Teasers and flashbacks

Have to work in the morning, can't sleep, kind of sick. Answer: blog!

Remember what I said about the apartment being so big that if Dave and I wanted some private time, we could simply avoid each other for weeks at a time?

I just saw him for the first time in three days. A lot of this is busy-ness on my part--between work and a woman I'm dating waaaay on the opposite side of the city, I haven't been home much. But still, I bet you all thought I was exaggerating--which, of course, I never do.

Ha!

Teaser time: I still have like 1 or 2 more posts about the Dam Sen water park (and I may be going again this weekend, with the woman I've been seeing; not sure yet.)

I have more pics of the apartment to post--rather, I have to take them, and then post them.

I have an Very Interesting Second Date story (not the women mentioned above, but another.) Pro tip: bringing up marriage on the second date, even in the abstract, is a great way to ensure there's no third.

I also have a long post I've been scribbling in my notebook about Tet, with tons of pictures.

Last, I have a post about all kinds of random little stuff that does my head in.

Stay tuned; it's only gonna get more interesting.

A multi-part post...

in which Yours Truly once again risks life, limb, sanity, and soul braving the howling maw of Tet-related HCMC fun and Vietnamese pop culture.

I went to Dam Sen Water Park today, and wow. I'm too tired to get into it much, but I want to preview this odyssey by simply stating that there were two stages in this water park. It's not very big, with maybe a dozen water slides, and a further dozen assorted other water-esque attractions, but even so, the designers felt compelled to have two stages for...what, exactly?

Both stages were in continuous use the whole five hours I was there.

I should backtrack here and say that the Vietnamese cannot seem to resist the urge to American Idol-ize any vaguely appropriate place. Toy store? Boy band! Mall? Dance squad! Water park? Two stages with resident pop stars!

The first stage, I get. It's right when you walk in, and bam! You can see a pair of ten-year-old girls dancin' up a storm. Or the group of women in traditional Vietnamese clothing shakin' what God give 'em. Or Dam Sen Water Park's own resident pop star (!) Tranh Huy! singin' and shimmyin' and breakin' hearts. (I find leaving the terminal g's off my continuous-tense verbs adds sass, and I like sass.)

It's the second stage that baffles me. It's at the far end of an enormous wave pool. Who does this? Aren't people going to be busy, you know, playing Marco Polo and swimming? Who puts a stage at the deep end of a wave pool?

The amazing minds who designed Dam Sen water park, that's who.

Modern scienticians assure me the conversation went something like this:

"I dunno…I feel like there's a lack of something…some zazzle, some get-down-to-funkytown element just isn't all the way here yet."

"We could throw in another stage."

"Perfect! Where do we already have a bunch of people standing around, not doing anything?"

"Let's put the second stage at the deep end of the giant pool."

"No, no, people in the giant pool are gonna be playing Marco Polo and, I dunno, swi--YES! THE GIANT POOL--"

[together] "--AS LONG AS WE ADD A WAVE MACHINE!"

"Yeah, because recycled American pop tunes sung by jazz-handing tweens, and dance moves performed by wholesome yet still vaguely sexy adults, are just, just better when a metric ton of water is slapping you in the face every 8 seconds."

"God, I admire you."

Or am I Americanizing things too much?

More to come.

The apartment--excuse me, the Penthouse.

I've been known to exaggerate from time to time, and I should add that I'm also a world-renowned master of understatement (I read this on the internet, therefore it must be true.*) Thankfully, I don't need you to take my word for it when I say that the penthouse--or perhaps, le Penthouse --is probably the coolest thing on Earth since Jesus wielded Excalibur to fight off the invasion of the moon-dinosaurs.

Enjoy the pictures. And seriously, if these don't make you all want to come visit me here, then I might have to cry. You wouldn't want that on your conscience, would you?

First, the first floor. Appropriate, no?

Behind that door on the left is the laundry area, garbage chute, and a bathroom, for some odd reason.



Down that hall are two bedrooms--one of the guestrooms, which have incrrrrredible views, and my bedroom with en suite bathroom...even a tub! Though the tub is only big enough to wash one leg at a time, it's still the one of the only tubs I've seen in Vietnam. And no, it's not a bidet, it's just built for an Asian woman. Which, come to think of it, is okay.







Second floor, with a view of the atrium.



And now the guest rooms. The layout of both is the same, just as with Dave's room and mine.





Third floor solarium. I need to wait for a clearer day and take pics of the view and the rooftop terrace.







Given how Vietnam isn't big on zoning ordinances and so forth, my semi-serious idea was to open a night club. I mean, tons of Vietnamese run businesses out of their homes, right? We have no next-door neighbors right now. Throw in a hot tub, get some tables and chairs, a DJ, a minibar or two...bam! We'd be rich!

...okay, Blogger and/or my wireless are pissing me off, so I am going to post more pictures later of the 2nd floor, rooftop terrace, master suite, and so on. But this should give you an idea of what $800/month will get you in Vietnam. For real.

*Even if I wrote it myself. QED.

Happy Birthday to Me

Yesterday was my 32nd birthday.

I have nothing funny or particularly interesting to say about it, and most of you knew this already. I'm also not trying to elicit happy birthdays and whatnot, since most of you already did wish me such on Facebook or email.

Simply, birthdays make me think. What has been going on since my last birthday, what have I been doing, how do I feel; these sorts of things. Taking stock, I suppose. Perhaps it's because my birthday is also close to New Year's--especially this year, in Vietnam, when the lunar New Year happened to fall on Feb. 3rd--I also look at the world as a whole, and the slice of it my family and friends occupy.

Without going into detail, 2009 was the worst year of my life. 2010 was much, much better. 2011 will be, I hope, incredible, one of the best years of my life, as it has proven to be so far...I owe it to my family and friends, to those who helped me get through that year from Hell.

Instead of wanting birthday wishes, I want to say birthday thank-yous.

Thank you, Mom. I lack the words to convey how grateful I am, so I will have to hope that these three words will serve as a substitute until I can find some more effective way of communicating my gratitude and appreciation: I love you.

Thank you, Dad and Mary. Thank you, Marcella, Rob, and Fred. Thank you Brian, and Christine. Thank you, Fran and Laura. Newton famously said that if he'd seen far, it was because he stood on the shoulders of giants. If I am capable of finding happiness, success, and a way of giving back, it is because I have leaned on my family, and you have held me up more than I deserved.

Thank you, Grandma. We all need unconditional love. I get this from Grandma, as well as one other source.

Thank you to my other source of unconditional love--my nephew Karl. You're too young to read this, but I hope your Papa will remind you how much I love you and miss you. To you, I'm not a flawed human being--not yet--but a source of love and fun. Family, as it should be. Being your uncle has made me a better person. The hardest part of leaving California was knowing that I would not be seeing you for a long time.

A special thank you here to Dave, who both motivated me to get to Vietnam, and helped me accomplish it. I wasn't stagnating in Willits--it was a crucial time of rest and retrenchment for me, but it was also not where I wanted to be in the long run. Whether or not Saigon turns out to be that place, I undertook the biggest and giddiest move of my life in large part because of you.

Thank you, Bri. Family encompasses also those who are not bound by blood, but by mutual respect, friendship, and love. You've shown me all of those things, even when I did not feel as though I deserved them. Perhaps that is what friendship is, ultimately: a grace we can never hope to truly earn, but only to reciprocate.

Thank you to Christine, Geoff, Bryn, Jenny; all my friends, near and far. In small ways or large, you have helped me and I have been blessed--there's no other word for it--with your friendship.

Thank you to all my Clarion West friends--you're family, too. You helped me stay connected to the world outside my own head, as well as to better times, when I needed it most. Special thanks to Douglas, and Chris and Maggie. Your guys rock. I can't wait to see you all.

Thank you to Codi, Dick, and Gina. Your friendship also meant a tremendous amount to me, and kept Willits from stifling me. The opportunities I discovered through you also made my leap across the Pacific financially possible.

Thank you, Sherwood School: Shauna, Luna, the children and their families. What we give, we also may receive. I found that I like teaching, and kids, for that matter, because of the months I spent there. If all goes according to plan, I will be back for a visit later this year.

And it may sound corny, but I also need to thank the dogs: Cheza, Zak, Norton, Bogart. Simple companionship is what dogs do best. They take us out of ourselves, or perhaps take us to parts of ourselves we rarely visit on our own. I wish I could send 'em all soup bones, or take 'em for a long walk. Ah, well--next October.

So, yeah. The things I wanted most for my birthday I found I already possessed. I hope you all will come and visit me here. I love you all. I miss you all.

Brief note

I may be editing these posts from time to time, so if you come back and find things subtly different, this is why.

Or just possibly you've fallen into an alternate dimension where things are almost the same as you remember...almost.

Radar Love

I love riding motorbikes.

Until I moved to Vietnam, I'd never been on one. I'm a cautious person at heart. Riding motorcycles looked fun. It did not look fun enough to risk cracked ribs, a cracked skull, a square yard of road rash--let alone death or paralysis. So I'd gone through life, content with the prospect of dying, decades hence, without ever having ridden a motorbike.

It's not a matter of if you have an accident, all my motor-cycle riding friends assured me, it's a matter of when.

Yet why travel, what good are new experiences, if we don't find the opportunity for change? Why move around the world and stay home inside your head, with the same long-constructed notions of self? (See: tomatoes.)

Riding scared me at first. Now I love it. Especially at dusk. After sunset, when the air has cooled, with a long straight stretch of newly-laid pavement ahead of me. People don't find cars liberating for only practical reasons. Something in the human psyche--the male psyche especially, it seems to me, though this is a generalization from personal experience--responds to moving fast.

Riding those straight stretches at dusk, after sunset, the cool air rushing past, the world collapses into a tunnel of speed, as though velocity was some newly-invented toy.

Coming home, the last bridge before my building is my favorite. Cau Rach Dia is a smooth arc of concrete, flanked by orange streetlamps. At night, the water vapor rising from the channel halos those lights. The stink of smog is washed from the air. A sweep of up, then down, and beyond, the towering apartment buildings dazzle with white paint lit by a hundred white lights.

Re Viet Nam View: JapTech meets the humble ramen noodle

And now I want to introduce a segment wherein I review ordinary Vietnamese stuff, with an eye towards racist humor, demonstrating the innate superiority of Western goods (mostly made in Vietnam,) and making fun of that which I do not understand and hence secretly fear.

People eat a lot of noodles in Vietnam. Yes, yes, this is obvious, but the supermarkets here have 4 or 5 aisles with nothing but noodles. I've counted over 20 brands, and to record the number of flavors would require mathematical notation, not to mention a working knowledge of Vietnamese.

They're all pretty good, but the other day, I was in the store, and this caught my eye:

Reaction: Damn.

Images of bunny-suited Japanese techs filled my brain, working in sterile laboratory conditions to hand-create the Future Noodle, the Uber Noodle, the Noodle Messiah. Talk about effective advertising.

I bought it with instant enthusiasm, but when it came time to actually cook the noodles, I admit I felt trepidation. Would they be awesome? Terrifying? Would they unleash demon-bots from Dimension Zero on the unsuspecting world?

I failed for several minutes at opening the noodles from across the room, using a pair of scissors taped to a broom. After all, if manga has taught us anything, it's that merely opening a package of noodles MADE WITH JAPANESE TECHNOLOGY could have all sorts of unexpected side effects. Robot tentacles were probably only barely contained by the thin plastic packaging; maybe ninjas lurked inside, or crazy-haired, big-eyed girls would pop out, covering their mouths with their hands, leaping and giggling. And all of it would be outside any cultural referents I possess.

After looking around for primer cord, lasers, the Jaws of Life, and a bomb squad, I decided I was probably being silly, and just tore the package open with my teeth.

Upon waking up, I heated the water as usual. The ingredients were...I wish I could say the little flavor packs looked awesome, but to tell the truth, I couldn't see anything special or different about them. They looked like all the other noodles I'd had here: way better than American ramen--which is just salt, MSG, and pressed saturated fat--to be sure, but ultimately, just...noodles.

Where's the goddamn robot ninjas?

Still, the proof of Japan Magic Tech Future Noodle is in the eating, not the heat-crazed imaginings of the would-be chef.

I assembled the ingredients and prepared for the taste-bud rocking of a lifetime, confident I was not setting myself up with unrealistic expectations. After all, does American ramen have four--four!--different flavor packs? Hell, no. Why have that many when you can load up the MSG and simply drug people into liking your product?

And not just any flavor packets, either. There was papery green stuff; there was some kind of oily substance, possibly spicy; there was even this bouillon-looking goo that I took to be beef flavor. There was freeze-dried meat! Do we have this in American noodle technology? (Besides Cup O' Noodles, I mean.) Answer: no, we do not! Some kind of serious noodle gap exists, and until we rectify that I don't think it's too much to say that the soul and fate of America lie in jeopardy.

See how I am disrespectful to American tastebuds!

The three minutes I waited for the noodles to cook nearly goddamn killed me, this stuff smelled so good; the fact that I'm clinically starving was not a factor.

Not pictured: obesity, hypertension, Awesomo Poweru.

Then came the eating.

Next came the disappointment.

Finally came the better Me.

Because I learned something today: Japan isn't a race of techno-savants who can turn their crazy know-how onto anything and emerge with The Future. The Ultimate Japantech Hyper Noodle Experience kinda failed. The meatballs were mostly gristle, the vegetables mostly stalk, and the flavor was mostly salt, MSG, and pressed saturated fat. The noodles themselves tasted good, with a firm texture, and the broth was not as oily as other pot noodles I've had here. The spice-factor was solid, but let's face it, that's not all that important in a glorious time of abundant hot sauce.

Strange as it may seem, I prefer good old hard-charging, can-do-spirit American canned soup: my country tis of thee, sweet land of Campbell's Sirloin Burger Soup. (Actually, this is a total lie, but I wanted to insert some pointless jingoism, like I said I would.) Because when you've been kicked around by disappointment like I have with that whole noodle thing, well, you learn these sorts of things about yourself; it makes you stronger. Purer. Even saltier. I also figured out what Japanese technology the packaging referred to, namely, surplus crap the Imperial Army left behind after Dubya Dubya Two.

Of course, it's still way better than Top Ramen, but isn't that also a Japanese product?

Fieldtrip!

Dave and I took a fieldtrip, and found Where the Sidewalk Ends.

We live about as far south as you can get in Saigon, and still be in the city proper. South of us is new construction, river delta, industrial parks, and villages yet to be swallowed by the insatiable maw of HCMC.

"Want to go for a ride?" Dave asked.

"Sure," I said. "Where to?"

He shrugged, which suited my mood exactly. We hopped on our bikes and set out south. The river is close enough that we could not go too far, which meant I would not have to get malaria medication before setting out. But we took a nice two-hour drive around, going through a couple villages, past odd, disconnected river-cargo areas the size of the port of Oakland, a factory that makes Pumas, and tons of other stuff.

Then, after miles of brand-new, beautifully-paved road with street lamps and manicured shrubbery, it ended. Pop: no more road. I had to get a picture, because how often does one end up in the middle of a childhood favorite?

Oh, and we met Miss Piggy.

By the way

Since I'm posting again, you should assume that my Quest for a New--By Which I Mean Four Year Old--Laptop Charger was successful. Dragons were slain, maidens rescued, Vietnamese words exchanged with actual Vietnamese people, and all the rest.

Honesty compels me to point out that Dave spoke most of the Vietnamese words. I did contribute 'hello,' 'thank you,' 'excuse me,' and '300,000 dong? Are you out of your goddamn mind?!?'

I do intend to go back to this market--three square blocks of every obsolete electronic device devised by humanity. This is where e-waste goes, people...once we in the USA have tossed it, it migrates back to its spawning ground to give birth to a new generation of frustrated consumers. The picture possibilities there are truly phenomenal--oh, and per that post about living Cryptonomicon? This is the scene where Avi describes Nerdvana to Randy.

Noise, dates, and anagrams. And a touch of diarrhea.

I can handle the heat. I can handle the unusual, and even unprecedented smells (I've never smelt water-buffalo shit before.) I can handle the crowds, the traffic, the smog, the water that gives you diarrhea, the food that gives you diarrhea, the air that gives you diarrhea, and the proximity to the above, which gives you diarrhea. I can handle all the various governmental insanities that have plagued my quest for a work permit so far.

I cannot handle the noise.

Saigon is loud. It's like living in the belly of a flying 747, and then there's all the noises that rise above this background. Like massive trucks honking outside at 5 in the morning--even on the 25th floor, this is still loud. Or the herd of motorbiking enthusiasts who have all purchased surplus US police-issue sirens (talk about a heart-attack: "Oh Jesus! The commies heard all those awful jokes I was making about pissing on Uncle Ho's tomb!") Or the real emergency vehicles, who have turned their sirens up to 11. In fairness, though, how else could they be heard? Then there is the constant construction; the city is flying up--and falling down--at speeds normally associated with time-lapse videos.

Maybe it's because I'm deaf. Maybe it's also because Vietnamese women speak in tiny, teensy, quiet little voices, as though to be heard is to be unladylike. I've been on several dates recently with a handful of Vietnamese women, and I find myself just getting more and more frustrated. And no, not for those reasons, but simply because I cannot hear anything my dates say when we're out in public.

It kinda kills the mood to be asking someone to repeat themselves twenty or thirty times.

I'm sure I will adjust. All the rest really doesn't bother me. For every other problem, there's a solution. Chunks of mystery grit sandblasting your face as you ride? Get a mask and goggles! And hey, this also solves the problems of sunburn, windburn, pollution burn, and glare. Too hot? I have two words for you: AC. Or two letters. Or a single abbreviation. Or is it an anagram?

I hope in time I will discover the solution to the noise problem, but really, it may just turn out to be going all the way deaf.

And actually, I seem to have avoided the worst of the traveler's misery--whaddya call it here, Ho Chi Minh's Revenge, maybe? Just a few days of upset stomachs, and voila, I was off the toilet and on my feet again.

After three weeks...

...of living in Asia, I find myself appreciating anew the parts in Cryptonomicon after the main character, Randy, has moved suddenly to the Philippines. More: I find myself living sections of that book. Can it be deja vu if it's something already read, and not already seen? What would that would be, deja lus?*

For instance! There's a scene in that shows Randy walking to work. Every day, he leaves his big, expensive hotel, and walks the raging insanity of Philippine streets. Every day, he's an object of wonder and shock, as the hotel personnel and various purveyors of conveyance cannot believe that a white Westerner--rich enough to stay in a 5-star hotel--would choose to walk. One sentence describes how one of these, 'the most tenacious capitalist Randy has ever seen,' follows him for blocks every day, saying 'Sir? Sir? Taxi?'

While I was living with Awesome Vodka Sean, I walked to work. And God help me if I didn't have xe om drivers (basically, dudes who own motorbikes and drive around those too dainty to walk, too sensible to ride their own bike, and too cheap or poor to take a cab; I find them the worst possible compromise between these three modes of transportation, unless you're drunk) following me, yelling at me. One of them even yelled "Sir? Sir? Motorbike?" after me for like half a block. Okay, maybe more like a third, but only because Saigon is an ear-crackingly loud city.

Or Neal Stephenson's descriptions of the streets of Manila--he could have been looking at, say, the streets around Nattranhduat, where I teach. Or his description of the weather...or the people...I mean, granted Saigon is not in the Philippines (for my American audience: true fact! Saigon is in Vietnam, which is next to Cambodia, and the Forgotten Jungles of Leng! And, of course, N. Stephenson only made up the Philippines for his book!)

For those of you who haven't read Cryptonomicon, you really should. It's a fantastic book, and on my sort list of Favoritestest Novels Ever, of All Time, Anywhere.

And that's saying something, though not, to be sure, in English.



*Actually, yes, but purely from a grammatical point-of-view.**

**But having made a big deal of it, I am now willing to bet that I mis-conjugated the French verb lire, which means to read. And though the simple past first-person singular is, in fact, lus--but then, you probably don't care. Thanks for reading this far. You may now return to items of consequence.

Let the "I Told You Sos" commence

Actually, I expect them from only one person. Guess what, Mom: I've started eating tomatoes of my own accord. Actual, recognizable chunks of solid tomato. Not sauce, not paste, not salsa, not ketchup. Tomatoes.

Now that the fainting has ceased, I should add that I only eat them on banh mi, sandwiches I buy from street vendors. These things are fantastic, with fresh-baked bread, soft cheese, roast pork, and all kinds of crazy sauces, veggies, powders, flavorings, herbs, vitamins, and accessories. They cost about $.50 to $.75, which means that, even though it takes 2 to fill me up, they're a damn good deal.

And yes, the tomatoes add something. The first time was a mistake: I had no idea how to ask for no tomatoes, and the woman making the sandwich didn't point at them, which gave me no chance to shake my head and gesticulate wildly, as had happened with the pate and rather dodgy-looking mayonnaise. The second time was my attempt to see if the first occasion was merely an anomaly...I found myself liking the tomato slices, and, well, couldn't believe it. So I had to try again.

Maybe it's because they're a bit different from tomatoes at home. On these slices, anyway, there's none of the slimy, seed-y, goopy bits that--quite literally--make me gag. The flavor is milder, too, and lacking in that certain, indefinable raw tomato flavor that...well, see above about gagging.

One of the pillars of my culinary universe has crumbled; whatever next?