A few weeks ago, I shared things I've overheard American tourists say in Japan. This time: just the dads. At Shibuya Crossing: "Everybody stay together. EVERYBODY. ...Where's Tyler." At a vending machine: "Hot coffee. In a can. From a machine. On the street. I'm never going home." In a traditional inn: "I'm not wearing the robe." (Ten minutes later) "Take a picture of me in the robe. Do not post it." At a convenience store at midnight: "This fried chicken is better than... I'm not finishing that sentence. Your mother might hear." On a train: "I read the whole map. We're on the wrong train. Wait. We're on the right train. Don't ask me how." At a temple, whispering at full volume: "Is this the big Buddha or the other big Buddha?" And then the one I'll never forget. Fushimi Inari, 9 p.m. The mountain path with ten thousand red gates. Two hours to the top. A dad was carrying his daughter on his shoulders. Maybe seven. Fast asleep, her cheek resting on top of his head. His wife said, "Let me take her for a while." He said, "No. I got her." Then, quieter: "One of these years, she won't fit up here anymore." He climbed the rest of the mountain without putting her down. I've lived in Japan my whole life. I've never made it to the top. He did it carrying the most important thing he owns.