” from San Loco in NYC. [Editor’s Note: it turned out to be a lunch of three Carne Asada Tacos at Los Tacos.]

Amy, first thing you want to bake? Do you even miss it?

AMY: I really miss baking! We could cook once in a while at various apartments we rented, but we couldn’t bake (too many specialized ingredients, pans, et cetera). The first thing I will most likely bake is my grandmom’s chocolate cake with orange icing. It’s an easy recipe (gotta start slow…get my sea legs again) and it brings back lots of memories of home and family. I also told my sister-in-law Beth that I’d make some desserts for Thanksgiving, so maybe a pie or two.

JOHN: And I miss eating them.

Will you completely retire all clothing items from the duffel bag upon return?

AMY: Most of them, yes. I want to set them on fire, but John says we should donate them. Some of them have holes and stains that won’t come out though, so I don’t know. I have a shirt that literally has a bat-shit stain on it from Mumbai.

JOHN: I’ll likely donate a few things, but most of my stuff is just fine, and I just want to give them a good American-style power-washing with a gallon of Tide.

Anything you look forward to buying for your wardrobe once you hit the States?

AMY: Yes, everything! All of our clothes are in storage along with our furniture, so we might not get it for a while. I’ll probably need to buy some job interview clothes pretty soon…

JOHN: Not really. I’m fine with what I’ve got, believe it or not.

Did you get anything on the trip that you’ll be sad you can’t get at home?

AMY: We discovered these little tea cakes in Edinburgh that we couldn’t stop buying/eating. They’re like Mallowmars but better. It’s probably a good thing that we won’t be able to get them in the States!

JOHN: Tunnock’s Tea Cakes are awesome. And I love Mos Burger in Japan, a great fast food place.

Did you ever run out of money? And, did you bring it all with you or use your ATM card? Are there still traveler’s checks?

JOHN: It was pretty easy, actually. We used ATMs everywhere, and credit cards when possible, which was in a lot of places.

Best weather/worst weather?

AMY: Worst=Beijing. It was FREEZING!

JOHN: Best weather was in Australia, Spain, and the south of France. Bright, sunny, and warm.

Any brushes with the law?

JOHN: Not technically. We did get “detained” at Immigration in New Zealand, but only because we didn’t have a ticket out of the country. They made us fire up our laptops and buy a ticket while being held in Customs no-man’s-land. That’s as bad as it got.

Did you find keeping the blog a pleasure or burden or a little of both?

JOHN: There were times we put pressure on ourselves to get something posted (if it had been some time), but I wouldn’t call it a burden. It’s been fun, and a good creative outlet. I enjoyed writing, and Amy enjoyed sorting through the photos. And we loved getting feedback, and looking at the stats and seeing just how many people were following us on this journey. That was the real reward.

If you could revisit only three places in your lifetime, where would you go?

JOHN: Japan for the culture, Cambodia for the beach, and Botswana for the animals. All very different, and all very different from the USA.

AMY: Spain because it has everything: Beautiful beaches, bucolic countryside, vibrant cities and amazing food. Japan because it’s awesome. And New Zealand because it’s like no other place I’ve seen…absolutely breath-taking. And Botswana. Sorry, I picked four.

JOHN: Ooh. Spain. Put that on my list as well. That’s my fourth.

If you could go back to anywhere you’ve been for only one day, where would it be?

JOHN: Since it’s only one day, I’d go to San Sebastian and go pintxo hopping and drink Rioja and txacoli. Other places I’d want more time. I mean, I’d want more time in San Sebastian as well, but given a day, I’ll take it.

AMY: Ditto. Plus, there’s a beach in San Sebastian, too!

If you could give me best day of your journey, the best place you stayed, the best meal, and best activity what would it be? It can all be from one location or many different!

AMY: Best Place We Stayed: In our campervan, Chuck, in the South Island of New Zealand. Best Breakfast: The hotel in Bali with the freshest eggs I ever had. And delicious Balinese coffee, too! Lunch: Martin Baserategui in Spain. Dinner: Tapas hopping in San Sebastian or finding this hidden Japanese/Italian fusion restaurant in Sapporo, Picchu. Best Activity: Game Walk in Botswana or the Palio in Siena.

JOHN: Best stay: the Bali hotel. Best meal: Pintxo hopping in San Sebastian, particularly Cuchara de San Telmo. Best Activity: Running with the bulls in Pamplona, or the safari game drive in Botswana.

What was the most boring place you visited?

AMY: Kuala Lumpur.

JOHN: Yeah, we found it kind of dull, other than the Petronas Towers. It did have a really cool bird sanctuary, though, and Georgetown (in the north of Malaysia) was pretty interesting.

Where was the best hair root touch-up (for Amy)?

AMY: Japan. My NYC colorist found this salon for me since she’s Japanese and Tokyo was our first stop. The salon was lovely and everyone was so nice and they did an excellent job. Also, I have a fear of hair dye being left on my neck or in my ears. In Japanese, “pretty” and “clean” are the same word, so cleanliness is literally considered beautiful. I had no worries if all the dye was rinsed off…I knew it was!

Have you talked about what travel will be like for you in the future?

AMY: A little. I know that I don’t need to stay in fancy hotels anymore. I am a huge fan of and convert to AirBnB. And I’ll pack lighter.

JOHN: Besides the AirBnB thing, I also think we’d stay in places a bit longer and really soak them in. Towards the end of the trip, we were really just scratching the surface, not really immersing ourselves as much and kind of rushing from place to place.

Are you already planning your next adventure and where would you go?

JOHN: We won’t do anything right away, but we’ve discussed exploring our own backyard, seeing more of the USA and Canada. I’d like to see Alaska.

AMY: John has been to 49 US states. Alaska will be number 50. We’ll definitely be going to Alaska within the next year or two. But our next trip will be to Jamaica next summer…John’s nephew is having a destination wedding.

If you both had to pick only one picture from your adventure that has the most meaning, which would it be?

JOHN: That’s a good question. For me, I suppose it would be the picture of us with our bags at JFK, ready to fly away. There’s also a sort of artsy-fartsy shot I took of our two travel jackets hanging together, like a deconstructed “American Gothic,” all beat up towards the end of the trip, and ready to be packed in Japanese dry-cleaner bags from nearly a year earlier. That says a lot to me.

AMY: I love this picture of John and Mr. Ox in Cambodia. Mr. Ox is John’s same exact age but his life couldn’t be more different: He lives in this remote, beachside village with his wife, mother-in-law and FIVE KIDS. They have limited access to everything. He fought against the Khmer Rouge in the 90s. But he and John became friends and really made a connection. We still email with Ox.

I can’t believe how long you were gone – I HAVE to believe that somewhere along the way of that long journey you were just done? Were you ever like – this is too long?!

AMY: I thought it was too long from the beginning. When I travelled solo in 2008, I was gone for just over 100 days and that was perfect. But John had his heart set on a year-long trip so that’s what we planned. Then, we extended by 2 months for a couple reasons. I hit the wall somewhere in southeast Asia and was in a funk for a few days…just exhausted and burned out. But I got over it pretty quickly and settled into a groove for the rest of the trip.

JOHN: I got tired along the way, that’s for sure, but I was still excited to finish the journey as we’d planned it.

At any point did you consider cutting the adventure short and heading home earlier than planned?

AMY: Despite my above answer, no, we never considered coming home early.

JOHN: When we were living in a tent in Zimbabwe, I learned my grandmother had passed away. I would have flown home, but by the time we heard the news and made some phone calls, it was already the day of the funeral, so going home would have been a waste. But if I had gone, I would have returned to Africa and finished the trip.

Looks like you had a ton of friends on your very last leg. I’m sure it was so awesome to get to see everyone. Were you missing all that alone time you had? Or were you so ready for some good company?

AMY: We’ve had plenty of time together these past 14 months. We were both really excited to see our friends and hear someone else’s stories for a change!

JOHN: Seeing friends and family was always great, and felt like a little slice of home. We had plenty of time alone together.

I remember when we did our study-abroad 25 years ago that one of the pleasures of traveling was being disconnected from the rest of the world. Things are different now…email, blog, cell phones. Is it better or worse now? Did you miss being disconnected?

JOHN: It’s great to have the choice. With our laptops and wifi, staying in touch and doing planning work was very easy. But neither of us had cell service, so staying disconnected was easy as well. It was our choice. I’d say it’s better because it’s easier to get information.

Now that you are heading home, what will you MISS about being on the road around the world?

AMY: That’s hard to answer right now. Ask me again in a few weeks. If I had to guess, I think I’ll miss trying different foods and just the adventure of it all.

JOHN: I think you learn a lot on the road – a lot of about history, culture, stupid things like TV shows overseas you enjoyed, different foods… I’ll miss discovering new things wherever we’ve been. It’s a big world.

Could you write a different haiku for each country you visited?

AMY: Hmmm…let me work on it.

JOHN: No.

Did you say ‘Big Ben, Parliament’ when in London? (ode to European Vacation)

AMY: Never saw that movie.

JOHN: Yes, I said it once or twice. But mostly I’d sing songs in my head, like “Waterloo Sunset” or “Guns of Brixton.”

Do you now need to purchase a car and will it be Cleo-clone (since they don’t sell them in US)?

JOHN: We will buy a car soon, but it won’t be a Renault Clio. It will likely be a sensible used car with more trunk space than a Renault Clio.

What would you do differently knowing what you know now? (This could be helpful for those of us who aspire to traveling the world.)

AMY: Pack less. Bring a better flashlight. Let my hair go grey so I don’t have to deal with dying it.

JOHN: Pack less. Exercise more. Spend more time in less places.

Everyone’s burning question, I’m sure – What’s next? You were done with New York before you left. You were thinking perhaps small town, Maine, et cetera. Now that you have been gone for so long, did you romanticize NYC at all? Miss it enough to return for good? If not, still thinking small town?

AMY: I have to admit, as we pulled into New York Harbor this morning, I got a little teary. It’s hard not to romanticize New York when the Freedom Tower and Lady Liberty are there to welcome you home. But we’re ready for a change. I really want a little house with a front porch and a yard. That’s hard to find in Manhattan!

JOHN: As I said earlier, we’re leaning towards Maine and finding jobs there, still thinking smaller-town, settling down, getting a nice little house with a yard. There is absolutely no question that I’ll miss New York, and I’ll get nostalgic for sure. I love New York, and it’s been a huge part of my life. But we both made the decision that we wanted to slow down and get some space. It’s very easy to visit New York.

What have you learned about mankind?

JOHN: Well, we met so many friendly people everywhere we went, and had so many great discussions. I’d say that despite our differences, everybody’s basically the same – they want to live peacefully, provide for their families, and have a good laugh. It makes you realize you don’t need much to be happy.

AMY: I agree with what John said. Even though we may look different, wear different clothes, speak a different language, worship a different god…people from around the world are more similar than they are different.

This post is tough to write, because I don’t know where to start, or where it’s going, or how it’s going to end. All I know is that this whole thing – 14 months on the road – is practically over. I guess that’s where the ending lies.

We’re currently sitting in Southampton, in southern England, ready to board the boat that will get us home to New York on Wednesday the 19th. We’re excited about a relaxing week at sea, and no flights, and no jetlag, and to top it off, my parents are joining us for the final leg of the journey. After that comes the holidays – Thanksgiving in Upstate New York, Christmas in Philly – plus a number of doctors appointments and housekeeping visits back in NYC.

What comes next is the big mystery. We’re currently homeless, and unemployed. Hell, we don’t even have phone service in the US. We’re basically off the grid. The job hunt and search for housing has begun to be a priority.

How do you summarize a fourteen-month global tour into a few short paragraphs? The inevitable question is going to be, “So…how was it?!”

“Um…unbelievable?”

I mean, I don’t even know what to say. It’s an experience we’ll never have again (not in this manner, anyway). It was truly the trip of a lifetime.

We traveled to 42 countries (not counting Hong Kong), and so far, almost 75000 miles – roughly three times around the globe.

We bungee-jumped, we ran with the bulls, I lost a tooth on the Great Wall of China, Amy got her hair dyed on five continents, we bowled on five continents, we saw the Grand Sumo Finals in Tokyo, we traveled through Botswana in a dugout canoe, we saw bodies cremated on the banks of the Ganges, we bathed in the Ganges to cleanse our souls (hundreds of miles upstream from the cremations, mind you), we went to the World Cup and Tour de France, we saw a bullfight, we saw “The Big Five” on safari, we saw a dude pick up a hooker; we saw the Taj Mahal, Angkor Wat, La Sagrada Familia, and the Carrefour superstore; we bathed naked in Japanese baths, I ate something called a “1000 year-old egg,” we took a helicopter to the top of a glacier, we rode the world’s fastest elevator, we got attacked by monkeys, we saw Lynyrd Skynyrd in concert, we saw Neil Diamond in concert, and I got fleas petting a strange dog in Thailand.

And that was just the first day.

So after all of this, what can we tell you we’ve learned along the way?

• Well,… first off, don’t pet strange dogs.
• Also, there are never enough hooks in hotel bathrooms.
• Don’t order the biryani in Myanmar, or at least carry antibiotics.
• Keep your iPhone in your pocket at all times.
• If you order a lemonade in the UK, you’ll get a 7UP.
• International postal service actually works everywhere, it’s the speed that varies.
• Chinese crazy glue is only slightly good for repairing dental work.
• If you have decent wifi, you can watch the Philadelphia Eagles anywhere, even in Thailand.
• A bar filled with old men is always a good, cheap, local spot.
• Bring a flashlight, a whistle, and a bottle opener: the first to spot monkeys outside your tent, the middle for scaring monkeys away, and the last for celebrating after.
• When sitting naked in a Japanese bathhouse, keep your eyes front, mister.
• With enough consumption, your armpits can smell like curry in India or Guinness in Ireland.
• There are not enough two-player card games.

• $20 is sometimes a reasonable price for a cocktail, particularly when it’s at a hotel bar with a nice, clean, private, emergency toilet.
• Niagara Falls is only the third-best set of falls. Sorry, America.

• The Japanese love to sing the Carpenters at karaoke. Sorry, Journey.
• You can only see so many cathedrals before getting burned out. Sorry, God.
• Bring a camera to the restroom – there’s always something interesting in there.

• Don’t hang a light-colored swimsuit to dry on a rusty nail, certainly not in the crotch.
• Americans are a loud bunch, and say “awesome!” a lot. The younger ones wear unbearably skinny or sagging jeans, the older ones wear NFL licensed sweatshirts over a collared shirt, and sensible footwear.
• You quickly get used to a woman cleaning the men’s room while you use the urinal. It almost becomes a slight thrill.
• The best museum in the world is the Museum of Ham.
• Ziploc bags are the best travel accessory you’re not using.

• Nobody knows you’ve worn the same shirt for four days except your wife, and sometimes you can sneak that past her, too.
• The European Heineken is honestly different than the American one, and it’s much better.
• If you want to get things done in China, sometimes you have to shove an old lady.

I guess that’s a start, anyway. I’m sure we’ll have more insights as time goes on. In the meantime, tomorrow we climb on board the boat that will carry us to our next adventure: new jobs, a new home, and a new chapter in our lives. But we’ll always carry the memories of what has been an overwhelming experience for both of us.

As tremendous as this trip has been, we’re both excited to get home, see our families, celebrate the holidays, and start moving forward. Plus, we’ve got about 20 boxes of stuff we sent home that we need to dig through and sort out, including what will invariably be pounds of useless crap that cost us hundreds of dollars to ship across the globe (I’m looking at you, beer caps). It’s been said many times before – the best part of any trip is getting home, and we’re ready for that moment.

So, until we see you on the other side of the ocean on the 19th… AHOY!!

In the past thirteen months, we’ve eaten some pretty interesting meals in some pretty exotic places. We’ve eaten some really good things, some pretty disgusting things, and we’ve dined in some fairly fascinating places. To be fair, most of these were in the Far East, but they’ve been fascinating nonetheless.

For example, if you were an early follower of our blog, you’ll recall the freshly-caught abalone and conch we ate on Jeju Island in South Korea.

We also ate fantastic street food in Vietnam, including our Christmas Day food tour, and outstanding banh mi in Hanoi and Hoi An.

In Kyoto, I ate a few delicious “takotamago” in the food stalls – a quail egg shoved inside a tiny grilled octopus head.

And in Taipei, we literally caught and ate our own shrimps at a carnival-like stand in the local market. It was pretty awesome.

But not every meal is going to be some kind of Anthony Bourdain street-meat experience either. We’ve also eaten at some really good restaurants along the way, particularly as we got to Europe. And why not?

For example, last week, Amy and I celebrated two big milestones: our 400th day on the road, and, coincidentally, our third wedding anniversary. So we went out to a fancy dinner in Edinburgh, at a Michelin one-star. And a few nights ago in Dublin, we had reservations at another Michelin-starred restaurant. We can’t take a trip around and world and not go to a few nice restaurants while we have the chance, right? So every once in a while, we’ll splurge on an upscale meal.

One of the more interesting details in all this is our living out of duffel bags. We’ve spent thirteen months traveling the world, and we’ve tried to be prepared for any event, including the need to dress up. But it’s not like we’ve got a massive wardrobe on the road. So every place we go, I wear the same blue blazer, and the same wrinkled shirt and green khakis that I’ve tried to steam flat while taking a shower. It never works.

Amy, on the other hand, wears the same $20 Old Navy dress, accented with some nice jewelry, and perhaps a sweater. We’ll roll in to some fancy restaurant and walk in, looking like we just slept in our clothes, and announce our grand arrival: “Hello, we have reservations!” I can only imagine the stuffy maître d’, thinking to himself, “I have reservations of my own, sir…”

But what I find most interesting about this fine dining experience is the whole showiness of it all. There’s a real act that goes on, this unspoken façade of grandeur that both the restaurant and the diners put on. We take part in it, but it cracks me up.

Like when they bring out the wine list. I always just hand it to Amy, because when I look at this list of over 100 different wines, I’m overwhelmed, and honestly, I don’t care. All I know is I want a decent bottle of red, probably Spanish, and for no more than fifty bucks. But that’s not how it works. The sommelier comes over, we discuss the meal, and then we all act like this is a very serious matter, and the various properties of the wine, the hints of chocolate and blueberries, how long it’s been sitting in the oak barrels (French or American?), and whether it pairs nicely with a small bite of duck that’s sitting on a freeze-dried beetroot wafer.

I don’t want to sound like some kind of unrefined jackass, but I feel like saying, “I imagine all the wine you’ve got on this list is good, right fella?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I’ll take this one, the one I can’t pronounce. I plan on getting tipsy by dessert.”
“Right away, sir!!”

Then the staff starts to put down the appropriate silverware for the starter. It’s always some kind of scallop in a really delicious sauce of something green. So there’s the fish knife, and a smaller fork, and a spoon for the delicious sauce, all there for you to eat one small scallop. Oooh! Which utensil do I use?!

For me, it’s pretty easy. I pick up the fork, stab the scallop, and shove it in. Delicious, always. I love scallops, and for the most part they’re always beautifully prepared and the sauce is great. Fish knife and spoon are left unscathed. Back in the drawer with you two. And another glass of that Spanish wine, please. But of course I can’t pour it myself, because that would be wrong. I’m not to be trusted. Not in that wrinkled shirt, anyway.

Next comes the second course. Again, likely some fish, perhaps two small pieces of red snapper stacked in some kind of a red sauce. Very delicate. Out comes the next fork and fish knife. This time, I use both the fork and fish knife, because you’ve got to cut this fish into a few bite-sized pieces. But sadly, the fish is presented in some kind of wide rimmed dish with a very deep bowl in the center, so you need to make the cut at just the right angle or risk a piece of snapper sliding around in the sauce and sailing across the table, landing in a wide open piece of real estate on the pristine white table cloth, right next to the flower arrangement. I know this from experience. That’s where the fork comes in handy to clean up the detritus on the table. Then the waiter has to come over and put another layer of white napkin over the stained area so everything is presentable again, and with it comes my first apology of the evening. “Er…Sorry about that…” Time for another glass of wine, poured by a well-groomed albeit pimply kid in a tuxedo. (Never say “Garcon.” Never. They don’t like that.)

With the completion of every course, a member of staff will come over to clear the table. When they collect the plates, the French waiter will ask, “And ‘ow wuss your deesh?”
Me: “Fantastic.”
Amy: “Delicious!”
No matter what the dish, whether it was good or not, whether it was the best thing ever or it tasted like soap, Amy and I are somehow pre-programed to make these responses.
“Did you enjoy the foie gras?”
Me: “Fantastic.”
Amy: “Delicious!”
“Did you enjoy the leeks and carrot foam?”
Me: “Fantastic.”
Amy: “Delicious!”
“Did you enjoy your McNuggets?”
Me: “Fantastic.”
Amy: “Delicious!”

We need to get a new schtick. The waiter will also take out his “crumber” to clear all the breadcrumbs off the tablecloth. Amy’s bread plate looks immaculate, with a few small crumbs and a little dab of butter. My bread plate and the surrounding area look like the bombing of Dresden, with massive flakes and crumbs scattered all over, and a glob of butter rubbed into the tablecloth under one side of the plate. Again: “Er…sorry about that…” Not to be trusted.

Invariably the meat course will come out, sometimes duck in a wine reduction with some pureed parsnips, and sometimes venison in a wine reduction with some pureed parsnips. Other times you’ll actually get a small piece of steak in a wine reduction with pureed parsnips.

This always needs to be bigger. I’m not talking about the old ‘96er here, but I’d like more than two bites, because duck, venison, or steak, it’s always damn good and I want more of it. And here’s another thing: the wine reduction is nice and sweet and yummy and then it runs into the parsnip puree, and it creates these pink gelatinous globs of flavor that I just can’t pick up with the fork, and so it’s spread in a thin layer in the corners of the dish, and you didn’t give me a spoon with this course, and damnit, if I was at home, I’d just pick up my Crate and Barrel plate and lick this delicious mess clean!

“Did you enjoy the venison?”
Me: “Fantastic.”
Amy: “Delicious!”
Time for another glass of Spanish Red, poured by a guy I’ve now nicknamed “Spanish Red,” despite his clearly being French.

Now it’s dessert time, but not before a small tray of four tiny cookies the size of mints is placed before us. This one is walnut, this one is cinnamon, this one is oatmeal, and this one is shortbread. We inhale them.

“Would you like to pair a dessert wine with the next course?”
(Here we go again, positions everyone…)
“What do you suggest?”
“Well, perhaps you’d like a sauternes, or a white port? Maybe a cognac is more to your liking?”
“Yes, of course, since I’ve chosen the mango compote passion-fruit sorbet with white chocolate shavings and raspberry syrup, I believe I have no option but to choose the white port with this, because it’s the second one you mentioned, I’ve heard of it, and I’m pretty sure I had it before, and I think I might have even liked it!”
“Right away, sir!”

The dessert, no matter what, is always fantastic and delicious (of course), and it’s just as you’re finishing dessert that the chef comes out to greet the room. I’m normally dipping my napkin in the water glass just as he walks up to our table, because I’ve got to clean an errant drop of red raspberry syrup off my shirt pocket. This is why I’m not allowed to pour the wine. We’re greeted:
“Good evening!”
Amy and I, in unison: “Hello, Chef!”
(we’ve clearly seen too much Food Network).
“Did you enjoy the meal?”
Me: “Fantastic.”
Amy: “Delicious!”
“Great. What was your favorite dish?”
Me: “I really liked the veal.”
“You liked the veal?”
Me: “Yes, it was…”
Chef: “Which veal?”
Amy: “You mean the venison?”
Me: “Of course, the venison, that’s what I meant…FAN-tastic.”
(and memorable!)
“And you, miss?”
Amy: “I really enjoyed the red snapper. And the dessert was great. I also really found the wine pairings very interesting, especially the pairing of the…
(As Amy continues, this is where I notice that I also have a big red splotch of raspberry syrup on my right hand as well, the hand I just used to shake with the chef. I hide my hand under the table).
“And where are you from?”
“We’re from New York.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful. You’re on holiday?”
“Yes, it’s been great.”
“Are you staying at the (insert name of fancy boutique hotel here)?”
“No, we’re at the (insert name of cheap tourist hotel here).”
“Oh, yes, well…that’s very nice.”

The meal has come to a close, and we get the check. With it comes a pair of canneles. These delectable French treats are like little carmelized rubber bullets you eat in two bites. Delicious rubber bullets, though, with a moist inside and semi-crunchy carmelized exterior. It’s probably my favorite part of the meal, with the exception of the veal. Er, the venison. We pay and stand up to leave the table. I notice my shirt is somehow untucked. I have no idea how. I turn and tuck it in quickly, but of course, we’re in the middle of the room, and there’s no suave way to do this. We go to gather our coats.

As I help Amy put her coat on, the coat-check girl asks us the inevitable:
“How was your meal?”
Me: “Fantastic.”
Amy: “Delicious!”
Time to get the shirt cleaned, then fold it and pack it in the duffle bag with the green khakis.