Automatic doors slide open, decoying invitation. I follow my dad silently to the back of the store–wet boots squeaking softly on linoleum tile, a trail of puddles tracking us. He studies a bottle of red, nodding pensively. “Aus-tray-lee-ah,” he draws out the word, turning over the syllables in his palate before repeating it in mother tongue, “澳洲.” As if he hasn’t procured the same bottle of liquor for a decade. “Aus-tray-lee-ah 酒!” he declares.