My sister drove me to the airport in Oklahoma City. We’d left the house before dawn, the bobbing oil wells at work pumping light into the sky as we hummed along the highway. The handful of tallish buildings that make up downtown were barely visible on the horizon.

At the airport, I found that United had once again canceled my seat reservations. Not a single flight’s seat assignment had survived, and I ended up forking out $119 just to get a seat that wasn’t a middle seat on the long flight from Chicago to Tokyo.

During the inevitable stage of TSA initiation maneuvers, the guard asked me if I had a shirt on underneath my sweatshirt. When I said yes, he told me to take off my sweatshirt; prudery is apparently a more important motivation than actual security. At the gate, near the store selling headrests decorated with the US flag, not only were members of the military allowed to board first, the airport staff told everyone in the waiting area to give them a round of applause. Everyone clapped, looking around to see if anyone wasn’t clapping; I kept looking at my phone. I’d stopped asking questions by the time they said I could only have two carry-ons and would I please stuff my camera bag inside another bag to comply and then take it out again on the other side of the door. I suppose that’s the point; wear people down with enough idiocy and they’ll fall in line just to save the trouble of arguing.

The bright, perky woman at the gate in Chicago recognized my W&L sweatshirt, and told me she was a “W&L mom”. I felt embarrassed by her chatter as other people were behind me waiting to be served. She told me that my seating assignments had vanished because United was changing its seating configuration from 2-5-2 to 3-3-3. “Be glad you’re on the 3-3-3…they’ve got seatback video screens!” she told me, apparently unaware that the rest of the world has had those in airplanes for years now.

We were on our way to Tokyo when I realized that I hadn’t gone through any sort of customs or immigration checkpoint. Is that normal? I have no idea. I watched movie after movie over the course of the flight along  the top of the world,movies like Captain America, Transformers 3, Lost Swordsman, Hangover 2, sprinkled with various TV programs like Monk and Family Guy episodes I’d seen before. I concluded that I was glad I hadn’t seen any of the films in the theater as it would have been a waste of time. But there on the airplane with nothing to do for half a day, they were a welcome distraction. Another distraction, though not a particularly welcome one, was the announcement, “Is there anyone on board…”

…who can fly a plane? I added mentally during the ensuing, unsettling pause. But the message went on, “…who is a doctor or medic or fireman?” That’s odd, I thought. Half an hour later they came back on, asking for diabetics with insulin, and I wondered if someone had had his or her medicine confiscated for security theater performance-related reasons and were now in trouble as a result. But we didn’t hear any more.

In Tokyo, we all went through more screening, scuffling the churchwalk line into the X-ray machine once again as Japan doesn’t seem to trust the original airport screening. It was a good thing I didn’t have a connecting flight any time soon; in fact, I wouldn’t have minded a day or two in Tokyo to decompress, but I didn’t have the time. Instead I lay down on a sofa near the gate for a couple of hours trying to figure out how to utilize the free wifi.

The flight back to Taipei left, and arrived, early. Having no checked baggage and utilizing the new facial recognition-powered automatic immigration gates at the airport, I literally didn’t have to break step until I stepped on the bus back to the city. Chenbl was waiting for me, and I was crossing the bridge at Bitan only an hour or so after we’d touched down. It was good to be back, a relief to be in familiar, comfortable surroundings once again.

So that’s my trip to the US; two weeks of bizarrity in the land o’ plenty. Hope you enjoyed the show. I’ll probably have a video of it up at some point.

I was glad I’d seen my parents on this trip. It was interesting, and I learned quite a bit about things, questions I’d stored up in my head to ask them when I had the chance….things like why we moved around so much, what various years before my birth were like, etc.

My parents drove me back to Norman, back to my sister’s house, in the late morning. We arrived. I was dropped off. My parents didn’t go inside. They drove away, and I have no idea when I’ll see them again.

My sister Leslie was taking me to a local shin-dig that evening, to be attended by her friends and their friends and whomever else showed up; we went to a store for snacks and stuff, and once again I was awed by the sheer, unadulterated embarrassment of riches that is the typical American grocery. Aisles and aisles containing 87 versions of everything you can think of. I don’t recall them being that way when I was a kid; I don’t even recall them being that way the last time I was in the states, just over a decade ago.

Lunch was burgers at Sonic with vanilla Dr. Pepper, though I couldn’t really taste the vanilla; it’s one kind of sugar mixed with another kind of sugar, and I just couldn’t taste the difference. Interestingly enough, the servers at Sonic don’t take tips, though it seems to me that they work harder than most waitstaff. We stopped by a liquor store in search of CC rye whiskey, and were directed to the whiskey aisle, and then the rye aisle, where we found more or less what we were looking for. Leslie was interested in trying my preferred drink comprised of rye and ginger ale.

Our gracious host Kim had just gotten off work when we arrived and still sported her “work hair”, which I thought was actually very cool, but she appeared later with regular hair which was also cool, and she’s such a cool person it didn’t make much of a difference. There were all kinds of food as well as a chocolate cake; the frosting bowl was in the sink, and I helped myself to several fingers of the delicious stuff, feeling like a particularly tall eight-year-old. People congregated on the back porch, beyond which stretched a comfortable, distinctly un-manicured lawn. Trains hooted in the distance as evening fell. I was asked many things by many people, and met a woman from Southern China who had brought egg rolls and many other dishes. One man emerged from the house wearing a small Nikon on a Black Rapid strap, but he took it off and put it on the table instead of taking any photos. I had the rabbit with me and took a few shots, but this vacation hadn’t really called for photography; I was seldom alone long enough in one place to get a feel for it, much less explore and take the shots I usually take. That’s ok, though; I’ve long felt that photos are always there if we need them.

One woman was asking a lot of financial questions about the Water Curtain Cave, which was a bit strange. Later I learned that she was a bit of a prude and would have loved to screwed with her a bit, but I didn’t know to do so at the time. Another couple who was known for their stories of adventure and daring-do in Taiwan failed to show, which was disappointing; I’d been looking forward to chatting with them.

The evening ended reluctantly; I was tired and had to get up early for my return to the other side of the planet, a day-long journey, but before I left Kim and her husband led me on a great round of 20-or-30 questions. My favorite books, movies, sci-fi series, superheroes, etc. It was great fun.

I slept poorly again in the home of my parents.

We visited the Chickasaw Cultural Center, a spanking-new institution outside the town of Sulphur, staffed by Chickasaw and featuring tasteful and informative exhibitions on Chickasaw stories, culture and legends. The tone was moderate, even subdued in the face of the horrors of history, but I thought it was very well done.

Back home after a lunch of huge barbeque sandwiches, we watched Jeopardy in between commercials for food that caused conditions treated by medicine advertised in the other commercials.

After dinner I went along with my father to walk their two dogs, strangely silent creatures that show their need for affection while never making a sound. Eerie. On the next street we encountered my parents’ Chinese neighbors, who are from Shanghai and have two kids, both born in the US. Their English wasn’t the best, so we spoke in Mandarin. The husband was working on genetically-modified food research at a well-funded local institution, and we talked about that as well as their opinions of the differences in eastern and western societies. Their son, who looked to be about six, didn’t speak Chinese very well. I would have liked to have chatted with them longer as they seemed like interesting people in the face of my isolation, but the dogs were struggling to get at a local cat, so we had to move on.

That night I retreated into my guestroom after tiptoeing around the scatterings of pillows and chatted online with a Seminole fellow who lived in the area.

I slept poorly last night due to not being used to the place, the ceiling fan noise, and the place, though it’s quiet enough; only the occasional freight train breaks the rhythm of the crickets. My parents aren’t used to the idea of wifi and the Internet on one’s phone, and see wifi as a kind of appliance that you only turn on to do something, like a toaster. And they have a magnificent toaster.

We drove downtown to have lunch at a grand Mexican restaurant located in an old furniture store, the central atrium open to the patterned ceiling above. Afterwards we drove around the area looking at houses, houses and more houses, including the one where my father was literally born, where he played with the other kids in an empty lot, the house in which I remember my grandparents living, etc.

Back at the house, I spent a couple of hours leafing through old yearbooks. My parents have pretty much thrown most of my stuff out, which they claim was with my permission, though I don’t recall that. I also went through several old photobooks, selecting a few here and there to scan onto my USB drive. Some are old and faded, and will need some color adjustments.

I went out with dad when he walked the dogs around the block; it’s a very quiet neighborhood, mostly older people, mostly white with some Indians and one Chinese family down the block. We ate dinner while watching Wheel! Of! Fortune! (hosted by ageless aliens) and then watched some British cop shows.

Another beautiful day; Keith had to go to work in the morning, so Leslie and I foresook the collection of exhuberantly depressing medical ads that comprises US television programing and went out for lunch at her favorite Mexican place, home of good, genuine food and smexxxy accents. I had flautas with beans and rice, and was immediately taken back to times when we went out for dinner when I was a kid, and I was the only one in the family who didn’t like Mexican food. Well, I like it now, though I still don’t take to spicy stuff.

After lunch we drove to downtown Norman and walked across the railroad tracks along Main Street, stopping by at a hippie-themed store where half of the Taoist symbols were upside-down, with the black yin part on top instead of the white yang part. I mentioned this to the owner, but she just rolled her eyes. They also had the Gayly, a homosexual-themed monthly newsletter that manages to cover the five most homophobic states in the union without the aid of a proper editor.

After stopping at a Sonic for soft drinks roughly the size of the late Herve Villachaize, we went back to Leslie’s place, where the dogs, predictably, had forgotten who I was. Then again, they forgot who I was if I changed shirts or turned around while they weren’t looking. I got my stuff together and we set out for the outskirts of Ardmore, where our parents now live. It was a nice drive; the sun was setting over the big “Ardmore Tigers”-themed water tower as we pulled into the driveway. Leslie stayed for dinner and some chatting on the back porch before she departed for home again.

It’s odd to be in this house, which I have never seen before, yet filled with objects familiar from my childhood. Lamps, furniture, knick-knacks…things I’d forgotten all about, yet hold little shocks of recognition from another life.

I awoke this morning to a canine chorus around 8 o’clock. The sun was brilliant outside, and the day quickly warmed to T-shirt levels. Keith, Leslie and I drove out to downtown Oklahoma City to a renovated warehouse district full of restaurants, clubs and a canal down which yellow tourist boats chugged, scattering the ducks. Lunch was at one of the restaurants; I had a burger and Leslie catfish with cornflakes, Keith had one of the largest chicken-fried steaks I’ve ever seen on one plate. Portion control, America, portion control.

After lunch we headed over to the Murrah building memorial, which consists of a long reflecting pool where the street once was, and a smooth green lawn with empty chairs, one for each victim, 168 in all. The smaller chairs were for the children. It was very solemn, elegant and effective. Next to the park is the memorial museum, which provides much more detail and accounts of the tragedy on three floors, beginning with having visitors go through the day up to the point of the explosion, and then having them sit in a dark room listening to a court recording that captured the explosion, and the lights flash as it happens. It is a hard-hitting display, and I rushed through the latter portions as I felt emotionally exhausted and just wanted out of there.

We sat in the park for a while, decompressing and watching the TV news helicopters hovering in the sky nearby, and then getting in the car and driving over to the OU campus. Leslie pointed out the place where our parents were living when she was born (they were still in college at the time), and we got some drinks at a nearby Starbucks and sat out on the sidewalk drinking and reminiscing. It was very pleasant.

The sun was lowering in the sky as we drove back to their house, getting some pizza on the way. The pizza wasn’t cooked, just prepared to be cooked, which it was in only 15 minutes, and it tasted fine. We watched a very entertaining police comedy with Simon Pegg, and then Hot Tub Time Machine, which I’ve been meaning to see for a while now. As we watched, all of the shy cats of the house gradually made appearances for the first time, and the dogs even remembered who I was for more than five minutes of the time. I think feeding them pizza crust helped in that regard, though I doubt they’ll still remember me in the morning.

A brilliant morning accompanied a visit to a local Shaker village, or at least what remains of one as no actual Shakers live there today. But what remains of Pleasant Hill is quite substantial, building-wise. Kevin and Ann and I arrived to find what appeared to be elderly bikers building stone walls by the parking lot.

The Shakers were pretty advanced for their times, technologically speaking, as well as organizationally; modern corporations could have modeled themselves on the Shaker hierarchy, which did not allow voting, and whose ranking was based solely on whom the upper management felt was “pious” enough. They allowed no fraternization between the sexes, no marriages, no couples, no childbirth. Scholars are still puzzled as to how they could have died out.

All of the non-stone buildings in the village were painted yellow, by decree, while all the barns were black. It was a pleasant, quiet setting, though the guides told of violence and infighting and secessions among the various families. The Shakers, like many sects before and since, felt that Christ had come again in the form of their founder.

But it was time for me to leave Kentucky; I said good-bye to Ann and the kids in their lovely home in the afternoon sun, and Kevin drove me to the airport, where even the TSA people were friendly. I sat down in the terminal, sad to be leaving, and waited for my flight on the little plane to Chicago.

The view from the plane was wonderful; the sun set in a red fire among fleeing clouds, and we flew out over the massive lake and past the great Metropolis sticking out into the sky and the water, surrounded by an expansive network of lights. I had to piss like a racehorse and jumped up immediately as the seatbelt signs went out. Our pilot had sounded supremely cool over the intercom, and when I went by the cockpit on the way out, I saw that he looked supremely cool as well. He put on a jacket and joined the rest of us on the tarmac as the last of the day’s light leaked out of the sky.

The layover in Chicago was two hours, so I went to buy a sandwich. “How much is this?” I asked the tired-looking middle-aged woman at the register.

“Ten dollars,” she said.

“Ok,” I said. She looked surprised.

“You serious?”

“Man’s gotta eat.” She just shrugged.

“I suppose so.”

Back in the waiting area, I queried a Chinese man about his package containing a paper lantern; he was from Beijing, with that most notable of accents.

I boarded the same little aircraft that I’d exited, but the attendent was now a Latino man who looked like he might have been dangerous at some point; his accent was lovely. I noticed that these days, members of the military are allowed on planes first. I had no idea they were doing that now.

My sister Leslie and her husband Keith met me at Oklahoma City airport and drove me to their home. They have many dogs and many cats, and their house is a much closer approximation to mine that Kevin’s in terms of order. We chatted a bit as the animals got used to me, but now it’s very late and time for some rest.

I woke up at 8am this morning so we could go return the rental car. I followed Kevin to the airport, watching the gas gauge drop to almost empty, and surrendured the trusty Civic to its owners a bit reluctantly. It was good to be out on the open road again for a bit, just me and my thoughts, despite the endless country radio stations. I’d filled the car’s fuel tank up beforehand at a donut shop, using my credit card as you can do that now.

Later Kevin drove me to a nearby horse-racing track, and we walked through the stables to the stands, where we watched the magnificent beasts trotting, walking, ambling and galloping resonantly around, huffing the cool morning air while compact figures muttered in their ears from perches in the saddle. Many of the riders were Mexican, but others were Irish. One of the Irish riders rode close by and, seeing my camera, said, “A bloke came out here with his little camera in the morning one time, flashing us as we went by. How’d you like it if I flashed you at 5:30 in the bleedin’ morning?”

I held up the Rabbit and pointed to the featureless top. “No flash here, mate. And it’s a wide-angle lens, so no telephoto shots either.” The rider seemed satisfied at this, though he probably wondered what the hell I was taking pictures of out there.

We retired to the canteen, where we breakfasted on sausages, eggs, biscuits and gravy, a heavy meal that weighed on me for the better part of the day. The green, 60’s-era decor matched the grass and trees outside the windows.

Afterward we went to a few local grocery stores, which offered an embarrassment of riches in the form of everything you could ever conceive of putting in your mouth, and more.

In the afternoon we visited a local bourbon distillery and factory that offers tours. I’m not a particular bourbon fan, but the history of the place, which goes back to 1812, is interesting. We were taken through the entire process, from the bubbling vats of goo to the barrelling to the tour guide offering us a sniff of boubon from a cask to a glimpse of an extraordinarily fat, old cat snoozing just outside by the grate where the guide had reluctantly emptied his glass. After the tour we got a shot glass of the finished product. The bourbon was strong; the shot glasses were plastic. “You can keep the glasses!” the woman at the counter shouted.

Ann’s family, including her parents, brother, sister-in-law and nephew, came over for dinner, which was hamburgers and hot dogs from the backyard grill as the daylight faded and the air assumed a crisp autumn temperment I haven’t experienced in years. The key to enjoying crisp autumn air, of course, is a nice warm house in which to retreat for dinner and a good book, preferably with friendly but well-behaved dogs, by a real fire in a real fireplace. We talked about books and movies and travel and all sorts of things; it was a fascinating night of conversation, as the kids played down in the basement.

Tomorrow’s my last day in Kentucky; I’ll be flying to Oklahoma, via Chicago for some reason, tomorrow night.

The sky was cloudy when I got up and climbed the sloping floor of my room to the window overlooking Main Street, but the sun came out as I made my over to the Red House, where I discovered that I was mistaken in believing that Chinese was not taught anymore at W&L. In fact, there are now two Chinese professors, one from Shanghai and one from Taipei, as well as a teaching assistant (I think). I chatted with both professors, and it seems that the Chinese program is in good hands. One of the teachers, Professor Hu from Shanghai, is ensconced in Dr. Hill’s old office. The other teacher is Professor Ma from Taiwan, and she and I discussed Taiwan’s political situation in the hallway before she began her class.

I walked over to the J-school to visit Professor de Maria again in his office. We had another great chat about the school, the faculty, the students, politics, etc. I was feeling better about W&L after that than I did last night, when all I wanted to do was leave. Now I had to leave and I kind of wanted to linger, seek out Dr. Jeans and talk with him, as well as Colonel Brodie.

But checkout was noon, my rental car was due back, and I didn’t want to drive at night, so I packed my stuff, noting that I’d missed the hotel’s breakfast. After an omlette-and-cupcake brunch at Sweet Treats, I got in the car, filled up the tank, and set out past Gaines, stopping at the ruins of Liberty Hall, and then on the road again. The scenery was wonderful; I wanted to stop here and there to photograph various picturesque scenes, but this doesn’t really work from a car, and in any case I was on a schedule.

As I got on the freeway heading back west, however, I felt uneasy, like I’d left my visit somehow unfinished, and I kept glancing at the odometer, wondering if I should turn back, find the people I wanted to meet but hadn’t, maybe stay another night. When would I be back there again, after all?

But I didn’t stop, didn’t turn around; I kept driving, through the patches of rain, all the way to Kentucky. 365 miles in about five hours. I just gave Kevin and his family the gifts I brought from Taiwan; they were very happy, which was nice to see. Tomorrow night we’re having dinner with Ann’s family, which should be interesting.