Wednesday, October 28, 2009

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 :-)

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

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.

Monday, October 26, 2009

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...

Saturday, October 24, 2009

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 :-)

Friday, October 23, 2009

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.

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

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!"

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

Two of a Kind



















I love the woman across the street. Here's why:

1) She speaks English -REALLY well!

2) She is nine months pregnant (ready to burst, actually) and is constantly glowing with the reserved pride of an expectant mommy. Every time I've been to her shop, she waddles over to me, no matter how hot or exhausted she might be, and is always at my side with chipper enthusiasm. I feel guilty every time I see her hoist herself up from her chair just to be at my service...

3) And I love her silk. She runs the fabric shop with her husband and mother. They have thousands upon thousands of yards of silk, with a plethora of gorgeous patterns, and they will make ANYTHING you want. I repeat, ANYTHING. And it will cost you next to nothing. Score.

I got a silk robe made for me a few weeks ago. It's gorgeous. But don't freak out! It only cost me $15. And at home, a silk anything can burn quite the hole in your pocket. However, the robe didn't satisfy me. Like a feen, I wanted more! So I ordered something else, aka, the picture in this blogpost.

Looks pretty original and unique, eh? Yeah, that's what I thought too. After all, I had personally picked out the fabric and style myself. And since the fabric was hidden amongst other more authoritative and vibrant colors, who would've thought someone else would be coppin' my flow?

When I went for my final fitting today, the shirt was quite loose, and didn't fit my bust at all. I just figured she had to take it in more and then I'd be good to go. But as I was standing their with my arms spread like an eagle, this little Vietnamese woman walking around me like I was Frankenstein, the grandmother came downstairs and shoved something in front of my face.

It was the same exact shirt, only a little smaller, and looked about my size.

"Ohhh," said the pregnant lady, slapping her palm against her forehead, "Dis one faw you! Da one you wear is faw bigguh girl den you."

I couldn't believe it! I thought my shirt was one in a million, and here was hard cold evidence that some other girl would be sportin' the same gorgeous top as me. No fair. And how did she know?!

I'm convinced, even though there's no way to prove this, that someone tipped her off. I am, after all, one of the only Americans living in Can Tho...and as in the words of Ron Burgundy from the movie Anchorman, " I don't know if you know this, but I'm kind of a big deal...people know me."

Monday, October 19, 2009

Holy Heat, Batman!


Okay, okay, so I have no right to complain about the horrendous heat over here when you folks at home are experiencing one of the coldest Octobers EVER. BUT, at least you guys have a centralized heating system to come home to, whereas I have fans that spin painfully slow, their pathetic effort to complete a full 360 far outweighing the product that they produce: a barely felt breeze. And they're noisy as all HELL. No wonder why I can't fall asleep!

When John Dippel, the man in charge of Teachers for Vietnam, subtlety asked me if I "liked the heat" during my interview, of course you know what I said: HELL YEAH! But looking back, this was coming from the pampered perspective of an all-around American girl who had grown up with AC and swimming pools. And the only time that I DIDN'T have the luxury of centralized air was during one week at Girl Scout camp in the 7th grade when it rained almost every day. Needless to say, my pores weren't suffocating in sweat every minute that week with the other pre-teen girls, much unlike they are now.

But I have to say that the worst part about the sweating is this: getting to class, trying to conceal the fact that I'm not soaking wet from head to toe and having my students see right through this. It never fails that one sweet girl up front will run to the fan switch near the door the second she sees (or smells) me coming. I just laugh every time and so do they. And I'm sure they're wondering just as much as I am why I'm still the only one profusely perspiring...

Dear Vietnam,

I'd like to look prim and proper for you, but you're making that impossible. Please get this "wet season" stuff over with so I can finally revel in some spring-like weather. I'd like to smell like a lady again for once, and not like I just came home from football practice. Thanks.

Yours truly,

Kelly

Silent Roommates


The last time I ever shared my home with a gecko was in third grade. I really wanted a cat or a dog but couldn't have either as various family members were allergic to them. Boo. But then I discovered the cutest little lizard that ever slithered around this earth: the gecko. And I could actually have one because these guys lived in cages and didn't have any hair! So, to make it even cooler, I got three.

Never would it occur to me that one day I'd have an abundnace of geckoes in my home, even though I didn't ask for them. They're the silent roommates that everyone wishes they had and they (usually) leave no traces of their existence behind (ahem, NUMBER TWO.) They especially like the shower room and the corners of all our ceilings. I've found myself talking to them on more than one occasion while I'm gettin' spruced up, and they're normally pretty good listeners...until they run away. I guess my stories bore them.

Normally, they don't take me by surprise. But just now, as I was rummaging through the messy clothes pile in my wardrobe, I jumped back rather quickly. One little guy was sticking his head out from under my gray tank top and looked like a deer caught in headlights. I didn't want to scare him, but I didn't want him doing his business on my personal stuff. So I reached for my shirt, and he booked it.

Hopefully he doesn't drop dead of a heart attack in the bathroom. Last thing I want is to shower with a dead lizard who used to be quite the confidant...

Sunday, October 18, 2009

One Dolla!


So, I love Anthony Bourdain. He, in turn, loves Vietnam. And his show, No Reservations, has taped five episodes in Vietnam over the past several seasons. And I happened to eat at his ABSOLUTE FAVORITE RESTAURANT in Saigon for lunch today, named Com Nieu Sai Gon. All I'm going to say is the following: deep-fried pumpkin flowers with minced meat, deep-fried muddfish in a sweet ginger sauce AND the best rice pancakes in Vietnam - which, by the way, they break several plates for in order to make, just for one order. And that, my friends, is what filled my belly today :-)

But I also got a taste of home this weekend. Pancakes, maple syrup and Pizza Hut are three things I can officially "check off" thanks to this weekend's venture up north (you will never realize how much you love pancakes and pizza until they are no longer readily available to you.) We also got our hair cut (lookin' fab-u-lous, by the way) and saw a currently released fim, "The Informant." Don't go see it unless you need some sort of sedative to help you fall alseep, which I did. It was pretty awful. But this weekend in Saigon most definitely wasn't!

My favorite part was the Ben Thanh market. While I was winding in and out of the cramped aisles, getting pulled and tugged this way and that by desperate Vietnamese vendors, I stumbled across a baby who was sprawled out on his tummy, on the floor. I found this comical and decided to take a picture of him. The woman sitting a few feet away from him starts laughing and says "One dolla." I laughed too and took the picture anyway, assuming it was a joke.

But then, as I was stuffing my camera back into my bag, she got up and repeated "One dolla!"

I just ignored her and kept going. She didn't follow, but her expression read only one thing: pissed...

Christine also had a similar experience in Cambodia, when a woman holding a baby started to laugh and said, "One dolla!"

I really wonder, if we presented these people with the cash they demanded, if we could actually make away with a child for only one U.S. dollar...

Anyone at home wanna be a mommy?

Thursday, October 15, 2009

Beer, I <3 You





Much to my mother's dismay (sorry, mom!) I have become, over the past couple of years, a Beer Girl. I don't mess around with that Mike's Hard nonsense - those amateur lemonade spritzers are for whimps. Nor do I drink vodka or any other spirit "on-the-rocks", because consuming pure amounts of alcohol with nothing to balance out its sharp, bitter taste is more like torture than fun for me. I like what I'm drinking to taste good, not like gasoline.

I. Just. Love. Beer. All kinds. Ales, lagers, specialities, etc. You name it, I'll try it, and I'll most likely love it. There are, however, a few exceptions...

Like Heineken. You see, when I was a young girl, my grandmother used to come over in the summertime and tend to our garden, always finding the vegetables and fruits failing to prosper. The reason? Slugs. They inhabited every inch of our two-by-eight foot dirt box and would mark their territory by leaving hundreds of chewed up leaves behind, hanging lifeless and looking sad in this small yet would-be-sufficient enclosure of potentially awesome produce. But our plants were dying because the slugs were taking over!

So, what did my grandma do about this? Probably the most practical thing she could have, one of the most effective methods of extermination that I've ever observed to date: she bought a case of beer, poured the brew into little plastic cups and entrenched them in the soil, scattered all throughout the garden. And when she would come back a few days later to check on her entrapments, guess what she would find inside? At least a dozen or so slugs in each cup who had drowned to death, shriveled to half their regular size, no doubt having experienced a fuzzy little buzz in their brains on the way out.

Unfortunately, the brand name I associated with my grandma's weapon of choice was Heineken. I started to believe that the contents in this glossy green bottle were not actually a commonly consumed beverage by the masses but rather, a liquid of mass destruction. And guess what only other beer, besides Tiger, is sold in abundance here in Can Tho?!

**Sigh**

Needless to say, my thirst for a satisfying lager has not been quenched since my arrival in Vietnam. I doubt that it will be until I'm back in New York. But tonight, after waiting for a good reason to crack open my Belgian friend's cherry-flavored beer (from the waffle worshipping country itself) we decided it was time, as he is returning home in several days.

I couldn't have been happier to feel the sweet cherry bubbles hit my lips and eventually settle down pleasantly in my tummy. After taking his first sip, smacking his lips together and looking up at me, my friend said:

"Feels like home."

I couldn't have agreed more.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Lost In Translation

Once, during my semester abroad in Rome, while seated on the passenger side of il taxi, sparking up animated conversation with my driver, I was asked this question:

"Allora, bella...di dove sei in italia?"

This short, stubby man, trying to protect his obviously balding head with a too-tiny beret, had just asked me where in italia I was from. Can you believe that?! My romano language skills had gotten so good (in three weeks time, no less) that he actually believed I was one of his peoples!

Smiling widely, I answered back, saying, "Grazie, signore, ma non sono di italia...sono di New York."

He did a quick double take, turning the right side of his body almost completely toward me, before he (thankfully) averted his eyes back to la strada, noticeably distracted by what I just told him.

"Non e' vero, bella!" he said, proclaiming that what I just confessed must have been false.

This man, needless to say, made my evening.

***

Skip two years and seven months down the line. Can Tho, Vietnam. I am getting an "egg sandwich" for breakfast, accompanied with thinly sliced cucumber, cut up carrots and onions, a chili paste and...other stuff. Since meat is an option as well, which I don't want, I point to the eggs, resting on a glass shelf, encased in the little glass vending stand, and then point to the flakey loaves of bread. The woman selling these wonderful breakfast delights nods and says, "Hai?"- I think about it and decide that "hai" eggs is better than "mawt" egg, so I agree and nod for two instead of one.

I'm fussing about with my i-Pod when I look up and see that my sandwich is ready, wrapped up in deli paper, secured with a rubberband, sitting in a pink plastic bag, waiting to be devoured. But she doesn't give it to me. Instead, she proceeds to crack another egg in her little frying pan, and smiles.

So she thought I wanted two sandwiches, not two eggs on one sandwich, I think to myself, kind of embarassed that she now believes me to have the appetite of a growing teenage boy. I don't mind paying the extra 5,000 VND for the unwanted grinder, because it's equivalent to only twenty-five cents. Still, I now feel foolish. And once again, what I had originally wanted was lost in translation.

I have unwillingly come to accept the fact that my linguistic skills in Vietnam will never come close to those I had possessed in Italy. The language is simply too difficult for me, and I can not wrap my confused little brain around it. I try to tell the taxi drivers where I live, time and time again, abusing a thousand different pronunciations of the phrase "khu mawt", which means "campus one" in English. And time and time again, they fail to understand me.

Yesterday, exhausted and suffering from heat stroke, a Dutch friend of mine asked me this:

"I ate crap here the other day. Have you eaten it yet? Crap?"

I looked at him, horrified and perplexed.

"Uhh...what?" And then I realized.

"Ohhh, you mean crab!"

He nodded and said, "Yes, what I just said."

Only one word comes to mind when I am reminded of the fact that I don't think anyone will ever understand what I say, or I them, in Vietnam: crap.

*** Side Note: The pronunciation of the word "khu" in Vietnamese is closely related to the the word for "penis" - I can't even imagine what these motorbike taxi drivers must be thinking when I ask them to take me home to "Penis 1..."

Monday, October 12, 2009

A Thought For The Day

"It has occurred to me that writers' concerns about the decline of reading stem from more than just a self-preservation instinct; they are tied, as well, to the nearly-as-powerful need to connect. You don't have to read me, but read so you can talk to me. All writers were readers first, and most continue their lives as more prolific readers than writers; with fellow readers - unlike with fellow writers - we feel a noncompetitive bond. (There are no prestigious workshops, or covetous magazine assignments, or Pulitzers for readers.) Tell a writer you write and depression sets in, tell a writer you read and gratitude blossoms. Especially now, in the Blog Age, when it seems that more people want to write than read (not realizing that you need to read in order to write anything that is worth reading, or hasn't already been written.) But this is the inevitable result when a culture prizes self-expression over learning. It is the written equivalent of a room in which everyone is talking and nobody is listening, particularly to the dead. Literature, like French, has ceased to be the lingua franca for the so-called educated crowd."

- Thomas Swick, Have Book, Will Travel

This is a post for anyone who finds that Facebook or the Internet or television (or maybe even blog-reading, for that matter) has technologically seduced them to the point of no-return, indirectly causing them to leave dusty books on the shelves in their home library.

Pick up a book and read today.

Sunday, October 11, 2009

Yayyy, My Writing Is Being Taken Seriously!

Claudia Ricci, a professor of journalism at SUNY Albany, quite the accomplished and published writer, has taken an interest in my blog and has taken the liberty of posting one of my articles on her own, as well as trying to help me get it published in "The Last Word" magazine, geared toward the alumni of SUNY Albany. Take a look for yourself:

http://www.mystorylives.blogspot.com/

Saturday, October 10, 2009

Acrobatic Vandalism At The Halfway Point

(Note: This blog WOULD have ordinarily been published last night (Saturday morning, for you guys) right after I wrote it, but as you will soon find out, that was an impossibility...and I now find myself at an Internet cafe across from campus 1, sharing last night's escapade with you all...)

Seven weeks ago today, amongst the spectacular staff of Singapore Airlines, I left for Vietnam. Seven weeks from now, my semester here will be complete, and I will be free to travel home or continue to frolick through Asia if I so desire to. And about one hundred and seventy minutes ago, on this otherwise really good Saturday in Can Tho, I came home to find that my laptop had been stolen.

I took all the necessary precautions that I always take before leaving the house for dinner: made sure that the door was slammed shut, and also secured the extra "cautionary" lock through the two tiny metal loops, bolted into both of my front doors, about a centimeter away from one another. Apparently, though, these measures of safety were not enough, because my beautiful, two-month-old SONY Vaio laptop was swiped clean from the living room desk (along with the $30 charger I purchased four days ago, as the original had been destroyed in last week's flood) without any sign of resistance or struggle.

The part that's unsettling and mind-boggling is trying to figure out how this thief made his/her way into my home. There are only two possible conclusions that one can come to: (a) either the cleaning lady, who's the only other person on campus 1 to possess a set of keys to House 6 besides Christine and myself, is the culprit or (b) the @$$hole came in through the bathroom ceiling, located on the second floor of my condo...

There are no windows in this lavatory; just barely enough room to fit myself and the toilet. It's a very narrow space, about fifteen feet high, four feet long and two feet wide, adorned with ugly, chipped white tiling that runs about one-third the way up the walls and the rest is covered in poorly-applied sky blue paint. At the ceiling, there is a one by one and a half foot opening. Don't ask me where it leads, because I couldn't tell you; all I know is that when I wake up in the morning and relieve myself of all the previous day's liquids, I am greeted with a most unpleasantly warm wind, cruelly smacking me across the face, as if my first alarm clock didn't accomplish the impressive task of getting my lazy bum out of bed. So, conclusion: this mysterious hole leads to the outside world, and is thus a welcoming entrance for a tiny, acrobatic Vietnamese man (or woman) whose tricks and trades of making his way through this impossibly small orifice would probably impress even that of a well-trained Wringling Brothers circus monkey.

I contacted Chi, the head of the English department, and informed her of the crisis at hand (my Dutch neighbor had also left his laptop on my kitchen table, so there was not one but two thousand-dollar pieces of equipment now missing.) Chi was extremely apologetic and said she'd be right over. Within half an hour, there were five uniformed policemen, one professor from the English department and Chi searching frantically through my house like scavengers, as perplexed and upset by the situation as I was, but just as unsucessful in discovering any clues. After an hour of watching the policemen and Chi converse in a language that I couldn't understand, I was ready to crack open a Tiger. And that's exactly what I did (plus several more) once they all left.

I'm mad at this person for not only stealing my most prized possession, but because he/she has stolen something else from me: memories. Pictures that I didn't publish on Facebook, sentimental text messages from someone who I'll leave nameless that I didn't back up on my hard drive. Pieces of my past that I can never retrieve, beause this son of a you-know-what thought my laptop would be much better off sold on the Black Market - come to think of it, it's probably already started its long, bumpy journey to Saigon on the back of some '95 Ford pick-up amongst squaking chickens and freshly cut purple livers on ice.

Dear laptop,

I know we only had the pleasure of knowing each other for two months, but that time spent together was precious to me. You were there for me when I needed you most, and I was there to chase the little bugs out from under your keys with my ball point pen, and squish mosquitoes to death on your black screen. I'm sorry I wasn't a better friend and couldn't have saved you from a hellish fate, but please know that you will be missed...and if I'm ever sitting on the bowl in the future and happen to look upward, spotting the peeking, black-hair'ed head of this sneaky, acrobatic vandal, I will be sure to flip him/her the bird in remembrance of you...R.I.P.

Thursday, October 8, 2009

"The Worse It Smell..."

The Vietnamese are, to put it nicely, quite blunt.

The other day, when I was sitting on a hard, PlaySkool-sized bench, with both my arms resting on a table that was more like an ottoman, seated across from my Vietnamese student and his girl friend, she whispered something in his ear. Then they both laughed.

I asked him what she said.

"She say I'm too fat," said Mighty, smiling and finding her observation comical. "So I shouldn't be eating this fried ice cream!"

I reassured him, laughing as well, that he was just fine, and not too fat at all.

"Well, maybe in compare with you, I not so fat," he said proudly, as if this statement shouldn't be taken offensively in the least bit. "But in compare with her, I fat!"

My friend Zen, sitting to my right, and I both bursted out laughing.

"Oh, gee," Zen said. "That's nice!"

I really didn't get angry with my student, because what he said was harmless. It wasn't an insult; it was pure fact. This girl was the height and weight of a typical American fifth grader, and no doubt I was wayyy more woman than this kid could ever even dream of handling.

Shortly after, our fried ice cream arrived. Having learned upon my first trip to this dessert hotspot that they had one in durian flavor, I decided that it'd be fun to take my taste buds on a sensory adventure. (Durian, for those of you who don't know, is a most pungent fruit commonly found in southeast Asia. Typically, one thinks of garbage when its overbearing scent hits their nostrils. It's even forbidden to be transported to the U.S. and many hotels in Singapore won't let you step foot inside their doors if you have one in your possession. But if you can get over the smell, what's found underneath the skin is surely worth the sacrifice that your poor nose must endure!)

When the waitress placed the plate in the middle of the table, I brought the tiny, triangular-shaped pastry to my lips, and paused for a second. Even in the form of ice cream, this stuff still smelled awful.

Mighty, noticing my hesitation, offered me some kind words of advice:

"My grandmotha always say, 'the worse it smell, the betta it taste.'"

I had to agree with that statement, because Vietnam has proved it to be true. I took a bite and was instantaneously overwhelmed with two sensations: disgust, and pleasure. A dichotomy that I should have anticipated, but was disappointed by nonetheless.

Regardless, I finished the whole thing, secretly hoping with every subsequent bite that my treat would get sweeter and there wouldn't be an after-smell of a landfill on a hot summer's night. It never happened...but how many people can actually say they've had durian flavored FRIED ice cream?

Guilty as charged, ya'll.

The Lonely Traveler

"It has been said that the more one travels, the more one's attention turns inward...Travel, when done habitually, when done for a living, changes you in ways mostly good, sometimes bad. On one hand, it is the greatest privilege one can imagine: to see the world in all its flavors, colors, and seemingly infinite variety; to discover firsthand the differences among us on this enormous and complex planet - as well as the things we share. On the other hand, travel can become a compulsion, though it keeps us away from friends and loved ones - sometimes even when we're back. When I'm away, I yearn for home. When I'm home, I'm listless. I seem to no longer fit. History and literature are filled with characters who see Asia, or Venice, and never go back to the way they were."

- Anthony Bourdain, Editor, "The Best American Travel Writing 2008"

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

Ship, or Sheep?

A Day In The Life Of An English Teacher:

Kelly: "Okay, class. Repeat after me: ship-sheep."

Class: "Ship-ship."

K: "Err...bed-bug."

C: "Bess-buss."

K: "Okay...put-pitt."

C: "Puss-piss."

K: "Alright, for kicks: Sally sells seashells by the seashore."

C: "Shaley shells she-shales by da she-shaw."

K: "VERY GOOD!"

Moving on...

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

Blackout


I arrived at Prime, a private English-language school across town, by none other than motorbike taxi this evening. The man who drove me spoke not a word of English, but nodded in agreement (after I had written 21:00 on a piece of paper, then pointed to the middle of my chest) that he would come back to fetch me after my three hours of teaching were up. I smiled and made my way indoors.

Actually, there was no door to make my way into. The entrance to Prime is open, about twenty feet or so across, and a uniformed guard paces back and forth, not offering a smile but rather a curt nod of the head.

Whatever.

Once "inside", there is a closed-off glass room for the secretary of the school, located on my right. To my left, there is a tiny little kitchen with equally small tables and chairs. Two cute little girls sit side-by-side in ponytails, slurping their noodle soup and observing me with intense curiosity. I wave at them and make my way upstairs, already a few minutes late to class...

As I should have known, this means very little in Vietnam. No students had arrived yet, and wouldn't start filing in for another twenty minutes. Hearing my stomach rumble, I decided to jet down to the kitchen real quick and see what kind of snack I could procure...

I got a hearty noodle soup instead, just like my two little friends now sitting directly across from me. Accompanied with my new favorite beverage, Vietnamese green tea, I happily sat slurping my dinner with them.

And then, out of nowhere, BLACKNESS.

Even through the darkness, I could feel the heavy, unbroken gaze of both little girls upon me, and never did I once hear either of them shriek or cry out in terror. I just continued to hear slupring.

This was normal to them, but not normal for me. The guard quickly rushed over to the table and slammed a lit flashlight down, and the lady who had conjured up my soup lit a candle with the quickest of hands. Then, the assistant/secretary of Prime made her way over to me, and asked if everything was alright.

"Yeah", I said, turning my head back toward the open entryway, noticing that the whole street seemed to be out of power as well. "Not much you can do about it, I suppose?"

She nervously laughed at my inquiry and said not to worry, that this happens all the time.

(To be honest, I couldn't have been happier. I was tired as all hell and didn't feel much like teaching anymore.)

But ten minutes later, the lights went back on, and my students finally decided to show up. It was 6:15 p.m. when the first student rolled through the door.
The class that I teach is supposed to start at 5:45.

Looks like my propensity to show up at things "fashionably late" won't be much of a problem over here. Even if I'm tardy, I'm still the first one to arrive.

Monday, October 5, 2009

So I'm Not The Only One Hiding Out In 'Nam...

http://travel.latimes.com/articles/la-tr-vietnam13-2009sep13

And So The City Floods...

I am in ankle-deep, murky-brown water as I exit from the Education building this afternoon. Young boys and girls are giggling and rolling up their pants, then trudging down the steps and sloshing across the flooded walkway.

There is water everywhere.

I get a text from Christine:

"Our place is flooded...are the roads okay?"

I am nervous to find out.

Sweetly, one of my students has offered to drive me home, as he knows I usually walk/take a motorbike taxi, or "xe om." I wait for him at the entrance of the motorbike "garage" - it's really just a reserved space for students to house their bikes, encompassed by a circus-sized tent.

When I hop on the back, looking ridiculous in his spare over-sized poncho and the too-small-helmet for my head, he veers right. A man behind us screams "Ay, ay ay!" but before I have enough time to fully turn my head around and grill him, I am slowly falling off the bike.

Boom. Hit the ground.

My student has absentmindedly forgotten that there is a 10-by-15 foot closed-off area, connected by a thin rope and traffic cones, at the entrace of the garage. And we have crashed right into it.

He looks mortified as I not only lift myself upright off the ground but him and his bike as well. I throw the rope over his head so we can continue our journey, hopefully unscathed.

"Teacha, I am so sorry! I'm so embarassed!", says Mighty (which is the literal English translation of his Vietnamese name.)

I laugh at him and tell him that I involuntarily fall all the time. He doesn't laugh, though. His cheeks glow bright red the whole way home.

The roads are a nightmare. Buses and motorbikes and bicycles alike are all submerged in the dirty water, but the drivers harbor no expression of surprise or annoyment on their faces.

Just another day in the rainy season, I suppose?

When I see the walkway entrance of my house, I'm laughing. This is ridiculous. You can't even see the sidewalk. And the water has seeped under our door...

Thankfully, no damage was done. But our tile floor is three inches below surface level right now. And there are worms and spiders and other gross things floating around, upheaved from their secret hiding spaces in the nooks and crannies of our lovely home.

Typhoon season is undoubtedly upon us.

Saturday, October 3, 2009

The Vietnamese Moon Festival, aka, Lots of Vegetables



Today, Vietnam celebrated one of its many "moon festivals." Apparently there's one every few months, but this particular one is SUPER important. I'm ashamed to say that I still haven't figured out why, but I do know one thing for sure: LOTS of food is involved.

So I'm likin' it.

I headed to the house of a friend of An's for festivities, but was surprised to find that I was blocked off upon entry: about twenty or so Vietnamese women, mostly middle-aged, were all sitting on those child-sized stools that are so common in Vietnamese restaurants, all facing the interior of the house, praying to a statue of...Mary?

I thought that this holiday was somehow Buddhist-related, not Christian?! There you go again, Vietnam...always proving me wrong when I thought I had you down pat.

Anyway, once these ladies had finished confessing their sins to Mary/Buddha and dispersed, the group of us waiting outside trudged indoors, to be greeted by that most happy and delightful sight: a kitchen table covered in sustenance.

I really love you, Vietnam, for always keeping my belly full, even if you can't keep away all the bugs.

Calamari, pork, mango salad, barbeque chicken, crab meat & corn soup, pineapple, fried tofu and an assortment of other vegetables (some whose names are escaping me now) completely turned my mood around today. Everything was wonderful, and so were all the people. There might be a language barrier there, but thankfully a smile is universally understood in every jargon. And the Vietnamese people never stop putting stuff in your bowl, even if you've already told them ten times that you're full to capacity...

Oh, and one more thing. As any avid pub-go'er could tell you, saying "Cheers!" and merrily clinking your pint glasses together is an all-too-common custom in bars before the first sip is taken...

But in Vietnam, they do this before the first sip...and about five minutes after that again...and will continue to do so, for the rest of the meal. I didn't get it at first, but supposedly, it shows a sign of respect. And you'll look quite rude if you don't follow protocol.

So, new routine: Crack open a Tiger beer. Pour it into my plastic glass, as it sloshes over the sides of the giant ice cube that I'm always required to have while drinking. Lift my glass with those around me, scream "MO-HIGH-BAH-YOOOOOO!", which is the phonetic translation of "1,2,3,cheers!" and repeat this phrase, every five minutes or so, for the rest of dinner.

TIV, man.

This is Vietnam.

Friday, October 2, 2009

The Displaced Person

The traveler.
The floater.
The expeditionist.
The trekker.
The wanderer.
The voyager.
The ghost...

All words to descirbe someone who is submerged in the unfamiliar. Whether or not he or she enjoys their experience abroad all depends on their sense of adventure, right? And how much they just don't care about what's going on at home? Their ability to abandon all emotion?

Wrong. Totally, completely, utterly wrong.

If any of you have ever seen the movie Dan In Real Life, you'll recall the scene where Steve Carrell's love interest, played by Juliette Binoche (who's also the love interest of Dane Cook in the movie), tells Dan and his family that she is most comfortable when she is "in an environment completely alien to her own", or something like that.

I found myself taking a particular liking toward this attitude about life. Why stay home when there is so much world to discover? Why wouldn't you just get up and GO, learn as many languages as you can, taste a plethora of different cuisines and affiliate with fresh, interesting people whose existence you would otherwise never have had the pleasure of knowing...?

I am a displaced person, in a land that is so strange to me. Some things I like, some things I could do without. I am a journeyer, who has chosen to follow the same approach to life as Ms. Binoche's character in the aforementioned film.

And I am alone.

Halfway across the world with my heart beating like a raging thunder in my chest, I am sad today. And I will be sad tomorrow, for reasons I would otherwise prefer not to mention.

But I will keep pressing on.

It's the life I chose, after all.

Thursday, October 1, 2009

A Trifle Rifle Matter

As I was walking (late) to class this morning, I was greeted by a most peculiar and unnerving sight...

Rifles. Lots of 'em. In the hands of forty or so 18-year-old kids.

Book-ended by two dozen young boys and girls on each side of the narrow sidewalk, I tried to inconspicuously squeeze through in order to get to my class, but I never get away with that here. I'm the only other American teacher during this time of day on the entire campus. *Sigh*

In their white soccer-jersey-material'ed school shirts, with the blue stripe coming down on either sleeve, and the notorious red tie around their neck, these kids looked so wrong. Cute, smiling faces polishing firearms with cut-up, dirty rags just doesn't sit right with me.

"Hello," said one brave boy as I neared the end of the pack, almost and thankfully reaching my classroom door (well, opening - there are no doors in the lecture halls.)

Not wanting to piss off a man with a gun, I responded with a chipper "Hey!" and an energetic wave of my right hand. I think he approved. And I hurriedly ushered myself and my ten-pound backpack inside.

Safe. For now, at least.

I really hope those things weren't loaded...

A List of 5 (Disputably) Disgusting Things I've Eaten So Far (All Were Actually Pretty Good...Except For One)

1) Pig Intestines.
2) FRESH eel (see a few posts below)
3) Duck embryo - it had some hair on its' little ducky head, too.
4) Fried Frog. And not just the legs, people. The whole thang.
5) A Vietnamese concotion of cartilage, fat and mystery meat. This particular byproduct I never managed to hold down. All I can tell you is that it was quite...the experience. I had no idea what I was chewing on, so that helped to further along the decision-making process as to whether or not I should spit it out. I did. And I'm glad for this.

Sorry, Nam, but there are some things in this world that I just won't be able to stomach or swallow...

Next on the list:

1) Snake
2) Rat
3) Beating heart of a King Cobra, drenched in its' own blood.

Might need Anthony Bourdain to hold my hand for number three...