Right of way.

   Wild and crazy Domino's openings aren't the only interesting things happening these days.  I'm crossing my fingers as I say this, but I have yet to have a serious accident on my motorbike.  I commute through a dozen kilometers of the craziest traffic on planet Earth 8 or 9 times per week, and while, god help me, I've seen it all, I've managed to avoid anything worse than a quarter-sized patch of skin on my palm being torn off by the pavement.
   Minor accidents, though...well, those can happen any damn time.  Couple days ago, I was out doing an errand.  I've been lifting weights three times a week, and I find that a steady regimen of B-vitamins helps with my energy levels (teaching being a pretty tiring profession, too, amirite?) so I make sure to take some every day.  There's one particular pharmacy pretty close to home that has US-made capsules with every B-number you can think of, so that's where I go. B-1, 2, 5, 6, 10, 11, 12.  I have no idea what they all do, but hey.
   The pharmacy is on a small but fairly busy street--two lanes, as if that means anything in Viet Nam--and I'm always alert when I'm driving in this area.  Too many people, too much chaos.  Chickens and dogs, kids playing in the street, buses and minivans trying like hell not to smash the food-carts or street-sweepers.  Today is no different.  Checking my side mirror, I drift to the center of the road.  I slow down.  Bikes zip by on my right.  I click on my left-turn signal a good thirty feet from where I intend to turn.  I check the mirror again--clear.  As I'm turning in to park, there's a flash of motion.  Something slams into my left ankle.  I see a man and a motorbike flipping over ahead of me.  Sparks, as his bike skids.  Cursing.  Broken glass and plastic.
   I park.  My ankle's throbbing a bit, but seems ok--just a bruise and scrapes.  I check out the other guy, hauling his bike up.  He looks fine, but turns and blasts me a furious stare.  Marching over, he jabs a finger in my face and speaking Vietnamese far too rapidly for me to catch more than isolated words.  Motorbike.  Idiot.  Foreigner.
   It's easy to put on a hard face, and stare him in the eyes.  Foreigners are considered fair game in many ways--I've had people fake accidents to try and coerce me to pay out, had 2 helmets stolen, had someone try to snatch my phone, snatch my bike keys, snatch my wallet.  And I know, bone-deep, that I am not at fault in any way here.
   The guy--he can't be more than 22--keeps yelling.  By now, people are sauntering over.  A pair of middle-aged ladies in a clothing store next door (whom I had noticed before the accident, deep in conversation) perk up and begin speaking to the other driver.  The pharmacist is holding a bottle of iodine, looking hopeful.
   The guy gestures to his feet.  The white lines of superficial scrapes, no sign of blood.  He gestures at his bike.  Smashed mirror, scratched paint, otherwise fine.  He yells something about money.
    "He says you're a crappy driver," a guy says behind me.  Maybe forty-five, he's got a wispy little mustache, cheap cotton shorts, a cigarette, and a surprising command of English.
   "What the hell?" I say.  Not the wittiest reply, but heartfelt.  "He hit me."
   "He says you don't signal, man."
   "Bullshit."  I'm standing right by my bike, still idling.  I point at the turn signal, still blinking.  I point, and then with great deliberation stare at other driver as I turn the signal off and pocket my keys (like I said, I have had people try to snatch them before.  Keep your valuables out of sight in Viet Nam, people.  Even in nice neighborhoods.)  We lock eyes.
   "That's what he says."
   "He hit me.  On the left."  I point to the scrape marks on my left ankle.  "So that's on him."
   "The others say it your fault, too, man."
   "What others?"
   He points at the ladies, and some other people who have come from up the block.  I sneer.
   "They weren't watching.  And maybe they only say that because I'm the foreigner.  Vietnamese side with Vietnamese.  Maybe they wanna see the foreigner pay out."
   "Maybe.  Maybe.  Still," he says, and takes a long drag.  "Just pay him off.  Give him ten bucks.  He goes away."
   "What?  Fuck that."  I shake my head.  "I slowed down.  I signaled.  He tried to pass me on the left, going way too fast.  He was in the wrong lane, and Christ, he hit me.  I'm not paying."
   "They all say it your fault."  He shrugs.  "Where you from?"
   "California," I say.
   He brightens.  "Me too.  Lived in San Diego ten years."
   "Nice city."
   "Yeah."  He takes a meditative drag.  The other driver is playing to the crowd now, gesturing at me, the smashed mirror, the glass in the street.  "There no law in Viet Nam, man.  Just pay him ten bucks, and this all over."
   "Tell him no," I say.
   He jerks his chin at the other driver, who glares at me for a second.  The English-speaking guy says something in Vietnamese.  Again, I can barely catch the gist.  The foreigner says you hit him.  The other driver shakes his head vigorously, rattles something off.
   "He still says it your fault.  He wants money."
   "Is he going to fight if I don't pay?"
   "Nah.  All talk."
   "Then tell him something for me, will you?"
   He nods.
   "Tell him he needs to learn to fucking drive right."
   The guy smiles around his cigarette, fast and sly.  "You all talk, too."
   "Yep," I agree, and go in to the pharmacy.  I notice the other driver scowling.  I look at his feet.  I can see a tiny seepage of red on some of the scrapes.  I buy some iodine.  As I get on my bike, I lob it to the guy.  Startled, he catches it.
    I hear the older guy laugh as I drive off, and still, my heart is pumping fast and heavy, and my hands shake with adrenaline.

   The commute home is an interesting time for me to observe life. There's so much of it here, so much more life lived in the streets, in public places, in public view, than in the US. I'm familiar enough with the insane traffic now, and facile enough with the motorbike, that I can spare a bit of attention for my surroundings. 

   I'm usually pretty beat, but I still keep an eye out, because I truly never know what I will see. A fight? A fire? A monstrously large kite, a flood, a family of 5 perched on one motorbike? I've grown accustomed to these things. 

   But yesterday I saw something decidedly odd.  I've been here for almost 2 years, and yet still have these moments of pure 'what the hell?'

   Only in Vietnam does the opening of a Domino's Pizza qualify for the red-carpet treatment. I drive by, and can't count the number of wreaths and floral displays: palm leaves and roses. I see spotlights. Red carpet with deep, heavy pile. Inside, a trio of sharp-dressed men laugh, flashing white teeth. Blue-shirted employees walk about, blazoned with the tilted red, white, and blue square. One of the suited men shoots his cuffs, and even from a dozen meters away (look at me, being all metric) I see a tiny glint. Ranks of champagne flutes wait on a side table. Behind them stand at least 20 bottles of champagne, each nestled in its own silver stand. A deep blue sedan, with DOMINO'S written in white, idles at the curb. It is flawlessly clean. Girls in dresses—almost gowns—are obviously preparing to man the doors and usher in guest. Upstairs a tired-looking white woman drinks from a waxed paper cup.

   Soon enough I pass, heading up onto the bridge that leads from District 4 to District 7, where I live. If a guidebook were to describe District 4, words like 'authentic' or 'genuine' would probably crop up; really, it is poorer, more crowded, and less safe than surrounding districts. Apartments are stacked one atop another, laundry hanging from the bars blocking every balcony (even up to the 20^th story, I see the bars.) The streets are narrow, lined with street food carts. People wear more traditional clothing, drive older motorbikes, have the deeper tans that connote manual labor. It's not unusual to see middle-aged men in boxers and flip-flops smoking cigarettes and drinking beers at cheap plastic tables, or a gang of half-naked kids playing barefoot street football, darting into traffic to retrieve a stray ball.

   This gala extravaganza franchise opening in District 4, then, is a bit strange even for Viet Nam.

   I was able to see all this, and have this moment of complete cultural dislocation. This was someone's dream. This opening was prosperity made manifest. Gentrification, jobs, a foreign university education for the owner's kids. The sight crystallized a realization I've had for some time. Why is fast food so popular in Viet Nam? The tremendous diversity of street food available here, cheaper and presumably healthier, would seem to doom places like KFC, Pizza Hut, or Burger King (now with 2 locations in HCMC.) Yet they thrive. Competing brands lace the city, mostly from Asia and the US. Lotteria from Korea, Jollibee, Kichi Kichi (which may not really be fast food...I've never been inside.) It's like a petri dish, with these proliferating franchises competing for space and resources, back-lit plastic signs and corporate logos crowding every large street. Yet walk a dozen feet, and you can get com tam, bun thit nuong, pho bo, bun bo Hue, bananas, sweet soup, iced coffee.

   So why, then?

I'm still mulling this as I drive past again a few hours later, heading out to an evening tutoring session. The floodlights play on the crisp new signs, illuminating the internally-lit words. The telephone number and the word 'DELIVERY' are almost as large as the name of the franchise. A small stage has been set up to one side of the entrance, and someone is exhorting the crowd. The crowd is an odd mix of the well-dressed and the (to me) typical fast-food consumer. Inside, the same mix. Suits here, t-shirts there; champagne and pepperoni pizza.

   What this really brought home to me is something that I had realized much earlier: fast food in Viet Nam has very different connotations than it does in the US. At home, it is indeed fast and cheap, the last resort—too tired to cook? Order a pizza. Broke? McDonald's. Here, though, you can get a fairly healthy, fairly large meal at any number of restaurants or street-food carts, instantly, for pennies. Eating fast food here is exotic. It's a mark of status. The $4 meal that takes 7 or 8 minutes to arrive at your table? That's $3 and 6 minutes more than the bowl of pho next door. Eating fast food says that you have the time, the money, and the sophistication necessary for, say, KFC. It says: middle-class. It says: English-speaking. It is beyond the reach of many.

   On my way home from tutoring, around 10, the gala is over. A woman in cheap printed cotton sweeps up leaves and petals with a twig broom. A couple of dudes lounge on the rolled up carpet, smoking and eyeing the traffic. Twenty or thirty empty champagne bottles line the sidewalk, and as I watch, someone gathers them up, one by one, for the recycling money. It feels like District 4 again.

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?

Let There Be Light! ...followed by a bit more darkness.

It's one of those good news/bad news things.

Good news: our internet is fully operational.

Bad news: my laptop charger is not.

Tomorrow, I go in search of a new charger.

Oh, the woes of no internet access

So, as my friend Christine pointed out--hi, Danger Bat--I have not posted anything new in a whole, entire week. What can I say? I moved into a new place and was once again cast into the dark ages: the internet was not yet hooked up when Dave and I moved in. Now, wifi cafes abound--witness my current post--but it's not quite the same, especially since my laptop charger is once again on a downward spiral, functionally speaking. I like Vietnam, and I don't want to shock the locals by reenacting the Battle of Hue--me vs. my charger. It typically takes between 5 and 10 minutes of cursing, stomping, hurling, barracking, pleading, coercing, and smacking before the tempermental POS calms down enough to get the charger working.

Anyway, the Internet guy is supposed to come today, as he was supposed to come yesterday, and the day before, and the day before. Tomorrow, tomorrow, internet is always tomorrow, it's only a day away... When it is hooked up, I promise multiple posts, and! Even! Pictures! Once you have collected your socks, which I just blew off, I should add that my picture taking has so far been sporadic. I haven't had a ton of time yet to go out and really work my camera; whoda thunk that moving to a foreign country and starting a life there would take so much work?

Raging materialism--call me Trump. Donald Trump.

Signing a lease has never been so empowering; shelling out $1,500 has never been so easy.

Dave and I just signed a lease--finally--for our new apartment. Most of you know that I am not terribly materialistic. I mean, I like nice things. Who doesn't, right? But when I first saw this place, I thought I would swoon. My knees got a little weak; I got a little...ahem, well, I should stop there.

Anyway, I will post pics in a bit. It's still not quite finished, so mess and dust abound, but holy penthouse jesus. 4 bedrooms, 5 baths, rooftop terrace, dining room, a sort of outdoor patio in the light well, solarium...it's probably as big as my childhood home. The building has a pool--or two--hot tub, sauna, gym, shops, restaurants that deliver fat Vietnamese food to your front door for $1.50...it's amazing. I had wanted my own 2-bedroom, but really, when am I going to have a chance to live in such splendor (or even splendour--the British spelling just looks so much classier, doesn't it?) again in my life? I feel like a mogul. Besides, if Dave and I want some time apart, the apartment is so goddamn big we don't have to see each other for weeks at a time if we don't want to. Even if we get a third housemate, as we are considering, space will not be an issue.

You all might want to block out your visits now. Once I post the pics, I expect the spare room(s) to fill up mighty quick.

First impressions of Earth

I've met a number of expatriates here over the last ten or twelve days. Saigon is a very big city--far and away the largest I've ever lived in--but I don't think the community of foreign English teachers is of quite the same scale. Foreigners like to hang out at a handful of bars, somewhat segregated by profession, and thus by country of origin. Many English teachers hang out at a bar called Hung Vy on or near Bui Vien in District 1, the heart of backpackerdom in Vietnam. I've run into groups of French expats in another bar not far away from there, lamenting the lack of a good vin ordinaire. Germans live here, too, but despite the profusion of Hammer and Sickle flags, I've yet to meet a single Russian.

It's a strange little world, all its own, a kind of Neverneverland peopled by aging Lost Boys. Female English teachers seem to be a bit on the rare side; so far I've met exactly one. Whether English, American, Scottish, Australian, Irish, Canadian, or New Zealander, they seem to have moved to Asia for a narrow spectrum of reasons. And whatever the specifics, they are running from something. Something specific, like poverty, or PTSD, or a felonious past--or more generally, running from responsibility, from parts of their home country they find stultifying, from sheer ordinariness. After all, in Vietnam we are all a bit like rock stars.

We can afford to live like rock stars; when you're making 500,000 VND an hour, and a beer costs 13,000 during happy hour...well, the direct costs of drinking cease to matter. Weed is apparently very cheap here too, and also--apparently--very, very bad.

I met one expat from England who smokes three or four J's an hour. Living in an amiable fog, he's charming and friendly, the perfect dissolute old Public School boy. Old darling, he calls me as he introduces himself for the fourth time in 15 minutes. Old chap. "I say," he says, "my best mate's name is Owen. We served in the Royal Artillery together in Wales."

"I know," I tell him again. "You've told me."

"Terribly sorry, old darling...what did you say your name was?" I tell him. His handshake is firm. His eyes are vague. "Owen--that's my best mate's name. We were in the Falklands together."

I have joined their ranks. I'm in the club, provisionally. A lifer, people tell me: I'm a natural, adapting quickly to this strange antipodean existence. And if this is Neverneverland, does this also make me a Lost Boy? The waitress brings me a beer in a sweating glass. An ice cube the size of my wallet sits in the mug. To drink, I have to hold it out of the way with my nose. A drop of meltwater slides down and into my eye. I eat quail eggs; salty snacks and cold beer, perfect on a hot day, even in a strange form.

I'm not sure I like the idea. Are they happy? Do they ache at the sense of displacement? After all, everything is different here, and yes, superficially better for us white, male, English-speaking foreigners. Nevertheless... Do they use the cheap beer to float away the nagging sense that they could not succeed at home? Am I staring at one possible future?

What does being here say about me?

Two weeks in, and what have I learned?

I haven't caught up with all the older posts I have semi-typed-out in MS Word, but cool, interesting, funny, and/or vaguely embarrassing stuff keeps happening.

Briefly, then: I'm talking with one of the other teachers at AHS. I tell him that I've been in Vietnam for all of two weeks.

He is surprised. "Well, what have you learned in those two weeks?"

A lot, really, but the most surprising thing just pops out. "Riding a motorbike doesn't leave me sucking my thumb and hugging my teddy bear anymore. It's actually gotten to be kind of fun. You know, risking death on a minute-by-minute basis and pulling it off through manly courage and cat-like reflexes is pretty invigorating."

He shakes his head. "That is a bad, bad sign."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because you'll either die here, or never want to leave. Either way, you aren't going home."

Asia's newest TV star...

is me.

I'm joking, of course. Nevertheless--I'd just finished up work on Tuesday when I got a text to come down to the office at AHS from the campus manager, one Ms. Yen (pronounced EEN, as far as my whitey ears can tell.) When I get there, she tells me they have something different for me to do Wednesday, and would I be interested?

Never sign a blank check. I know this. Normally, I don't do it. But one of the promises I made to myself was to be adventurous, to experience as much as I can, to move outside my comfort zone--though not, of course, outside my morality--and try new, even unthinkable, things. So, even though I had no idea what sort of 'something different' was in the offing, I agreed.

Fantastic, Ms. Yen says. She hands me a nametag, the sort all teachers wear at these schools. Apparently, my name is Jovelino...still somewhat confused, I start to ask what exactly is going on, but Ms. Yen cuts me off. She'll email me the details that evening.

When I get the email, it simply tells me to report to the Saigon International University campus at 8:20 Wednesday morning, and that I will be there all day. Oh, be sure to adhere to all Asian High School dress regulations: dark slacks, black shoes, black socks, long-sleeved white dress shirt, red tie.

Getting to SIU is worthy of a post itself, but for now I will content myself by saying this: Lewis and Clarke? John C. Fremont? Livingstone, Burton, Speke, Gordon of Khartoum?

Beginners. They never navigated their way across half of Saigon with malfunctioning GPS, chased by bribe-seeking cops, lost, hungry, alone.

So, hours later, and 300,000VND lighter, I reach SIU. I wait in the office for a while, then am summoned to the front steps where a crowd of people bustle with purpose. They set up rails, cameras, even some outdoor lighting. I blink.

"So handsome," murmurs the cameraman, the director, or possibly a random dude from the street--I have no idea. "Perfect for commercial."

I find myself agreeing without totally understanding, as I do quite often here. Perhaps an exchange of compliments is required? Not that I want the guy to think I'm hitting on him, but... "Thanks. You look good, too."

"Stand here. Talk with student. Act natural." He gestures at the camera equipment.

"Um," I observe trenchantly. "Act natural is an oxymoron." He stares at me. "Seriously. It's like, acting is all about artifice, right? Unnatural. Pretending. So act natural..." He stares some more. "On top of the steps?" He nods, flashes me a toothy grin.

I find myself surrounded by a swarm of fairly attractive coeds in their early twenties. All right, I think. This isn't so bad.

"Talk! Pretend you are teacher, they your student," the cameraman yells.

"I am a teach--never mind," I say. "Hey, ladies..." The girls whisper. I try to engage them in conversation. No luck, they understand me. Really. I'm certain of it.

"So...you all go to school here?" Nothing. "Are you all from Saigon?" Silence. "I'm from California." I keep trying as the cameras roll. The same students walk up the stairs over and over, every few minutes for an hour. Each time, we wave. At first, we pretend to be friends, but by the end, I swear they know me on a deeply personal level, and care about my well-being.

The girls still don't really talk, so I fill the silences. Shooting stops. The director grins, and waves me back inside. Finally, one girl steps forward. "We want to ask you question," she says, with many nervous glances back at her friends. Her English is fairly good.

"Sure," I say. At last: interaction.

"Do you know you spill coffee on your shirt?"



The rest of the day improves upon this moment. I had, in fact, spilled coffee on my shirt (I don't think Marco Polo ever had to deal with the hazards of drinking ca phe sue daa while riding a motorbike on the gritty, crowded, potholed Ha Noi Highway) but only a couple drops, hidden behind my tie. Over the next five hours, I play a chemistry teacher, a progammer, a computer-repair instructor, a wise teacher pontificating in the library, a dynamically-striding young professor surrounded by a coterie of eager young minds breathlessly waiting for me to impart wisdom. I also get more and more bored, and begin inventing backstories for the various roles I'm asked to play.

"Now you are in big meeting with other teachers," the director's assistant says.

"Mmhhm. What's my motivation in this scene?"

"Excuse me? I do not understand."

"Because I was thinking that I could be a Young Turk, hell-bent on remaking the department...or destroying it. Like, my young wife is pregnant, but I'm so driven by The Truth that the potential consequences of alienating the rest of the faculty don't really affect my crusading nature. Or maybe I'm not married, and having a torrid affair with one of the female professors, and that sexual tension underlies this scene--"

"You play teacher in big meeting with other teachers."

"But wait, what about--"

...I ended up playing a teacher in a big meeting with other teachers.

When these commercials air, I will get copies of them; I want to see if the dramatic complexity with which I tried to imbue each character, each scene, shows up. But really, I just want to make sure that damn coffee stain does not.