My ramen dinner. I would've taken a wider shot if I could've moved my seat any farther back.

The process starts deceptively simply. Outside the door of the restaurant, there’s a little machine with pictures of various dishes and their corresponding prices. You put your money in and get a little ticket. I’m figuring that for someone like me who doesn’t speak Japanese, this is pretty much as simple as ordering food gets.

No. If your experience is like mine,  the nice hostess shows you up a cramped, dark stairway and hands you a laminated card. You take a seat at the L-shaped bar, using what little space there is between the stools and the wall to squeeze past the other patrons without touching them inappropriately. The six other seats are filled by people who obviously know how this works. When you sit down and consult the card, you realize the whole ticket thing downstairs was just a ruse to lull you into the false sense that there was nothing mysterious about ramen.

The card is an English translation of the sheet that someone hands you from behind the bar. You can’t see who it is, because the area behind the bar is pitch dark and whoever’s back there seems to be on some sort of platform because his or her head is way above where your head is, and anyway, you can’t see that high because there’s a banner hanging over the bar that blocks your view. All you see is an arm emerging from the darkness to take your ticket and hand you some kind of checklist. Turns out that ticket you bought was actually your admission to the World of Customized Ramen.

The checklist allows you to specify, on a range from 1 to 5, how you would like your ramen prepared in seven distinct categories: noodle thickness, noodle firmness, pork or no pork, leeks or no leeks, spiciness, oiliness, and, if I recall correctly, something about sauce. (By the time I got to the seventh category, I was a little overwhelmed.) Fortunately, they had suggested levels for first-timers. I went with those, except on the oiliness scale, where I took it down a notch.

In the few moments I had before my noodles arrived, I helped myself to a glass of water from my own personal tap, and declined to put a coin in the tiny coin-operated red lantern that demarcated each spot at the bar.

The disembodied hand returned to serve me my bowl of noodles. And I must say, it was delicious.

A must-see for any 3-year-old boy traveling to Japan.

Pre-trip Planning

Eleven-hour flight.

A 3-year-old boy abroad.

We might be insane.

Sightseeing Priorities

For you, Japan is

temples and cherry blossoms.

For us? Garbage trucks.

Dining Logistics, I

Similar in shape,

chopsticks are not for sucking,

nor straws for grabbing.

Dining Logistics II

You can lead a boy

to conveyor-belt sushi,

but you can’t make him eat.

Souvenir Purchasing I

In any language,

“Some assembly required”

means trouble for Dad.

Souvenir Purchasing II

Sadly, we lack both

the bowl and the paperwork

to bring home goldfish.

Stroller in the City I

Shibuya Crossing

is not fit for baby strollers

nor agoraphobes. 

Stroller in the City II

Stairs are the only

way to the elevator.

It’s a zen koan.

Purification fountain, Kiyomizudera, Kyoto

If you’re planning to visit any temples in Japan with a small child, and you cling tightly to your own religious principles and rituals, be forewarned: Your kids might convert to Shintoism or Buddhism. Or both. It didn’t take long for our son to realize that these were his kinds of religions. Hoping to offend no one, I offer my interpretation of what our three-year-old viewed as the most important aspects of Japanese religious rituals:

No shoes. Unlike having to dress up for church, at some temples you actually have to take off your shoes.

Fire. In the form of burning candles and incense, which you get to light. Plus, the incense makes smoke that smells good.

Noisemakers. Specifically gongs, with long ropes attached, which, again, you get to ring.

Coin toss. Before you ring the gong, you usually toss a coin into a big box. And it’s much easier to throw it in the prayer box than it is to win a prize at a carnival.

Bowing. Which our son learned to do from the Wiggles’ song “Rock-A-Bye Your Bear.” (They listen to the Wiggles at school, not in our house, I swear.)

Clapping. Clapping=Something good just happened!

Water toys. Some temples had purification stations with long-handled wooden ladles for scooping up water to rinse your hands. For a toddler, they’re more for scooping and dumping out, scooping and dumping out, scooping and dumping out–OK, buddy, we gotta go–scooping and dumping out.

I appreciated that our son found these rituals so accessible, and that no one seemed to mind if he tried them out or if he didn’t do them just right. Again, no offense to anyone, but it certainly gives you a different vibe on religious ritual than the one you get walking into Notre Dame.

Taiyaki stand near Shibuya Crossing, Tokyo

I just got back from a trip to Japan with my wife and three-year-old son. I wasn’t sure if the whole experiential travel thing would work with a kid. But I’m now convinced it can. Traveling with our son opened doors to the Japanese culture I never would have opened otherwise. In fact, it was so cool that I think destinations should offer rental toddlers to visitors, just so everyone can see what it’s like. I’ll write a few posts about our experiences, but I’ll start with the most tangible impact of traveling with a cute kid: People give the kid stuff. I kept track. Here’s what our son scored.

A ballon in the shape of the strange froglike creature we saw all over Tokyo’s Asukasa neighborhood. Given by the clerk at a laquerware shop.

A sticker from a stand selling fish-shaped sandwiches (taiyaki) near Tokyo’s Shibuya Crossing.

An origami ball from a souvenir saleswoman near Kyoto’s silver temple.

An origami thing that looked like a kissing mouth, made by the concierge at the Keio Plaza Hotel in Tokyo.

Glittery bug stickers , given to us by a flight attendant as we disembarked from our flight. By the time we reached immigration, our son had bedazzled himself with them.

An extra slice of mango from the dried-fruit vendor at the market at Tenmangu temple in Kyoto.

A toothpick American flag from a sushi chef at Sushi-Go-Round in Tokyo.

A tiny toy Jeep from the Sushi-Go-Round’s waitress. (This bit of generosity made us feel better about having inadvertently violated protocol by taking a juice box from what we thought was a self-serve refrigerator. Oops! Sorry! Don’t be mad at us! Look how cute our kid is!)

Needless to say, we would’ve received none of these things had we been traveling on our own. It made us view Japan as a generous place, the kind of place where people keep little gifts around just to give to kids. And souvenirs that are given always have more of a story than ones that are bought.

Malaysia: Home of world's tallest twin towers. And fifth-friendliest people?

I recently got a press release that trumpeted, “Malaysia Ranks 5th Amongst World’s Friendliest Countries.”

The first thing that struck me was how un-American it was to tout being fifth at anything. When was the last time you heard a crowd chanting, “We’re number five! We’re number five!” But ranking fifth among all the countries in the world is pretty good, I’d say. So, go Malaysia!

Then I wondered how “friendliness” was determined. As a traveler, that’s an issue that’s always puzzled me. I’m always suspicious when people come back from a trip raving, “and the people were so friendly.” It’s hard to say this without sounding grumpy, but it bugs me for a couple reasons. First, it’s a stereotype, even if it’s a positive one. You wouldn’t say, “and the people were so ugly.” I’m betting that anywhere you go, there are friendly people and unfriendly people. Second, in many cases, we travelers deal with people who are supposed to be friendly. They work at hotels or restaurants or drive cabs or lead hiking trips. It’s in their interest to be friendly. But I am willing to admit that people in certain countries do give off a warmer vibe than those in other countries. Hence my puzzlement.

Turns out the release was referring to the Expat Explorer Survey conducted by the bank HSBC, which asks expatriates to rate their adopted countries on a range of quality-of-life issues. It’s got some interesting stuff in there. For instance, most expats say their quality of life is better than it would be in their home country. And that while half of expats in Thailand say that they have they found love, only 4 percent of expats in India or Qatar have.

And it turns out things get complicated on the friendliness front. Malaysia actually ranks fourth (not fifth) in “Making Friends” but 14th in “Making Local Friends.” So it’s a good place for expats to make friends with each other–and it’s the best place in the world for finding a school for your expat kids, apparently–but not as good for making friends with Malaysians. Brazil and South Africa are tops on the local friend front.

If you had to rank the friendliest places you’ve been, who wins? Why?

Photo by Ramil Sagun.

Dear Santa, I would like a subscription to Afar. And an edible hat.

In the second issue of Afar, on newsstands now, writer Christopher Hall takes readers on a delicious romp through Spain, sampling tapas wherever he goes. His dining companion in Madrid was Alicia Ríos, a woman who has a passionate, creative, wacky relationship with food. She makes hats out of meat, bakes entire cities, and constructs Flemish galleons from fruit. If you’re looking for inspiration or if you’ve just seen one too many holiday fruitcakes, check out Alicia’s Web site, alicia-rios.com. I recommend the Edible Representations page. 

Thanks to all of you who have helped Afar get off to such a great start this year. Happy holidays!

Two of my favorite things: boots and duct tape

In honor of Thanksgiving (tomorrow in the USA), here’s a list of things for which, as a traveler, I’m thankful. Please add to the list.

Ziploc bags

Reclining bus seats

Wide-brimmed hats

Hostel kittens

Duct tape

Long e-mails from friends back home

Fellow passengers who tell you when you’ve reached your stop

Foreign grocery stores

Birds

The ubiquity of chocolate

Sturdy hiking boots

Mosquito nets

Public restrooms

My wife’s mastery of logistics

Dulce de leche

Photo by Daniel Case.

Just another lagom day in Sweden.

In Afar’s second issue, which hit newsstands yesterday, you can read about the Swedish word lagom in the Talk department. Here’s an audio file of how to pronounce it.

When I grow up, I want to have that guy’s voice.

Photo by Per Ola Wiberg.

Argentina loves Pearl Jam. So I love Argentina.

My wife and I were dining on Knorr soup and rice crackers in a hostel in San Martín de los Andes, Argentina, when I heard something surprising. The radio was on, and it was playing some sort of public service announcement. But the background music was an obscure song by Pearl Jam. (The song doesn’t even have a title. It’s indicated by a red dot on the track listing of the “Yield” album.)

For some reason, it made me feel good, and now, years later, I still remember that moment. I don’t think it’s just because I’m a Pearl Jam fan. I think it was because I was suffering from a kind of homesickness, but not the kind that can be sated by a trip to McDonald’s or Starbucks. Hearing an odd song by my favorite band somehow made Argentina feel friendlier. Not that it had ever been unfriendly. But now I thought, this is a place where people like music that I like.

I had a similar feeling when I spotted a bootleg Oakland A’s hat at a street market in Bolivia. I doubt many Bolivians follow the A’s (although the A’s green and gold team colors do make up two thirds of the country’s flag…), but that glimpse of my life at home was somehow comforting.

I’m wondering if other travelers have had this sensation. Not the, “Oh man, I could really use some good New York pizza” homesickness, but the homesickness you weren’t aware of until you got an unexpected taste of home that soothed it. Is it that when we’re traveling, the world can sometimes feel so big and we need reminders that it’s a small world after all? Or is this an affliction that only strikes Pearl Jam/Oakland A’s fans?

Photo by edvill.