National Anthem Singing Contest in Vietnam: My Students!

Nobel Peace Prize Goes To...Obama?

True, President Barry Obama didn't deserve such admirable recognition. He even states in his acceptance speech of this highly commendable and much-sought-after peace prize that there were other men and women who were "far more deserving of this honor than I." But even if the man was falsely praised for acts of peace that he hasn't even had the chance to promote, let alone successfully execute these acts with non-aggression tactics, he should at least be noted in the history books as one of the greatest orators of our time: I watched and read his speech for the first time today (I'm not very good at keeping up with current events, especially when I'm out of the country - ahem, Vietnam) and I was highly moved by his words:

"For if we lose faith - if we dismiss it as silly or naive, if we divorce it from the decisions that we make on issues of war and peace - then we lose what is best about humanity. We lose our sense of possibility. We lose our moral compass.

Like generations have before us, we must reject that future. As Dr. King said at this occasion so many years ago, "I refuse to accept despair as the final response for the ambiguities of history. I refuse to accept the idea that 'isness' of man's present nature makes him morally incapable of reaching up for the eternal 'oughtness' that forever confronts him."

So let us reach for the world that ought to be - that spark of the divine that still stirs within each of our souls. Somewhere today, in the here and now, a soldier sees he's outgunned but stands firm to keep the peace. Somewhere today, in this world, a young professor awaits the brutality of her government, but has the courage to march on. Somewhere today, a mother facing punishing poverty still takes the time to teach her child, who believes that a cruel world still has a place for his dreams."

::Cue the tears::

Kelly Gets Historical

In the novel John Adams, I learned two things about college in the 18th century: for one, the food at Harvard was awful. Guess the universal rule of "All Food At College Must Suck" was applicable back in Johnny's day too. The second, that Mr. Adams, as well as all of his buddies, were quite the advocates of hard cider.

"Indeed, for the rest of his life, a morning "gill" of hard cider was to be John Adam's preferred drink before breakfast." - pg. 36

Damn. Cider - an antecedent breakfast drink?! And I thought I was bad ass one day for having a pint of it at lunch...

Where A Kid Can't Be A Kid

Fact: over 40% of America's children are overweight and inching uncomfortably close to the borderline of morbid obesity.

Fact: More kids nowadays would rather sit inside with a pack of Oreos and play Call of Duty for four hours straight than shoot some hoops with friends on their driveway.

Fact: Technology is advancing faster than these little tykes even have time to fathom what it's turning them into: video game loving, aerobic activity despising anti-social weirdos who squint at the first site of sun in summertime because they haven't SEEN it in so God damn long.

Still, I don't think we should carry restrictions of pleasure over to vending machines in middle school cafeterias. I was totally horrified today when I meandered up to one such vending machine at my little sister's winter concert and found VEGGIE STIX as one of my options. Veggie Stix?! Really, guys?!

There was not a single solitary snack encased in that pathetic excuse for a "vending machine" that contained anything I like - more specifically, no chocolate, no peanut buttter and no high content of saturated fat. It felt so wrong just to peer inside.

This goes out to all parents and teachers and nutritional educators of the world: cookies and cakes have been around for centuries - video games have not. So, conclusion: take the physical health of your OWN obese child into your OWN hands and sign them up for intramural volleyball. Cuz guess what? That varsity athlete who runs 6 miles a day and has abs of steel deserves that pack of Oreo's after practice which SHOULD be waiting for him in his high school's vending machine - and you health freaks have no right to take it away from him!

Edumacating Myself

America. My capricious yet complaisant corn-and-cattle filled country. This land of wide open space, whose foundation is more esoteric to me than it rightly should be, is my more hostile than humble Holy Land. Yet I'll quietly and reluctantly admit to the unfortunate fact that I know so little concerning the history of Her foundation. Shame on me.

But no more. I plan on changing my ignorant ways this winter. With the enlightenment of David McCullough's excellent prose and story-telling style, I am in for a nerdy adventure with John Adams, one of this historian's most highly revered fictional novels about the political and personal life of our second president.

It feels nicer than ever to be submerged in the English language again. Feels even nicer knowing that this book was turned into a seven-part mini series on HBO, which will only make finishing this author's most impressive work to date that much more exciting. Hooray for the Big Screen!

So This Is Christmas...

Justifying a visit to Rockefeller Center on any dissonant day in December is like trying to exculpate Michael Jackson for his sleepovers with young boys: you just can't do it.

Crowds distend in every direction. Nikon D5000's are endemic to all and every tourist in Times Square, most of whom harbor no hesitation when it comes to shoving their $500 camera lens in your face, arbitrary in their approach to capture the PEREFECT PICTURE of The Tree. Garrulous club promoters with posters hung around their necks bombard you at every street corner. Food vendors who possess no morals jack up their prices to twice their average amount. Everywhere you go, it's congested, cacophonous and overpriced.

But will any of those paltry excuses ever deter me from joining along with the hustle and bustle of New York City at Christmas time? Absolutely NOT! My feelings of resentment for the perennial tourists and the recreant hot dog merchants are ephemeral: I get over them quickly if I'm in good company. And this weekend, I was :-)

Too Many Dudes On The Dumbbell Floor

I often wonder what kind of shape my physical health would be in if I lived in a time period/place where it wasn't deemed "acceptable" for women to work out. I take for granted that I have a place to go and let off some steam every day. True, I might not look so attractive in the process of bulkin' up. BUT THE ENDS JUSTIFY THE MEANS!

I made the mistake today of heading to Planet Fitness (the judgment FREE zone - questionable propaganda, though) during their busiest time block (5pm-8pm.) I also made the mistake of trying my luck with the dumbbells.

In the mornings, it's usually just me and some old geezer at the dummbell station. We both normally put the ten pound weights to use. I'm sure at one point in his outstretched lifetime this elderly man could have handled more - but now he's on my level. And I don't exactly put up an impressive amount of ponderosity.

Today, though, there was a dizzying amount of young lads hovering over the free weights like vultures. Taking up every inch of mirror space from one end of the thirty-foot-long speculum to the other, they glared at me, wondering where my audacity had come from, infiltrating this apparently implied Boys Only Club as I had.

I grabbed the double set of tens, squished in between a short Mexican man and an intensely juiced-up high school athlete, and proceeded to go to town on my biceps. I normally stare straight ahead whilst working out. But when I finally let my eyes wander, I felt like I was back in Vietnam. Every single ocular was focused on me.

Lesson learned: stick to the morning gym session.

Home Sweet Home

So, I've been home for a little over a week. Had my not-so-abstemious Thanksgiving meal with the folks and spent an awesome weekend in Albany.

Reasons why it's good to be home:

1) BREAD. More specifically - bagels, pizza and doughnuts. Mmm.

2) My car. Driving around at your own leisure may not be economically feasible in these hard times, but just having your own wheels makes a HUGE difference in life. And bicycle wheels are NOT the same thing.

3) The mall. Never would I have realized how much fun it is to walk around and peep in expensive store windows, drooling over products that I don't have enough money to purchase, until I couldn't do it anymore. Used to not be so much fun. Now it is, simply because I can do it again!

4) Regularity. No longer am I the biggest girl in town. No longer am I the whitest girl in town. No longer am I the center of attention and all of this is AWESOME. I'm back to being lil ole me. I blend in once more. Hallelujah!

"Oi Doi Dep Qua" - Life Is Very Beautiful

“You can not take the values of this country and bring them into another one,” said Nghia, a Vietnamese tour guide from Hanoi, reluctantly nursing the clay-pot full of catfish in front of him. “In order to understand Vietnam, three months is not long enough time.”

Nghia was referring here to my abrupt departure from his homeland this coming Sunday. I, a recent college graduate, have been teaching English at Can Tho University for a little over three months now. The semester ends this Friday. And much to Nghia’s disappointment, I will not be returning to classroom A3/119 come this January.

“Vietnamese people…may be cold on the surface,” said Nghia, in his French-inflected English accent, leaning over his neglected lunch at our table in Nambo, the open-air Western style restaurant in Ninh Kieu plaza. “They don’t smile at you right away because they do not know you. But when you open up to them and make them your friend, they become your friend for life.”

I cringe when he says this. Originally, I was supposed to stay here longer. But my plans have changed along with my heart. I want to teach English abroad somewhere else. So I will be retreating back to Rockland County in time for Thanksgiving, to refuel, reunite and readjust to the life that I left back in August.

Although I am ecstatic to come home and see friends and family, there is a part of me that is already missing Vietnam. She will be different in one, two, three years from now. Vietnam’s economy is multiplying faster than the bacteria in your kitchen sink. Every where you turn, gaudy buildings are going up, new imported goods are whizzing by you on larger-than-life transport trucks and the people are becoming more and more scandalous and selective with their choice of dress. But still, there is a pressing desire to keep tradition alive and well – to continually remind people (women) of their place in Vietnamese society.

This is perhaps because Vietnam is in the middle of a nasty game of tug-o-war with two industrial powers: China and the U.S. Its northern neighbor influences its government and traditional values. But the Western world has certainly come to Vietnam, too – this is evident in the youth’s admiration for pop music, Coca Cola and converse sneakers. Vietnam wants to move ahead and reap all of the benefits of a free trade agreement with America. But she also doesn’t want to awaken the sleeping giant next door, who will surely cause a ruckus if she becomes “too Westernized.”

Although they frustrated me at times, my students were what kept my spirits alive in Can Tho, and helped me to understand this country through the eyes of its future. True, they were negligent when it came to voluntarily raising their hand in class, but they encouraged me every day with their silent, smiling faces. Our upbringings may have been separate. Our dinner tables may have sported different dishes. Our favorite cartoon characters may have spoken different languages. But my students (at the risk of sounding cliché` here) have taught me more than I have taught them. They have reaffirmed my already pre-determined belief that all people in this world are more alike than they are different. They have, by way of never failing to miss a class and showering me with gifts on Teacher’s Day, shown me how much they appreciate my presence at the front of their classroom. And they have also broken my heart.

“When you come back Vietnam?” one student asked me on our last day of class.

I sat there with my mouth open and stared at her. After a few moments, I closed it and simply said, “I have no idea.”

I came back to life and found myself seated across from Nghia, who was studying my face intently, trying to relay a message through his unspoken words.

Finally, he let me in on his secret.

“I think you should stay longer,” he said. “That way, you’ll understand.”

I had to look away. I had tears in my eyes.

Coming To An End in Can Tho

"Teacher Kelly is very lovely. She is the first foreign teacher of mine." - Linh

Today I gave my third and final group of Pronunciation 1 students their final exam. They had to create their own sentences and converse with me, one on one. Above is a statement that one of my students, Linh, had written.

Then, Stephen, the boy in the picture above, said this during his turn:

"We will never have a chance to meet Kelly again next Wednesday."

This almost brought me to tears. As much as I am excited about coming home to Americaland, leaving these kids behind will be hard - they are the best part of my day. I probably would have broken down right there but then, Nuong, the theatrical singer from "Friendly Night," said this:

"Kelly will knock you down if you make her angry."

I have no idea what he meant by that. I'm not sure whether he was alluding to my physical strength or to my personality. But I burst out laughing when he said it.

These kids are really good at making me smile.

Yappers

Rodent-faced yappy canines are what substitute for "dogs" in Vietnam. I hate this particular kind of tail-wagger. And you know which tykes I'm talking about - they look simliar or identical to the one shown above. And they never. shut. up.

After I laced up and hurdled myself into Can Tho's horrendous heat for my morning run, I jogged right by one of these pestering flea bags. Thankfully, he was on a leash. Most dogs in or around Campus 1 tend to roam free. But this guy was snappin' at my heels the moment he sensed me take flight. He was using all the neck power he could muster up to break free of the choking grip that his owner steadfastly held on him. But I got away.

One time, though, I thought I was done for. I was circling the small track that snakes its way around Campus 1 and I came into contact with the angriest Taco Bell-looking dog that I've ever seen. Despite his unthreatening appearance, I was FREAKING out inisde. I froze. He was no more than two feet behind me, yapping and yelping like there was no tomorrow. But he wouldn't move any further. He just wanted to keep me grounded - a soldier keeping a close eye on his captive, no doubt exploiting his internal resource of intimidation by way of his gargling growls.

I stood there in that postion, with my iPod held out in front of me in my right hand and my left hand halfway rasied at my side, for about three minutes. I looked pretty dumb to the elementary school boys playing soccer on the concrete rectangular field off to my right. A few of them laughed at me.

All I kept thinking about while this dog was foaming at the mouth below me was why the hell I didn't get that Rabies shot back in the States. We were told that this part of Vietnam didn't have many feral animals wandering about town. I think I've seen more in this one city than I have in all of Vietnam.

After a while, images of me turning into one of those rage-inflicted zombies from "28 Days Later" started to flash across my mind. Everyone has told me that if I get bitten by a wild dog and contract Rabies, I'll have more than enough time to get myself to a hospital before the virus plays out its course. But I don't belive that. I feel like I'll immediately turn into one of the Inflicted, become stark-ravingly mad after only ten seconds of getting punctered by some wild beast, and then try to eat my roommates brains. I didn't want to kill my roommate.

Thankfully, the dog got bored of me. After he slowly trailed off, I let out the biggest breath of relief and cautiously continued on to House 6, creeping ever so carefully so as not to piss off my little friend again.

I've made it this far, Vietnam - don't send me home in a body bag!

Neighborly Love

Today, the most amazing thing happened - I stood outside at 6:30 in the morning and I didn't sweat.

True, once in motion, the beads of perspiration did start to slowly slide down the back of my neck. But sweat is always expected here in Vietnam when you are moving. It was during the stationary state at the vegetarian joint that I found myself in only moments later when I realized that the sweating had ceased.

"Ahh, cooler weatha now in Vietnam!" said the silk lady's husband, taking a seat diagonally across from me at the child-sized table I was hunched over. He flashed me a big toothy grin and soon I found myself engaged in a conversation with this neighbor of mine about his brother in Maryland.

I've been here for almost 12 weeks now. This was the first time that I had a full conversation with this man. My neighbor, who I saw and waved to every day, was speaking to me in clearly comprehensible English. He had never allowed himself to speak in my native tongue that much, let alone at this impressive pace, in the past. I wondered what made him decide to open up to me at last.

As our conversation and my stomach reached full capacity, I grabbed for my bag. My neighbor put up his left hand and waved my wallet away, as if the wad of cash stored inside offended him greatly.

"Today, I invite you breakfast," he said, elaborating on what he meant after reviewing my quizzical expression. "I pay you. You my neighbor. It's okay!"

After I protested, he kept flailing his hand in the direction of my bag, looking as though he wished to make it disappear with the magical might of his invisible wand.

"Really, it's okay. I pay you. Neighbors!" Then he laughed that awesome laugh of his.

I said 'Thank you' about five times before I left.

In Vietnam, when one day, you can find yourself so distant and alone...something like this will happen to you. And you will fall in love with her all over again.

Paul Theroux

Next to the awesome Anthony Bourdain, Paul Theroux (referred to me by Uncle Mike- thanks, man!) is undeniably my other favorite travel writer. (He'd be number one, but unlike Bourdain, he neglects to exploit his culinary adventures abroad, which we all know Bourdain does so mouth-wateringly well.) Anyway, below is an article that Paul wrote for Conde Naste Traveler magazine in May of this year. He discusses early encounters with Obama, school-teaching for the Peace Corps in Africa and what travel has done for him. Great writing, great man:

http://www.concierge.com/cntraveler/articles/500616?pageNumber=1

Lazy Litterbugs in Vietnam

This country is truly a gem among spoils. Everywhere you turn you will see something beautfiul covered by a layer of filth. The young Vietnamese are not taught in their modern educational institutions to respect their environment, which is a shame, because they have so many historic landmarks scattered throughout their country worth respecting. Below is an article I read today of other people's opinions on the subject:

http://vietnamnews.vnagency.com.vn/showarticle.php?num=01SAY131109

SMS from Stephen

Below is a text message I got from one of my students, Stephen:

"Hi, Today is Friday 13th. I think u must be careful."

I appreciated the heads up. Then a black cat crossed my path about ten minutes after recieving that. I kid you not. Then the power went out all day.

So far, unluckiest Friday the 13th I've seen yet.

Letters From Vietnam

It was weird, yesterday, on Veteran's day, to be in a country that marks such a significant yet simultaneously unfortunate event in American history. But us hamburger-loving, baseball-adoring, freedom-of-speech-abusing citizens of the U.S.A. are fortunate enough to be so far removed from the visible violations of wars past: there are no Cu Chi tunnels snaking below the surface of the Earth in the corn fields of Iowa, or land mines implanted by the enemy below the nests of alligator eggs in Florida's lush everglades. With the exception of the two terrorist attacks on December 7th, 1941 and September 11th, 2001, all of our country's major battles have been fought abroad. We have not seen our soldiers suffer the consequences of trench warfare on our own turf. We have not heard explosions from surprise bomb attacks miles away, knowing only all too well that those tanks will eventaully trudge their way toward us. We have lost loved ones because of it, seen video clips of it, and fiercely protested against it; but we have never seen war plowing toward us in our own backyard.

Sometimes, when I walk around Can Tho, I will notice an older man or woman look at me differently than the younger generation does. Their gaze is piercing. They are studying my every move. They don't seem curious, but rather, resentful. And I wonder if my face reminds them of someone they once knew; someone who was taken away from them by someone else who looked like me.

Below is a link to a website of letters from Vietnam, written by young and old soldiers alike. They are not letters composed by Vietnamese veterans, simply because I can't find any translated into English. But after reading a few of these recounts of irreconcilable ravage, I am deeply disconcerted to consider this fact: so many innocent men, women and children of all ages were forced to witness the goings-on of these events. And that makes me wonder just how, only 30-some years after the last battle was fought, I now find myself in this country who bows its humble head to the superpower that once drained it of every life and resource possible.

http://grunt.space.swri.edu/tbomlet.htm

My Humble Abode

Here in Can Tho, I have very little in the sense of creature comforts. Reese's peanut butter cups aren't sold at a single general store; Magners hard cider won't be seen tumbling out of the tap at any pub in town, that beautiful golden glow filling my heart to the brim as I see the contents of this most beloved boozy beverage doing the same thing in my pint glass, sloshing and spilling over the sides before Colleen, the bartender at Christy's in Pearl River, forks over my drink; and there is not a single movie theater for a hundred or so miles, which is, in the end, the one thing I miss most. (I'm quite the movie geek, you see.) Life without these bumpin' bonuses is tolerable - just a lot less fun than it used to be. And I thoroughly enjoy my share of fun.

But I do have two things that, when combined, serve as my sturdy sanctuary here in Nam: my mosquito net, and my bed. Now, they might not look like much to you in the above image (side note: that picture is a lie, and was taken in late August - my room is WAY messier than that now, as Christine, my lovely roommate, can attest to.) And the pole on the botton-left corner of my bed that keeps the net in place may fall down day after day, forcing me to jam it back together and cursing the way this stupid bed was put together in the first place. But still, this space is the only one I can call my own. When I find myself enclosed inside it, feeling much like a baby chicklet in an incubator, not allowed to become exposed to the external environment due to various forms of hostility (in this case, mad mosquitoes craving for my blood), I am somewhat at home. Sleep doesn't always come, but a chance to sweat and smell and surf the Net without being bothered by a single, solitary soul is what matters most here. Thank the sweet baby Jesus for the World Wide Web.

The mattress sucks and the sheets are sticky, even after just two days of getting a fresh pair - one never stops sweating here, my friend. Even the pillow is too rigid and too thick. Anyone who knows my sleeping habits can tell you that I like only one pillow while I sleep, nice 'n broken into. Anything too stiff or too solid will just cause me to feel like my head is too elevated, further detouring me from my date with the dream fairy. And my net may even be incapable of keeping out all unwanted visitors, allowing Vietnam to leave as many imprints on my legs with bites as she has with experiences on my heart and my mind.

But all of that is okay. Because my bed is my bed, and no one else's. And in a country like Vietnam, where space is such a precious commodity, I feel priveleged to claim full ownership rights on this one.

Can't Go Around It; Can't Go Under It; So Go Right THROUGH It

All over Vietnam, motorbikes abound. They are simply the most economical and most convenient way for the Vietnamese people to navigate throughout their country, whether it's driving amongst the tightly-knit, touristy side streets in Hanoi or through the traffic-induced madness of Saigon. Everyone has a bike. Everyone, that is, but my roommate and I. We walk. And let's just put it this way: the Vietnamese typically don't.

Just ten minutes ago, I was at a crossroads (literally) - I needed to get to the other side of the street in order to purchase a jug of water for my roommate and myself. (We go through these jugs of H2O about as often as the average clean person goes through a pair of underwear - so that is to say, daily.) As I looked to my left, I wasn't surprisd to see an endless number of bikes carelessly careening in my direction, but this sight no longer instills fear in me. I have found that it is best not to hesitate when your foot takes that first leap of faith onto the pavement. People in Vietnam can not wait for an opening in traffic flow: they simply must go. And the bikes will move around them...fingers crossed.

I kind of feel like I'm playing a game of Frogger* with my life. There are only two sets of traffic lights on the entirety of the street that Campus 1 rests off of. And neither of those lights are near my house. So there is constant congestion and also a question circulating in my mind every time I trek across this Highway of Doom: Can I casually walk like this, so carefree and confident that the drivers will instinctively know to move around me, back home in the States?!

Something tells me that if I pulled this kind of stunt in Manhattan, I'd have a month's long stay in the hospital to look forward to, as well as a new hip.

My valiant spirit when it comes to traffic will end here, thank you very much.

* Frogger is an arcade game that was introduced in 1981. The object of the game is to direct frogs to their homes one by one. To do this, each frog must avoid cars while crossing a busy road and navigate a river full of hazards. - Wikipedia.org

GRE = Grievously Ridiculous Exam

With the upcoming weeks being devoid of classes and coffee dates for me to occupy my time with, I've reluctantly decided to devote as much of my undivided attention as I possibly can to studying for the GRE.

As I've already observed with the SAT, these silly standardized tests are complete bullshit. They are elitist, nonsensical and are created by a bunch of arrogant white men who are selfishly desirous of yet another reason to feel superior to the rest of the world and in doing so, have concocted an exam that points out how stupid the rest of us "little people" really are. My apologies for not having forced myself to stay indoors during my childhood and foregoing an opportunity to memorize the Oxford English dictionary from cover to cover. Sorry, guys, but while you were inside, writing about life, I was outside, living it.

I pride myself on having acquired a more extensive vocabulary than that of the average Albany alumnus. But the "Analogies" section of the GRE makes me feel like a boy amongst men - err, girl rather. For example, the following formulation:

4. UNION JACK : VEXILLOLOGY

A. toad : ornithology
B. turtle : microbiology
C. gymnosperms : botany
D. friend : home economics
E. algae : zoology

Okay, so I know what a union jack is. Check. But when the HELL has anyone ever used "vexillology" in their vernacular?! And that's just the problem for the majority of the questions that have so haphazardly been chosen to be placed on this exam: you will most likely recognize only one out of two words in each analogy. So this even further diminishes your chances of selecting the correct solution. Sorry, sucker.

Oh, and in case you were wondering, the correct answer is C. Isn't it obvious?!?!

4 Things I Wish I'd Known Before Coming to Vietnam

True, discomforting cultural differences will rear their ugly heads in every country one ventures off to. I can not expect the Vietnamese people to be mirror images of the typical American persona that I am so accustomed to - nor would I want them to be. But knowing the following facts surely would have served me well upon my arrival here:

(1) 'So-so' actually means 'No.' Ever shake your left or right hand back and forth, in a clock-and counter-clockwise motion, in response to someone asking you 'How are you?' or 'How did you do?' Well, in America, this action would indicate 'so-so.' But here in Vietnam, this gesture is a flat out NO. I am embarassed to admit that I did not decipher the meaning of this commonly understood form of communication until three weeks ago. I have foolishly lingered in the presence of many a shopkeeper or food vendor, inquiring about this-or-that, and have recevied that gesticulation. While I sat there wondering why these Vietnamese couldn't be more decisive and why they continued to give me unsure answers, they probably sat there thinking, 'Why is this idiot still sticking around when I clearly told her NO?!'

(2) Cancelling An Appointment = A Sin: Saving face is a HUGE deal in Vietnam. They don't like to be embarassed here, and their definition of embarassment includes breaking appointments. Case in point: A lovely couple from Missouri, who I had the most fortunate opportunity of getting acquiainted with a few weeks ago, told me that they cancelled a dinner reservation with the guy who helped them find their appartment. After politely asking him if they could move the date, they were surprised to find that he didn't speak to them for three days. When he finally did, his contact was via e-mail, and he flat out told this sweet, young couple that he didn't want anything to do with them anymore. Bizarre, huh? Not only did it startle me to hear this, but finally I understood why a certain group of students, whose coffee date I had cancelled a month before, didn't hit me back a second time around: I had dissed them. Bad.

(3) Curious stares, or contemptuous glares? I feel like I almost have the right to say that I now know what it's like to be a black man in white America, constantly aware of my race. But that's quite the statement, so maybe I won't jump that far ahead of myself. However, I am always getting scrutinized and sized-up any time I step outside my door. It's been bothering me a lot as of late. You would think that the surrounding community would have gotten used to the dirty blonde-haired white girl who patrols their streets in the morning, afternoon and night. Nope; I'm still getting as many gawkers and ogglers as I did on day one. I know the majority of the onlookers don't mean anything by this rudeness, but some of the looks I've received have been menacing. And it takes all of my inner strength not to act like a REAL New Yorker would and lash out at them, demanding 'Would you like to take a picture, @$$hole? It'll last longer!"

(4) Got bug spray? Was it foolish of me to assume that a country, infested as it is with malaria-plagued mosquitoes, would more than likely have an abundance of bug repellent for sale? Why, yes, yes it was. While I was thinking that it would be one less item to cram into my already full-to-the-brim suitcase, Vietnam was thinking that bug repellent wasn't really a necessary item to stock in its' precious shelf space. The only brand that they DO have is one known as Soffell, which is actually a smelly, sticky lotion that ceases to be effective three hours after application. I would KILL for some OFF! right now; and I would like to make a public apology to my mother, whose suggestion of 'bringing bug spray' I carelessly dismissed during those last few hours of packing. Mother knows best!

Vietnamese Egg Sandwich = Excellence

Below is a recent article published by the New York Times about the Banh Mi sandwich which is joyously consumed by many a Vietnamese and ex-pat alike in Hanoi, the communist capital up North. Luckily, we have these sandwiches too in Can Tho. Just not the kebabs yet!

http://travel.nytimes.com/2009/11/08/travel/08bites.html?ref=travel

My Apologies For The Atrocious Lay Out

***Due to unknown technical difficulties, Blogger seems unable to grant me the deceny of posting my blogs the way I INTENDED them to be published, and is neglecting to include spaces between paragraphs, such as in the below post. My apologies to those people who find it difficult to read my blogs when all those words are crammed together. I'll try to do what I can to fix the problem!

Spring Rolls and Hot Pots and Pancakes, Oh My!

Alright, enough of my whining about break-ins and bug bites. Time to get down to the good stuff. And when somebody asks me what the best aspect of Vietnamese culture is, I will undoubtedly answer with this every time: CUISINE!

Spring rolls: Ahhh, delish. Note, however, that there are two specific kinds: there are the more popular deep-fried spring rolls that most folks back in the States are familiar with - an assortment of delightful digs such as veggies, meat or poultry are all too commonly found inside. But in Vientam, the more popular roll is the rice-paper roll, as seen in the above image. This roll is made out of a light, translucent wrap known as rice-paper, made by none other than the standard Vietnamese staple of RICE. Inside, there are typically three main ingredients: rice noodles, shrimp (sometimes meat) and some kind of mint leaf to give it that extra umpf. Pretty damn good, even if you don't dip the roll in the much-beloved fish sauce (which only enhances its already flawless flavor.) Only down side to this culinary collaboration of sweet, sour and sharp tastes: putting them together by yourself is hard. Let a Vietnamese do it for you. Or just buy them pre-made on the streets. Otherwise your roll will collapse, and you'll be left sad, hungry and irritable.

Hot Pots: We really don't do them enough in America, and I'm having more and more trouble figuring out why that is. They make for an awesome entree and they're healthy too! The hot pot is basically East Asia's version of stew, just a lot better than any stew I've ever eaten at home. What goes inside, you ask? Why, anything you want! Leafy vegetables, thinly sliced meat, mushrooms, wontons, seafood, egg dumplings, etc. The list is endless. It's really up to you and your fellow diners what you decide to chuck inside. My favorite hot pot so far was actually the one with the live eel, boiling to death for my dinner. Sorry buddy, but you did taste really good!

Vietnamese Pancakes: "In the traditional American frame of mind, pancakes are thick, lovely slices of carbohydrate heaven. In Can Tho, they are very thin, very crispy flakes of fried rice noodle, jam-packed with a plethora of goodies in between: bean sprouts, carrots, string beans, shrimp, chicken, beef, pineapple, peas, etc. Anything you want in there (except maple syrup) you got it." Why did I just put quotes around my own words? Well, because I've already written that segment about Vietnamese pancakes before in another article, and didn't want to discredit myself for taking these words out of an article written by...myself. Yeah, I'm weird, but you get the picture!

Conspiracy Theory in Can Tho Continues...

"You girls should really be more careful."

Such has been the not-so-sympathetic statement spoken to Christine and myself on countless occasions here in Vietnam. The funny thing is, we're the most cautious caucasians in Can Tho! We click our combo locks closed on our bedroom doors when we leave; a padlock securing our front door defends our home from unwated visitors; we even have the most annoying, territory-crazed dog next door who barks at EVERY stranger passing by. And yet, in Vietnam, these are just meager measures of security. We simply are not doing enough!

As you well know, my laptop, as well my friend's, were stolen from House 6 about a month ago. Pretty crappy to come home to your "secured living space," which was locked from both the inside AND out, only to find your computer mysteriously missing, without the slightest sign of breaking and entering. Hmmm, ghosts? The CIA? Smarter-than-they-look geckoes?

Whoever the culprit was, I've cursed him and his WHOLE family enough. And I got over it. But apparently this/these @$$hole($) want(s) more: At 4:30 a.m. on Saturday, House 7 was broken into. Two girls from the Princeton in Asia program live there and were spared the misfortune of stolen passports, credit cards and other forms of ID. But what they did find missing were their bicyles. Yes, bicycles.

To clarify the abducted articles, one was not just your typical two-wheel peddler but rather, an electric bike, which cost its owner roughly $300. That money could buy you at least 500 meals at the Vegetarian joint across the street or a thousand motorbike drives across Can Tho city. And with the beans-for-bills that we make at the university, it's suffice to say that my neighbor's investment in an electric bike put quite the dent in her savings.

After consulting with one of the inhabitants of House 7 via text message (she had chosen not to sleep there that night due to feeling unsafe) we concluded that all of us Americans are definitely under constant surveillance on Campus 1. It's unnerving, undesirable and most of all, uncool. But there is no doubt in any of our minds that the participants in Saturday night's break-in are part of the same entourage who stole my SONY Vaio in early October.

Upon hearing of the stolen bikes, I am reminded of the movie "Ladri di Biciclette," otherwise known as "The Bicycle Thief." Directed by Vittorio De Sica and one of Italy's most famous neorealist films of all time, it tells the story of Antonino Ricci, a poor man in depressed post-war Italy in the 1940's, who finds a job hanging up posters and needs his bicycle for work. Alas, the bike gets stolen by some sneaky weasel while he is hanging up a poster, and no one cares too much to help him, least not the police force.

To put it blandly, the law enforcers in Vietnam and those of World War II-era Rome would see eye-to-eye on many things, including their reluctance to help people out when they're most in need of assistance. Che sera', sera'.

The Fitzgeralds = Funny Family

So I've recently discovered that I'm not the ONLY blogger of the Fitzgerald clan. Feel free to check out my cousin Sean's blog as he rants about food, football and other funny aspects of life.

http://www.seanbfitzgerald.com/

Can't help that our family is so orally blessed with comedic commentary!

Love In The Form of PB&C

True, I'm a summer baby, and we've got a whole 8 months before my next birthday. But I don't see anything wrong in having two cakes in your honor every year instead of one. Lots of love will be shown to any person kind enough to take me out to Friendly's/get me the above Reese's ice cream cake when I return. No pressure.

"Friendly Night" at Can Tho University

It's times like these that I really wish I had my camera with me.

Yesterday in class, one of my Vietnamese students invited me to Friendly Night, which took place this evening at 6:00 p.m. in the auditorium. I obliged, and all were ecstatic.

When I got to the auditorium, I was, as usual, the only white person there. I was escorted by one of my smallest students to the front row where he asked me to "pliss be zeated" so the show could begin. I followed his orders, feeling 200 pairs of eyes on the back of my head as I sipped the complimentary bottle of Aquafina placed before me. Water never tasted so good.

At 6:15, the show had yet to begin. Typical Vietnam. I was still the only teacher in the front row.

Finally, five Vietnamese girls strolled through the side entrance and stood in a line side-by-side, about three feet apart from one another, with their hands on their hips and their heads hanging down. Then, the music began.

They looked...really uncomfortable. They were dancing like cheerleaders would, but instead of big toothy grins, their expressions read HORRIFIED, and their bodies weren't straight, but slumped. Then they did a pyramid...and every single girl looked so still and so scared to be up there that the pyramid dissembled as quickly as it was put together. Then they exited stage right.

Act 1, down. Act 2, even stranger.

First, one girl strolled in, walking very slowly from one side of the stage to the other, stopping at each side to pose (uncomfortably) for the audience. Each girl had a number pinned to her left shoulder. After the third contestant finished strutting her stuff, taking her place next to the previous two, I asked Stephen, the student seated next to me, what the hell was going on.

"Oh, this Vietnamese beauty contest," he said, opening his right hand to expose a crumpled piece of paper. "You see which number you like best, and you vote."

I ended up choosing number 5, a short girl with glasses and a messenger-style backpack hanging across her chest. She may not have been as pretty as taller-than-life number 7, but she was definitely the cutest.

Then, after the runway show went down, the singing started. One of my quietest boys who sits in the back of Pronunciation on Wednesday was the third performer. He was actually pretty good, and quite theatrical. I thought about pullin' a Kanye West and interrupting his number before it was over to inquire why he couldn't participate this much in class. Reluctantly, I held my breath.

But the absolute BEST part of this show was when two of my students were speaking in rapid Vietnamese on stage after the singers were done. Understanding not a word of what they were saying, my eyes drifted to the floor, and were only raised when I clearly heard my name.

"KELLY."

I nervously looked up, seeing my student motion for me to come on stage. I'm sure my expression looked just as horrified as the dancing cheerleaders' did. I pointed to myself, as if there would actually be any other Kelly's in the room, and he kept motioning. I walked really slowly to where he stood and turned around to face the crowd. You'd think I would have gotten used to all eyes on me by now, but I haven't.

Two other Vietnamese teachers were called to stage as well. They shook hands with me and introduced themselves. I don't know why they were hiding amongst the crowd of students and left me dry to hang in the front row by myself, but they were too nice not to like.

Then, we were all presented with roses. I got roses simply for just coming to the show. That's how damn appreciative these kids are.

Due to earlier arranged dinner plans, I had to bounce after an hour into the show. But I got this text from Stephen around 9 p.m.:

"I'm sorry, the person you love - number 5 - isn't in top five of the most beautiful ones."

She wins in my book.

Spike Your Juice!

Okay, I PROMISE I'll get back to all-things Vietnamese after this blogpost. I just have to share ONE more piece of info about alcohol with you all before I do ;-)

Want to throw a kick-ass party but don't have the required funding to support the boozey beverages?! Check out http://www.spikeyourjuice.com/ and your problem will be solved!

HOW TO SPIKE:

Step 1 - Obtain 64 oz. bottle of your favorite juice (Grape, Cranberry and Pomegranate recommended)

Step 2 - Pour packet of ultra-secret "spike" powder into juice (can be purchased on website - only $9.99!)

Step 3 - seal bottle with Airlock and Rubber Stopper

Step 4 - Wait 48 hours, and then get to drankin' - you now have your very own homemade BUBBLY!

There are also Spike Recipes on the website, and Fun Facts such as this one: "Our Spike “Fireside" recipe resembles Europe’s favorite hot winter beverage Glühwein or Glöggg." Pretty cool, eh?

Chocolate Pasta in Vietnam?!

Last night, instead of taking the usual jump, hop and skip across the street to Thien Loi (the vegetarian place that Christine and I dine at at least once a day) I decided instead to head to Co Bang 173 up the street. Quite the trek.

I like Co Bang a lot, despite its usual roudy crowd of middle-aged Vietnamese men who are typically inebriated throughout the entirety of my/their dinner. Bang's deep-fried squid and beef with mushroom are reason enough to keep me coming back, even if that means I must endure mockery and humiliation by these invalids who think I'm so funny. Ha ha ha. I get it.

But last night, as I sat down alone at the table closest to the front and flipped through the poorly-translated English version of Co Bang's menu, a man who I've never seen before came over to my table. He stood right next to me, with his hands on the back of my neighboring chair, and said, "Please pick!"

I didn't want to disappoint the guy, so I re-directed my attention from him to the menu. Everything always looks so good there.

"What do you like?" I asked this stranger, figuring he was a waiter himself, being so attentive to me as he was.

He said, "Um, everything. Where are you from?"

"New York," I answered back, "but I'm currently teaching English at Can Tho university."

"Ahhh," he said, swaying a little bit and holding on tighter to the chair now. "New York! Not lot of rice in New York?"

"Umm, no, we have rice," I said, "but we usuaully eat pasta more. Do you like pasta?"

"Mmm, yes," he retorted, looking ever-so pensive. "I like pasta...CHOCOLATE!"

Pasta chocolate?! I thought to myself. If I haven't even tried something that awesome in New York and this guy has had it in Vietnam, something is very, very wrong here.

"Well, I go back my friends now," he said, pointing to the empty chair at the table behind him with a half-full glass of Tiger. "Nice talking with you! Bye!"

And there he left me, staring blankly at the menu of Co Bang 173, all other prospects for that night's dinner looking so dull in comparison to chocolate pasta.

::Sigh::

"The Problem With The World Is That Everyone Is A Few Drinks Behind" - Humphrey Bogart

"Respect beer."

Such is the the most important (and only) motto of the Alstrom brothers, co-founders of the website http://www.beeradvocate.com/. Both men decided to forego semi-prosperous, "professional" careers several years ago and dedicated their lives instead to spreading knowledge about their most beloved beverage. Fortunately for them, this leap of faith was proven successful.

Check out the site. It's super cool. Tells you what's new and hip in the wonderful world of beer: latest reviews, recent tastings, upcoming festivals, etc. There's even a "Recent Beer Talk" forum where new posts are displayed every other second of people either inquiring or suggesting various beers and breweries...but some people definitely have too much time on their hands!

Don't spend several hours in a row on this website, like I just did. Rather, enjoy it slowly, the way you would a good beer. And as the Alstrom Bros say:

"So don't just drink the beer. Note the beer's appearance, how it smells and tastes. Savor each beer as if it's your last, and you'll be that much closer to beerdom."

Am I an alcoholic? No. I just really love beer, no matter how much damage it might do to my wallet or my waist.

Enjoy the site, ya'll.

MR. DIPPEL IS COMING!

Dear Mr. John Dippel is coming to Can Tho in two Fridays! Christine and I are psyhched not only to have the director of our program come pay us a visit halfway across the world, but more so because he's bringing Reese's with him.

John is a good man.

We also have a long list of complaints to throw his way - problems with our house, the faculty at CTU, generally the way everything is run in Vietnam. But no matter. All of our feedback, negative or not, is important for the program. Hopefully he will come away having learned more about our experience over here - and hopefully I will come away in a chocolate coma.

Can't wait!

Ahh, To Feel Small Again...

In Vietnam, Christine and I are HUGE. Of course, I don't mean in terms of international celebrity status (although, we are quite well-known in Can Tho, thank you very much!) I am referring here to actual, physical presence. We're bigger than all of the women, as well as the majority of all of the men. We are constantly gawked and giggled at because of our awkward American clumsiness, and no matter how hard of an effort we put into motion to reverse the stares and the sneers, we never succeed. We are forever the elephant in the room, a fact that we've reluctantly come to accept.

But in Ha Long Bay, I was once more able to blend in. I felt, amongst hundreds of other astonished-looking Western tourists, small again, because that's exactly what this kind of magnificent natural masterpiece of Mother Nature can do to a person: make you feel very, very small.

You see, I've stood admist the crumbling walls of the Colosseum, looked down below to the unveiled mazes where gladiators used to anxiously pace back and forth, no doubt contemplating the ugly fate that lay ahead of them; I've peered over the tippy top of the Eiffel Tower, observing the people below who crawled like ants, wind blowing hard against my face on a freezing cold March afternoon; I've even studied in one of the oldest universities of Europe in Salamanca, Spain, lunching almost every afternoon in one of The Continent's most decadent plazas, and never ceasing to be amazed by its beauty. But Ha Long Bay is an altogether different experience. It is a phenomena that can not explained by construction of Man, because it simply isn't. It is a work of the Divine, and I was dumbfounded amongst its presence. When something so beautiful lays before you, there is nothing you can do but breathe it in, and enjoy every moment of its beauty.

And that is simply all there is to say.

Vietnamese Lessons

Ohhhh, dear.

I tried. I really did. But no matter how right-on I think I am with the pronunciation, I am inarguably wrong, every single time.

You see, in the Vietnamese language, there can be as many as twenty different pronunciations for the same word....yeah. The only distinction between them is the little accent/inflection marks that are placed over, under or slanted sideways. These markers indicate an entirely different word as well as serve as a guiding tool to help you realize when your voice is supposed to rise, fall or stay the same. But the only thing that has stayed the same in these last two Vietnamese lessons has been my pathetic pronunciation skills.

I'm not used to this. I studied and mastered Italian for seven years; Spanish came to me easily during nights out in Salamanca, Spain; I even once had a full-out conversation about the differences of American culture and French culture in Paris. But Vietnamese? Psh. That ain't never happenin'. Tonal languages are on a whole 'notha level, folks.

In class, we are each assigned a young Vietnamese girl who is forced to endure the butchering of her native language for two hours with us. She smiles and nods at me every now and then, trying to be encouraging, but her kindhearted antics don't fool me one bit: I know that the way I prounounced the word 'nguoi' was not any different on my twentieth try as it was during the previous nineteen:

Me: "Nuuooyy?"

Her: "No. Nuuuhhhooyyy"

Me: "Nuuuohooyy?

Her: "No. Nuuuuhhhooyyyy."

Me: "Isn't that what I just said?"

Her: "Almost. Try again..."

This went on for about ten minutes. Christine wasn't having much luck with her partner either. There were points where we both just looked at each other and laughed. What else can we do?

Bud Brown, the man in this blogpost picture, can try to teach you Vietnamese on YouTube. Check him out. He'll take you along while he goes grocery shopping in his car and he'll tell you all about how he hopes to return to 'Nam one day.

For those who attempt to learn, good luck to you all. I hope you fair better than I did!

Spending This Halloween Holiday in Ha Long Bay With My Honey

"Dear Ms. Christine Rochelle, Thank you for your reply! Your request has been booked: tour Ha Long Bay 2 days, 1 night, 1 room with 2 beds."

The above message is the confirmation e-mail that Christine received after booking our boat tour of Ha Long Bay. Why did I highlight 2 beds, you ask? Well, this is the first time that Christine and I find ourselves sleeping separately. Normally, the receptionist at any given hotel sees the two of us - sweaty, smelly and poorly dressed American girls - and autmotically assumes that we'd enjoy sleeping together - hence the previous honeymoon suites and king-sized beds that we've gotten before. But now it is FINALLY recognized that we are not lovers on our honeymoon together but rather, just a couple of chicks tryin' to get their Bay on. Yay :-)

Two of My Favorite (Conflicting) Quotes About Travel:

“Traveling is a brutality. It forces you to trust strangers and to lose sight of all that familiar comfort of home and friends. You are constantly off balance. Nothing is yours except the essential things – air, sleep, dreams, the sea, the sky – all things tending towards the eternal or what we imagine of it.” - Cesare Pavese

“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines, sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.” - Mark Twain

Where The Hell Are We Going?!?!

Was it stupid of me to assume that a taxi driver, born and raised in this VERY city, would know the whereabouts of different places in said city? Well, yes. It was. Because nine times out of ten, I get dropped off at the wrong place...and more often than not, it's the same guy, mis-taking me around. I can't escape him!

I feel like this is something that would never happen in New York - you could stumble inside any yellow cab at 4 in the morning and drunkenly mumble your address in slurred speech to your driver whose first language probably isn't even English...and yet, he'd get you where you needed to be. Millions will testify to that statement. But in Can Tho, it is quite a different story...

Christine and I have utterly given up on trying to verbally communicate addresses/place names to our drivers. We just show them business cards. Or we type the address/destination name in our cell phone and have them read it. Or we call our friend An. But the part that irks me the MOST is when they nod in agreement, fooling us into believing that they know where we intend on heading...and never follow through with getting us there. We drive around in circles; we full out stop in traffic; and we both look like lost puppies. Well, I look like a mad one...and my driver just looks like an idiot.

Sandwiched in between two massive trucks, seated on the back of the smallest motorbike in Can Tho and being suffocated by my helmet strap, I was furious today. I got the idiot driver again. This man has fooled me twice before into thinking he has some sense of direction and I reluctantly gave him a third shot. He got me to where I wanted to be, but not without first making three wrong turns, circling the same roundabout twice and looking back once at me for validation. And he also made me ten minutes late for class.

I suppose it's mean to act this way - it's a known fact that most of the drivers are illiterate. Not necessarily something that's their fault. But it's still frustrating. And since I have to depend on them as my cheapest/easiest source of transportation, I may have no other choice but to continue my English lessons outside of class and teach them a thing or two...ha.

Kelly Khung, aka, The Mosquito Killer

For those of you back home who AREN'T fluent in Vietnamese (Lord knows why you would be) 'khung' means crazy. Yeah, that's me. I'm the Crazy Mosquito Killer Girl...be scared!

Mosquitoes don't fly that fast - not as fast as flies do, anyway. But still, I'm proud of myself. I can normally terminate them in one clap/smack/squish of both my hands. I feel like that white kid in that movie (was it 'The Karate Kid'? or maye 'The Last Samurai'? same same but different!) who sits down with his old Asian sensai and is taught how to reach out and grab that annoying, buzzing insect on his first try. I think he finally managed to do so after three days of training.

Well, folks, Vietnam sure as hell ain't Hollywood. It might have taken me nine weeks longer than the 'dude in that movie' to master the art of mosquito mutilation - but I got there!

Now, if only I can manage to avoid more motorbike burns on my right leg and nasty shaving maladies on my left, I might come home looking as scar-free as I was two months ago...

Xe Loi

So I finally made it...to the only club in town!

Well okay, that's not TOTALLY true. There is another hot spot called the "Wild Horse" which I've also never been to: apparently, at this one, there are little Vietnamese women dressed in booty shorts and other scantily clad outfits, trying to do tricks on poles that just make them look as though they're not sure whether to fight the pole or make love to it. So I ruled the Horse out and decided to finally venture to Xe Loi with other WHITE PEOPLE tonight.

Yes, emphasis on the WHITE PEOPLE. There were MORE PEOPLE LIKE ME in town today. They were visiting our neighbors in House 4 (Christine and I live in House 6) from a province to the east, Tra Vinh. And one of the newcomers, Justin, who's also teaching English in the aforementioned province, confessed a feeling to my roommate and I that we no doubt feel as well every time we see another caucasian in our territory:

"Yeah, like, when I go out and see other white people in town, in my mind I'm like 'WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME YOU WERE HERE?!' And they never seem to wanna talk to me cuz they're just tourists passing through..."

What he said is so true. The white people who visit from far away lands want to "blend in" and try to act as though they aren't tourists. Psh. As if they don't stick out like SORE THUMBS.

...And heading to Xe Loi confirmed how un-likeable we are, yet again. When Christine and I first got there, I saw two BLONDE GIRLS having an intense conversation with each other at the bar. I told her we needed to go over and make friends ASAP. So we tried our luck.

"Heyyyy," I said, trying to look as friendly as possible. "What are you guys doing here?!"

Cue the confuzzled looks and the not-so-friendly stares.

"We're from Germany, teaching English and German at a university" said the girl to my right in impeccably good English, not looking happy at all that I totally disrupted the ultra-important convo with Blondie Numbero Dos.

"Oh, that's cool, my roommate and I are doing the same thing! And we TOTALLY need friends!"

After I said this, they both just smiled. And said nothing after. And eventually Christine and I got the point and moved on.

I don't get it! What's wrong with these people?! Christine and I are AWESOME. They clearly don't recognize FABULOUS when it's staring them right in the face.

But no matter. Two Vietnamese men who, put together, still wouldn't amount to a body type bigger than mine, wanted to hang out with Christine and myself. And they wanted our numbers. And e-mails. And not because they wanted to "date." They just want to have someone to pracitce their English with.

I fooled the one guy and gave him the wrong e-mail address. That way I won't get bombarded with the "Hello, how is you? You want coffee with me? I get you 7:30 okay? Good" e-mails. But as for the phone, he managed to grab it from my hand when I took it out of my pocket and called his own number.

Sneaky, sneaky guy.

Finally, An Honest Answer

I've asked almost everyone I know this one particular question since I first arrived in Vietnam...and every single time, I've received a different answer:

"So, uhhh, when does it start to get cooler in Vietnam?"

I normally have to repeat this question at LEAST three times - my accent is still indecipherable to most. And everyone usually cocks their head to one side and looks at me as though I've just asked them for the answer to world peace.

Some answers I've received:

Response A: "Oh, it get nice in November...just like Spring in New York faw you!"

Response B: "Oh, more like December and January, it nice to travel faw you."

Response C: "Umm, I not really sure. What do you mean by 'nice', Teacha Kelly...?"

Response A came from the opinion of someone who has never been to New York (let alone outside of Vietnam, ever) so I ruled it out immediately. Response B - that person, just like Response A, also has zero flight mileage under their belt. So I crossed that solution off the list too. And Response C, well...let's just say I never got an answer because she changed the topic rather quickly, undeniably nervous to break the bad news to me...

So yesterday, when I locked myself out of my own bedroom and had to have a locksmith come to the house and work his magic, I asked the translator who came along with him what the dealio was with this damn weather:

"So, uhhh, when does it start to get cooler in Can Tho?!"

His mouth hung open, observing how sweaty I was even though it was obvious I had gotten out of the shower only moments ago, my hair still dripping wet. Probably feeling sorry for me and realizing that no one had given me a straightforward answer yet, he said this:

"Uhhh, it doesn't."

This was followed by a shoulder shrug and a nervous giggle.

Never before has the truth hurt so much...

Mama-To-Be Is A Mama At Last!

THE LADY ACROSS THE STREET HAD HER BABY!

When I passed by the silk store two nights ago, I noticed five gentlemen, including her husband, hanging around outside the shop, animatedly conversing with their hands. The daddy-to-be looked especially pleased. And I didn't see the mama anywhere.

When I stopped inside yesterday, wanting to pay for the shirt that I picked up three days ago and curious as to how our beloved bulging belly was doing, her sister was working the counter instead.

"Where's the mama-to-be?!" I asked, and she gave me the biggest smile ever.

"Oh, she in hospital!" said her sister, pointing outside and directing her finger toward the left. "Baby good! It's girl!"

"Oh my gosh, you must be sooo excited!"

"Yes yes, very excite! And special discount for you!"

I didn't understand.

"Special discount? I didn't know you were having a sale this week!"

"Oh no, no sale! You pick up shirt on Vietnamese Women's Day. We didn't have flower for you, so we give you a special discount: 220 VND instead of 250 VND. Good price!"

Sometimes it's good to be a woman :-)

Smokey Days

Sometimes, when I come home from a sweltering hot day of teaching, there are dozens of little fires burning all around my condo complex.

I can smell them before I can see them. At first I got excited and thought the neighborhood was havin' a block party. Then I realized I was in Vietnam and not the South Bronx. Damn.

After my initial disappointment, I got worried. Why are they burning? And exactly what is burning?! I'm assuming it's trash, because that's what the leftover contents seem to represent...but who knows.

All I know is that eventually they get put out. Or perhaps they put themselves out. And the next morning there are scatterred ashes everywhere, no doubt adding to the accumulated dirt and grime that stings my eyes whenever I'm on the back of a motorbike taxi. Can Tho is not environmentally conscious in the least, and this drives me as crazy as I drove my mother when I neglected to put any/all plastic bottles in the recycling bin. Sorry, mom.

We only have one Earth, guys...so stop burning your trash on my front lawn.

Not So Happy Halloween

During this time of year, all I need in life is a Pumpkin Reese's. Halloween = my favorite holiday. Reese's peanut butter cup = my favorite candy. Put the two together, and you've got a really happy Kelly.

Well I've searchd high and low for you Reese's, but you're no where to be found in Vietnam. Why have you forsaken me?!

If I could speak with any CEO in America right now, it'd be the head guy in charge at Hershey's. I'd simply ask him why he had neglected to ship any/all Reese's products to Asia, and if he was aware of the withdrawl effects felt by American ex-pats living abroad such as myself.

If he knows what he's done to us, then he's a cruel, cruel man.

Batty for Badminton

FACT: Badminton is intense.

FACT: Never before in my life have I sweat so much than in tonight's three short periods of ten minute back-to-back games of "wanna-be" tennis.

FACT: I will never again make fun of serious badminton players...at least not for a while.

The Vietnamese are CRAZY for badminton. I knew they were all about tennis and soccer, but badminton came as a surprise to me. I had wondered why a few of my students asked, "Teacha, do you play band-mitten?" in class. What a random sport to inquire about, I thought to myself.

Well, badminton is anything but random over here. A ton of people play it. I found this out today when one of my students from Prime (the private language school that I teach at) took me to practice with her friends. Foolishly I tagged along in cargo shorts and flip flops. Bad idea.

When we got to the sporting facility, there were six individual badminton courts occuppied by athletic men and women, young and old alike, huffin' and puffin' like Flo Jo after the fifty yard dash at the Olympics. There they were in their Nikes, their mesh Adidas' short-shorts and their Puma tank tops. I felt seriously out of place with my attire. And before I even had time to think of an excuse, my student shoved a racket in my hand.

"Me you play first," she said, "one on one."

"Okay," I agreed, not too worried about my anticipated performance. I'm athletic, after all, so how hard could it be?!

Uhhh, yeah. I answered that question after my ten minute round with her. She was good. And I was bouncin' around my side of the court like a diagnosed ADHD twelve-year-old. She was barely moving.

Bored with my skills or perhaps just not wanting to neglect her other friends, she told me to take a break. So I did. And she went off to play with some other people. Then, about ten minutes later, a man came around and pointed to my racket with his own.

"Uhh," I stammered, realizing he wanted to "one on one" with me as well. "Sure. Okay."

Good God. Same thing all over again. I was psychotically swattin' at the birdie and he was smooth sailin' through the whole match. After ten minutes with him, he tells me to "take a break." So I did. And he went off to play with other people. Alone yet again.

After downing a bottle of Aquafina, yet another gentleman approached me, nodding toward the same racket that had failed me two times before. I obliged. And for the third time that evening, I embarassed myself...and probably my student too.

"You have good time?" she asked me sweetly, smiling and sweating three times less than I was.

"Yeah," I answered, running my hand across the back of my shirt, realizing the sweat had soaked through. Wonderful.

"But next time," I said, hoping to redeem myself, "I'm bringing my sneakers!"