Call Me Charlie

Issue 330

You guys,

It was our kids’ first sushi experience. We’d just arrived in New York City for two weeks, and my in-laws took us out for Omakase, where you sit at the counter at a Japanese restaurant and the chef places sushi in front of you, one piece at a time.

We’d been on the go ever since we left Uruguay, first spending three nights in New Jersey with my family before riding the train into the city this morning. Our excessive luggage had proved a problem, with me and Sam each pushing two suitcases forward a few feet, then moving backwards to retrieve another, while a line of people behind us stood eager to sit, and the train had already started moving.

This was our new life. We’d be living out of suitcases all summer long, until our next three-month stint in Japan. When I’d started packing up at my parents’ house the night before, my mom made multiple comments like, “I could never live like that,” always with a chuckle, as if to be a joke, her real feelings about our nomadic lifestyle just barely beneath the surface of her words.

Up until this point George and Layla had been traveling champs. They always seemed ready for the next leg, the next adventure. If dinner was a disaster—if they were too hungry and too tired to try anything new—maybe we could just order a side of rice and some kind of chicken.

When we entered the restaurant—the same place my in-laws had taken me many times before, only one block from their apartment, where we all knew the chef by name—the host sat us at our usual spot at the low L-shaped counter. We gave the kids the best seats, directly in front of Chef Hojo, and put Grandpa between them. In the nearly ten times I’d eaten here, I’d never seen children sit in these seats. I was relieved that Hojo and the other two chefs behind the counter were smiling so affectionately at the kids.

They started with a shared bowl of miso soup, happily slurping the broth with tofu bits. When the first piece of sushi was placed in front of them—seared tuna on a rice cake with a cucumber slice—my first thought, besides how delicious it was going to taste, was that it was way too big to fit in their mouths, and it would be too difficult to eat in small bites. I sat on the other side of Layla and ate my piece first so she could see, then I offered to hold hers for her but she said, “No I got it,” and went in for a bite. And then another, and another, until it was gone.

Piece after piece was placed in front of the kids, and they tried all of it—George even ate uni, which I won’t go near because of its mushy texture and weird umami flavor. With each piece they ate, Layla gave us her little thumbs up, which, to an onlooker, just looks like a closed palm with the thumb resting on the side. When we asked if they wanted a spicy tuna handroll to end the meal, I watched Layla chomp on the seaweed roll in her hand, eating more than half of it.

On Monday, the kids started summer camp in the city, eight blocks from the apartment. We dropped them off in their separate classrooms with their new camp counselors and new campmates. George smiled and waved goodbye to us, while Layla clung to me a little longer, as she typically does in a school setting. I finally told the teacher that Layla might do well if the teacher started an activity with her, and when the teacher asked if she wanted to draw a picture with her, Layla said yes and let go of my hand.

For the rest of the week, when the kids weren’t at day camp, the four of us rode the bus and subway and walked the city streets together. We ate at restaurants where the kids were accustomed to waiting a long time for food, and if they whined or spoke too loudly, we reminded them that we were going to Japan soon—where the culture values quiet—and it was important to keep the harmony. At one upscale restaurant we ordered donuts for dessert. I cut George’s into four small pieces, and when he dropped one on the floor I could see that he was about to burst into tears. He started to cry and I tried to silent him. Then Layla took a donut from her plate and put it on his.

“Thanks, Layla,” George whimpered, relieved, and Layla said to all of us, “Me and George look out for each other.”

When I was at my parents’ house, my sister asked how long we were planning to travel like this, if there was an ending to it. My mom sat next to her, listening.

There’s something about these questions that never sit well with me. There were few questions about our travels to Uruguay. Anything I told them came from me offering it, not because they asked.

I wanted to tell her, We’ll travel as long as it continues to be amazing. But they don’t see what’s so amazing about it. They see suitcases and chaos and us running from one place to the next. After New York, we’ll go to Park City, Utah for a week with Sam’s family, then spend the month of August in Charlotte at his parents’ house, then a week in northern California before the big trip to Japan in September for three months. After that, Spain, Montenegro, Italy, potentially France.

I tell my sister that as long as the kids are thriving, and we’re all thriving, we’ll do it for as long as we can.

My version of thriving is unsettling to my sister and my mom. The kids need roots, routine, the same teacher for a whole year, the same core group of friends, probably a sports team, right? What kind of life is it for a child who doesn’t play a sport five days a week?

But I want my kids to see the world, learn a different language, look people in the eyes when they speak to them, and feel comfortable talking to adults. I want them to try new foods, try new things, meet people who are different from them. And I want them to have each other’s backs, because they will know each other longer than they will know anyone else in this life.

After living in our big house in the suburbs for five years, it still looked as if we had just moved in. The repose gray walls were empty of pictures or art. The rooms were too big to fill, and furniture and all those things that you need to fill a room are expensive. I didn’t know what I wanted so I did nothing. I felt like a bad homeowner.

Living in this way, for three months at a time in different parts of the world, is the first thing that feels completely invigorating, exciting, and right.

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Until next week,

Charlie