The Rantings and Ravings of An Albany Alumnus

Getting Reacquainted with Fall...

2010-09-12T16:46:00.000-07:00

A year ago this time, doused in stinking sweat, covered from head to toe in unyieldingly agonizing mosquito bites, all I craved was one very simple, American beverage: a refreshing, effortless pint of pumpkin ale.

Not too demanding of a request, right...?

Wrong! This was actually quite the foolish craving on my part because...well, because I was then currently living on the diagonally-opposite side of the world.

You see, folks, for me, the hardest part about my four-month stint in Vietnam had nothing to do with uncontrollably pungent body odors or abundantly irritating insects. Nor did I have exceptional beef with the exhaustive language barrier, which had me emulating the most admirable of sign language enthusiasts after only three weeks in Asia. (Almost positive I've single-handedly invented a new language that constitutes the frequent use of eye-rolling, wild hand 'n arm gestures, and funny gurgling sounds, induced by the many frustrating encounters with the motorbike taxi men of Can Tho.)

But, putting my insignificant communicational achievements aside, back to my initial declaration:

During those four months abroad, I was most nostalgic about one thing, and one thing only: this would be the first time, in my twenty-three years of existence, that I would miss out on the progression of the autumnal season. The one season, I am naturally inclined to believe, that nobody quite enjoys, or celebrates, like Americans.

There is something so superficially comforting, so expectantly routine about the commercialization of Halloween in the United States - the haunted hayrides; the apple and pumpkin picking; the unnecessarily large bags of calorie-packed candy that can be found in any domestic grocery store, crammed with individually-wrapped packets of crappy chocolate but loved, nonetheless, by millions of Americans, myself included. The fake spider webs adorning corners of coffee shops; the cardboard cut-out gravestones clumsily entrenched in your neighbor's front yard; the distant glow of a lunatic-looking Jack-0-Lantern, crooked smile and all. These are, at their core, what make up the glorious season of autumn for me, along with the smell of cinnamon permeating the air, and the taste of warm apple cider, rather poorly confined in a cheap Styrofoam cup, on sale for 50 cents at Conklins' family-owned farm in Rockland County, NY - sadly, one of the only few farms left in the area.

This year, my participation in fall activities will not be unaccounted for. I will drink apple cider until my stomach hurts. I will carve the craziest looking Jack-o-Lantern, simply because I can. I will, in effect, make up for last year's loss - but also, at the same time, I will be recollecting the following thoughts in my head:

Last year, I was eating pho every morning, enjoying unheard of tropical temperatures in the month of October, and teaching English to foreign children who, every day, managed to put a smile on my face. And I will miss that.

Funny how nostalgia works...

Live the Life you Love

2010-07-18T13:01:00.000-07:00

There's something very wrong with me.

Here I am in Room 6320 of Aruba's one and only Holiday Inn - a hotel that was infamously and reluctantly pushed into the spotlight following the fishy disappearance of high school senior Natalee Holloway in 2005 - with full access to a breathtakingly beautiful beach, and an unlimited supply of all-inclusive alcoholic beverages.

But all I keep thinking about is Vietnam.

The mental probing started yesterday when I went for a run. I needed the solidarity. I needed time to reflect about my life, which direction it's going - and what the hell my "plan" is come the end of the summer. As if I'll ever actually figure that one out. But my comfortable and somewhat-lucrative lifeguarding gig terminates in five weeks. So, therefore, must my characteristically-Kelly procrastination.

I was pondering just this when the course of my run took me past a native Aruban, grilling something in the back of a (his?) truck. Exactly what he was cooking, I couldn't tell you. And where safety hazards are concerned, this probably wasn't the best location to set up shop. But whatever it was, it smelled fucking delicious. He looked at me and smiled. And waved. He uncannily resembled a man I used to pass by on my way to and from school every day in Can Tho, also contentedly stationed at his grill: same bronzed shoulders, same ragged tank top, same genuine smile.

...I regret, in many ways, coming home early from that assignment in Vietnam. Sure, it was difficult to wake up every day and go to bed every night in the sweltering heat, constantly combating mosquitoes and trying, effort after effort, to communicate my needs and wants to the locals, as my attempt at making any progress in Vietnamese was just plain comical, to put it nicely.

But there aren't many places like Vietnam. And Aruba is, despite its slightly bluer waters and "tanner" citizens, more or less an extension of any commercialized beach town in America. There's a TGIF's, a Burger King and a Dunkin Donuts right across the street from this resort. Signs of these familiar chains comfort most of my fellow countrymen. To me, they're an eyesore of the worst sort - a painful and ugly reminder that our world is globalizing and therefore, shrinking, at a rapidly dangerous pace.

It makes one think, and fear: is there still enough time to see everything in its most authentic form before it evaporates from the face of the Earth?!

I want to believe, try to believe, that there's still time, despite my foolish choice to leave a part of the world that I had yet to truly discover, to see more of what I lust for - and that is, something different.

So why did I leave it in the first place, when I was already there?

I still don't know the answer to that.

But I do know that I want to live, like most people, with minimal regrets.

As the old saying goes:

"Live the life you love, love the life you live."

Irish Beer Cheese

2010-03-19T12:10:00.000-07:00

Like most normal human beings, I love cheese. And I'm talkin' all kinds of cheese: my likes range from the nuclear orange awesome-ness of Velveeta to the unbearably pungent imported products that one can find at an international cheese shop (or, in most cases, at your local supermarket.) And what's even cooler is realizing how many different products go into cheese making...

In this case, I discovered one made with BEER! (If you're reading this and you already knew about it, you should have told me!)

If you're not a beer person, this type of cheese may not sound appetizing to you. I get that. But I can assure you that it is quite delectable. The hint of Irish stout is just right - doesn't overpower the cheese at all. In fact, this may be the best tasting fromage I've ever brought to my lips.

However, to ensure maximum satisfaction, accompany this cheese with a kick-ass Irish Stout. You surely can't go wrong with that ;-)

Revelin' in Reggae

2010-03-16T20:54:00.000-07:00

I'll confess: I have no idea what's going on in this song. But that doesn't stop me from liking it. There's something about reggae music that just makes me feel all tingly inside. Lame, I know. But it's the truth. How can you hate on guys that are just pot-lovin, peace promoting island boys, preaching love and unity to all of God's chillin'? I mean, for all I know, this dude Gyptian could be advocating underage prostitution. That's how indistinguishable his words are to me. But hopefully, for the sake of the happy mood that it puts me in, this song is about what I think it is: good ole fashion love.

Listen to it. It'll make ya feel good, even though you probably won't know what the hell he's talking about...

Jerey Shore Goes To The Big Screen...

2010-03-15T21:43:00.001-07:00

HUDSON VALLEY RESTAURANT WEEK!

2010-03-15T14:11:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the recent blog absence. Hasn't really been much going on in my life lately. But I felt like it was appropriate to come back with a BANG and inform you good people about this:

What is it, anyway?

Hudson Valley Restaurant Week! Duh!

When is it?

Monday, March 15th - Sunday, March 28th

Who participates?

Over 140 restaurants in Westchester, Rockland, Orange, Putnam, Duchess, Ulster and Colombia counties. One of the restaurants, in fact, is Peter Kelly's famous X2O Exaviars on Hudson, featured on a recent episode of Anthony Bourdain's show, No Reservations, where Bourdain dined with none other than long time adored movie actor Bill Murray, a Hudson Valley resident himself.

What's the deal with pricing?

Restaurants will be serving three-course prix-fixe lunches for $20 and three-course dinners for $28. Drinks are not on the house, though. However, one must consider the deal they're getting here - most of these restaurants are OUTRAGEOUSLY expensive!

To find out more info, go here:

http://www.hudsonvalleyrestaurantweek.com/home.php

ENJOY :-)

Practicing Painful Pilates

2010-03-10T19:40:00.000-08:00

Now, I know what you're thinking. Pilates doesn't look painful. After all, the girl in the above picture is smiling, ain't she? But let's assume that she's been practicing for a while - for weeks, months, years even. And by assume, I mean let's come to a definite conclusion, because nobody that I know can hold their legs up like that for an extended period of time and actually look happy about it.

To bring some visuals to the table, let me start off with this: my instructor resembled Linda Hamilton's character from Terminator 2. Or as I like to say, Bad Ass Bitch. The sight of her biceps alone were enough to shut the whole class up when she came strolling through the gymnasium doorway, decked out in an off-pink Yoga suit, clutching the same colored Yoga mat under her bulging right arm.

Silence.

Unlike her physical exterior, though, our instructor's voice was very soft and mellow. She kept reminding us that Pilates is all about breathing and not so much about body movements. In fact, your body should move very little - your breathing should do the moving for you (?). But many participants had difficulty grasping this concept, and released their air in other ways...

...or should I say, through other ends. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, you know what I'm talking about here. And what can possibly be more embarrassing than passing wind in a room full of complete strangers, knowing that you've got nine more weeks left to go?

Note to self: Do not eat beans before Pilates class. Ever.

Italian Cooking Class, Numero Uno

2010-03-08T21:25:00.000-08:00

Fact: Italians make awesome food.

Fact: Even when they teach cooking classes, Italians do not measure anything.

Fact: I will never learn how to cook like an Italian.

Today was my first Italian cooking class at Nanuet middle school. Actually, it was more like a cooking observation. All of us foodies gathered around our short n' sweet chef, Mrs. Brancatelli, as she merrily prepared escarole soup with cannelloni beans. Despite her vigor and pleasant persona, the resulting product tasted about as interesting as its given name. (For those of you who don't know, escarole is just a fancy type of lettuce.)

I learned a few things about this medley of greens and beans. The first, that escarole grows in sand. And because of its not-so-sanitary upbringing, escarole needs to be scrubbed clean of dirt the way a homicidal murderer would scrub the bloodstain out of an ivory colored carpet. Thorough, ladies and gentleman. Meticulous and thorough.

I also learned that even this seemingly easy-to-make dish can ignite stress in the most neophyte of culinary arts students. One Irish-looking woman behind me threw her hands up in surrender as our Maestra took her third estimated 'pinch' of salt, which was cast into the soup among other 'approximated' ingredients.

"That's the problem with you Italians!" the woman behind me said, exasperated. "You never measure anything! And I come here to finally figure out how to cook, and you still don't measure!"

Our chef just shrugged, looked down into her pot of boiling beans and said, "I'm sorry, but it's in my blood. I just know what needs to be added in and I add it."

That's probably not the answer that Miss Irish was looking for. But I've come to the conclusion that as long as I can still eat like an Italian, I don't mind if I never end up learning to cook like one.

Battle of the Beautiful Boys

2010-03-08T14:05:00.000-08:00

I have one pressing question about last night's Academy Awards, and one question only: what the HELL was wrong with George Clooney?!

Now, most women would probably exonerate this most handsome of academy award-winning actors for the glaring death stare that he shot at host Alec Baldwin when it came time for the 30 Rock star to ridicule one of Hollywood's favorite hunks. But just because Georgie's got a pretty face doesn't mean we women should let him off the hook so easily, does it...?!?!

Traditionally, the men and women who are selected to host the Oscars are more or less required to taunt the talented individuals who are nominated for prestigious awards in their mastered art of acting. It makes the show more engaging and allows us regular people to see the softer (or in Clooney's case, hard-ass) side of our cinematic idols.

But instead of a joke said in jest, an eerie exchange of silence passed between the two multi-time winners of the Sexiest Man Alive award - Clooney looking as if he wanted to rip Baldwin's head off; Baldwin looking as though it might be a good time to move on to the next victim before Clooney slices his jugular open.

And funny enough, after a little bit of pointless research, I discovered that there is still some tension between the two stately gentleman which circumnavigates around Clooney's usurping of Baldwin's Sexiest Man Alive throne, back in the mid-90's.

But if this is really the case, shouldn't it have been Baldwin that was throwing the death stares at Clooney?

I believe further investigation is in order here... only if I care enough to figure out the personal lives of these men who are distantly removed from my own.

Until next time!

Boston Beer Fest!

2010-03-07T10:31:00.000-08:00

Event: American Craft Beer Fest

Where: Seaport World Trade Center
200 Seaport Blvd in Boston

When: Friday, June 18th - 6-9:30 pm
Saturday, June 19th - 1-4:30 pm
Saturday, June 19th - 6-9:30 pm

Tickets: $40/per person
Includes:
- All 2 0z. beer tastings
- Access to over 325 craft beers!
- Fest guide
- Tasting cup

SEE YA THERE!!!!!!!!

King James Bible At Your Command...

2010-03-04T21:36:00.000-08:00

I don't know, man. Maybe it's just me, but when religion and technology coalesce, I don't feel right about it. Not that I feel right about religion to begin with. But watching these two seemingly distinct entities converge is just plain awkward. Like, that should never happen. Ever.

I once saw a monk at a bus stop in Vietnam, garmented in his traditional orange robes, hugging an hp laptop to his chest. He smiled at me, and, to be polite, I smiled back. But my mind was buzzing with questions. Why does he own that laptop?, I wondered to myself. Is he e-mailing the Holy One? Is Buddha on Facebook now?!

I understand that popes, priests, monks, rabbis and all the other "chosen ones" are people, too. They probably enjoy their funny YouTube clip just as much as the next guy. And who can blame them? That stuff is hilarious. But isn't the whole idea of being a spiritual person to lead a humble life, stripped of possessions, trying to show others that the less you have, the better you'll live, blah blah blah?

Having Jesus Christ at my remote control command is cool I guess. But if the Christians who actually bought this DVD were truly devoted to him, they'd get off their lazy ass every Sunday and go to Church to prove it. And the Catholic church's attempt to make yet even MORE money off of one bearded dude's teachings more than 2,000 years ago is no surprise to me.

Bill Maher is probably having a field day with this.

Bye-Bye, ABC!

2010-03-02T23:10:00.000-08:00

As of Sunday, March 7th, television network ABC7 will no longer be broadcast via the popular Cablevision network, which services the homes of millions of Americans nationwide. The reason for this sudden abandonment on behalf of America's Most Watched News Network? Well, I'm too lazy to explain it all. So you can individually listen to each corporation's side of the story at the following websites:

Cablevision: http://www.cablevision.com/abc/index.jsp?ftrack=abc

ABC: http://www.saveabc7.com/

What it comes down to: Monayyyyyy $$$$$$$

To be honest, I'm not too perturbed by this recent schism. It's all about money, which both conglomerations have MORE than enough of. And more importantly, as Cablevision states in its own public service announcement, most of ABC's TV shows are available for viewing, FREE OF CHARGE, on their website. So what this means to me is, I can still get my Modern Family fix...and that's pretty much the only thing I care about.

These announcements are great though. Especially if you want a good laugh. I feel like I'm watching two political competitors slander one another at desperate attempts to get more voters on their side. But who really knows the authenticity of both parties claims at the end of the day? We won't know it in politics; we won't know it in television.

And that is the God's honest truth, folks.

March MADNESS!

2010-03-01T13:36:00.000-08:00

In my relatively short twenty-two years of life, I've come to accept this one fail-safe basic about nature: rarely does it ever play by the rules. For instance, my hometown of southern NEW YORK has been victim to snow in mid-April, witnessed 76-degree days in mid-December and...well, do you really need any more evidence to prove the Whackness? Those two phenomena alone should be reason enough to bring any global warming skeptic to his cynical knees.

But today was totally different. And by different, I mean totally normal. Today actually tasted like the sweet breath of early spring. I saw the snow melting, heard the soft melody of birds chirping and felt the heat rising as I eased into my Saturn Ion, eagerly switching the temperature dial all the way to FREEZING for the first time in seven months. All-right!

To be honest, I thought winter was never going to end. After last week's two-day fiasco of swirling snowstorm MADNESS, I thought we were all doomed for eternal Ice World. I even Google'd "How To Construct Your Dream Igloo" and "What To Expect When You're Expecting Ice" just in case. But luckily, I won't be needing any of that now because...

Spring is here! HOORAY! Time for mind-boggling movies like the Mad Hatter, which I probably won't see in theaters. Time for awesome Mardi Gras celebrations, which I've never actually taken part in. Time for March Madness basketball, which I don't really care about, but to my credit, will watch every once in a while if there are no re-runs of The Office playing. But still, March is a good month. The best, in my opinion, because it speaks of so many good things to come: warm weather is just around the corner, and so is the retrieval of my good spirits that I lost back in the cold. I'm comin' for ya, guys!

"Women Come And Go But A Stuffed Dog Is Forever"

2010-02-28T19:38:00.000-08:00

The month of February has been, to date, the most uneventful month of my life so far (read: my unemployment status, my foggy future, etc. etc.) But tonight, thankfully, this month has managed to give me some laughs by airing a relatively funny talk show about marriage, appropriately titled The Marriage Ref.

Comedian Tom Papa hosts the show, accompanied by three judges - Alec Baldwin, Kelly Rippa and Jerry Seinfeld. Papa shows the audience video footage of a couple and their respective problem (tonight's two problems consisted of (1) some husband's dead stuffed dog named 'the Fonz' that he keeps around the house like a stuffed animal, which his wife, understandably, can't stand and (2) one husband's encouraging of a stripper pole addition to his bedroom, met by hostile opposition from the Mrs.) And after they air the footage, the judges discuss, throw in their two cents and then video chat with the couple at stake to give them the verdict: who's in the wrong, and who's in the right?

Aside from the fact that Baldwin should probably be the LAST guy to discuss the morals of who's right and who's wrong in the holy institution of marriage, he does, as usual, steal the spotlight. When Baldwin is dressed to the nines in a suit, any suit, whether it cost him $200 or $2,000, I can never divorce him from his character Jack Donaghy from 30 Rock, pompous and overtly sarcastic. But maybe that's not really his character after all. Maybe that's just Baldwin?

Call me the anti-everything-funny here, but I'm not a huge Seinfeld fan. Yes, his show was funny, but he, individually, is not. And Kelly Rippa is, well, Kelly Rippa - loud, annoyingly blonde and skinny, and whose feedback is as important to this show as Paula Abdul's was for American Idol. (Need I say more...?)

However, all is not lost yet for The Marriage Ref. It has some promising guest stars in the future - Ricky Gervais, Larry David and Tina Fey, to name just a few. And if the couple's problems may not be interesting (and tonight's most certainly were not) hopefully the guest appearances will be! Stay tuned, folks...

Three Tips I've Got For Current Undergraduates

2010-02-25T13:21:00.000-08:00

I won't lie to you here kids. Life after college is NOT fun. Sure, you might only be a freshman now and think that the "real world" is light years away from where you stand today. Hah. Think again! Those four years are going to zoom by so fast and before you even know it, you're back at home, living with your parents, re-doing your downstairs bathroom because (a) you're unemployed and (b) pretty much expected to help out wherever you can now. Welcome home, kiddo!

In all fairness, I have a loving family that is supportive of everything I do, allowing me to take a temporary leave of absence from the working world until I find a job that suits me. So I can scrape off some wallpaper and do some white-washing in exchange for this fair arrangement. But as I prowl through job search engines hour after hour, day after day, I realize how much easier snagging a desirable job would be if I had simply networked back in school. And how easy it is to do that!

(1) Continue to be, or start getting, involved. As a high school senior with an impressive GPA and a never-ending list of extra curricular activities, I could have gotten accepted into almost any college I applied to. And that's because I was involved. Even after college, employers like to see that you were keeping busy during your collegiate years, whether it was through intramural lacrosse or becoming president of your student rights association (is that even such a thing?) Whatever. The point is, I didn't do any of this. And because I didn't do this, it's hard to impress potential employers with my undergraduate experience. But you can save yourself now by running that beer-gutted belly of yours to your school's campus center and signing up for math club, or something like that. You get the gist.

(2) Don't hate on your teachers. When I was teaching English in Vietnam last year, I managed to connect with a wonderful woman who was a journalism professor at SUNY Albany. I originally contacted her in hopes of finding someone who would publish an article I had written about my Nam experience for Albany's Last Word magazine. That never ended up happening, but what I got out of this mass exchange of e-mail was a connection. My newfound teacher friend would post some of my blogs on her own website (http://www.mystorylives.blogspot.com/), which reached a lot more readers than mine did. I was grateful for it. And my point here is - teachers are your friends. They're not only there to make your life miserable by assigning pointless projects and erroneous exams, which they have and always will inevitably do. They're also there to help you. To write recommendations. To be a guiding light when you need career advice. So remember - there's no shame, only success, in becoming a teacher's pet.

(3) Intern. Boy oh boy, did I miss the boat on this one, big time. I realized just how unfortunate it was that I had never taken part in a hands-on work experience during my undergraduate years after meeting my roommate in Vietnam, Christine (http://www.christinecackles.blogspot.com/.) The girl had made it a point to intern for at least one semester during every year she was at Marist college. And many of the connections she has today are ones that she made during those internships. Smart girl. And even for people like you and me who might have easy-to-mock majors like history or Russian literature, there's always something you can intern for, even if you're not an expert in the field. So please, folks, don't do what I did and trade your books for booze - make something of your college experience, because the truth is well-known and painful: you will only have one shot at it. So make it a good one!

Death Of The Librarian Lady

2010-02-24T21:57:00.000-08:00

Ever since the release of James Cameron's ultimate Man vs. Machine movie, The Terminator, many have questioned the validity of the film's main argument: the inevitable annihilation of planet Earth's most dangerous predator (man) by none other than mindlessly programmed machines. Okay, so people who are in touch with reality don't really worry about fabricated movie malarkey such as this. But today, after witnessing what was going on at my local public library, my sense of security has been tinkered with just a tad bit.

First things first: I've always loved the library. Now that I'm out of college, my mind is no longer granted the privilege of engaging in stimulating class lectures, so I read more than ever before. I love to read. Always have. I'm also one of those creeps who likes the musty smell of an old, scribbled-up library book. I love its tattered binding; its underlined text; its high-lighted paragraphs; its dog-eared pages. The works. I also love the peace and quiet that I'm offered, free of charge, at the library. I can actually hear myself think in there. And I willingly surrender my iPod and cell phone for the entire duration of each visit that I pay to this most tranquil of public establishments. I simply allow myself to drown in reading.

Lately, I've somewhat neglected the library that I grew up next to, less than a quarter of a mile away from my childhood home. But I had some movies on reserve for pick-up there, so the pressure of paying an overdue visit to this old friend of mine was relieved today. However, upon arrival, I was greeted with the most offensive of renovation sights: a brand-spanking new circulation desk, shiny green marble and all, with none other than SELF check-out machines! What the HELL?!

I did not like this augmentation to my perfectly fine childhood library - did not like it one bit. Where were all the librarians, necks adorned with over-sized pearls, cat-like spectacles drooping down their long, pointy noses, red lipstick smeared on the outer edge of their Styrofoam coffee cups? Why weren't they still in charge? And why did some genius come up with the brilliant idea, during these hard economic times, to replace the jobs of hard-working women with ungrateful machines that can't even utter a "thank-you" once you've employed them?

A machine can't tell me, "Oh, if you like this book, you'll certainly like...blah blah blah." A machine can't remind me, "Don't forget - your book is due March 3rd, next Wednesday!" A machine won't warmly conclude our twenty-second interaction together with the sweet sincerity of a "Good-bye, have a nice day!" comment. Self check-out machines are still just machines - unfriendly, unfeeling and, in my opinion, unnecessary at this particular institution.

And I foolishly thought that this self check-out madness would end at the grocery stores. Nope. The machines are back to haunt us, slowly taking over, making me question whether or not John Connor's services will actually be needed in the near future.

Yikes.

A Burgeoning Issue Up In The Air...

2010-02-24T13:32:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, I get upset that I can't fit into a pair of pants. But the impending epidemic of obesity in the Air World presents a much more pressing issue at hand: people who can't fit into their airplane seats. Read on, it's an interesting article:

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/02/28/travel/prac28fat.html?ref=travel.

Who Wants To Read My Words, Anyway?

2010-02-23T18:30:00.000-08:00

I've got this burning question on my mind lately: why do I keep on writing? And who even wants to read my writing? After all, I'm no longer in Vietnam, no longer interesting, no longer in Vietnam. I don't get frequented by exotic house guests anymore - the geckos, the frogs and the occasional crab, to name but a few. And I no longer have that feeling of soul-satisfying accomplishment, of doing a job that was note-worthy and impressive - I was teaching English in freakin' Vietnam for crying out loud! How many Americans can point their chubby little fingers at a map and even ballpark this country's approximate geographic location?! (Note: I couldn't either until after a little bit of research ;-)

Recently, I read Tim O'Brien's war novel, The Things They Carried, which is a gut-wrenchingly realistic portrayal of a soldier's experience in Nam. It was well-written and you felt bad for the guy. But personally, since I had been to Nam, the only two things in his novel that I could relate to were the heat and the bugs. Everything else was alien to me. I could not swallow his words. His Nam was not My Nam. His Nam was full of fear, anxiety and anguish. Mine was full of hospitality, love and hope. My Nam was flourishing and O'Brien's was burning to the ground. It was hard to compare his story with my own, to think that we both traveled the same landscapes and slept under the same penetrating sun, yet saw this country through two very different sets of eyes. But his story got the wheels in my mind turning. Why does he write? Why does anybody write, for that matter?

I believe that a writer writes for the same reason that a purger purges: to release what's inside of him. That toxic waste. That useless raw material. That cluster of decay that would otherwise debilitate his ability to function. A writer needs to tell his story to the world in order to be at peace with the world. A purger purges, admiring the speckled colors of what was inside him that now lay splattered on the ground, ungracefully, knowing full well that if he hadn't brought them up, this collage of colors would have forever brought him down.

That being said, I have no war stories for you. Sorry folks. The most battling I did in Vietnam was with Mother Nature. I suffered in sweat daily, and from mosquitoes, nightly. The sun and the bugs took spiteful intervals at swallowing me whole. But in exchange, I got the ability to tell stories, because I was left with not much else to do. I was able to translate my life onto a computer screen, meddling with the truth not as often as I would have thought, because life over there was, in good ways and bad, wacky. And why do I write? Because I need to tell stories, even if no one is listening. And I think that answers the question for most.

Vietnamese Beer Culture

2010-02-22T11:00:00.000-08:00

Today, I miss Vietnam. I miss the sounds. I miss the smells (err, some of them.) I miss the colors. I miss the food. And funny enough, I miss the beer. Below is an article discussing (1) a European-style beer garden in Saigon (which I went to during my last weekend in Vietnam) and (2) bia hoi, the "people's beer," which I consumed on more than one occasion during my visits to the northern city of Hanoi. Enjoy the article!

http://travel.nytimes.com/2010/02/21/travel/21explorer.html?pagewanted=1&em

Michelle Kwan: Olympic Tragedy

2010-02-21T21:11:00.001-08:00

What is there to say about Michelle Kwan? Well, quite frankly, a lot. During her time as a competitive figure skater, the girl had won 9 U.S. Championships, 5 World Championships and 2 Olympic medals - a silver in Nagano ('98) and a bronze in Salt Lake City ('02.) She was (and probably still is) one of the most talented figure skaters in the world, having delicately and tastefully strutted her athletic ability in countless competitions across the globe, always with the grace and beauty of an artistic performer well beyond her years.

But my heart always breaks for Michelle Kwan every time the Winter Olympics come to town. I shutter just thinking that this brilliant skater's mantel is vacant of a gold Olympic medallion, reflecting the glow of a mid-winter's fire off of its glimmering surface. She's the reason I got into figure skating in the first place. During the winter of '97, I can remember watching all of the pre-Olympic competitions with my mother and aunt, who championed her and not the other Americans performing that year (cough cough, nose-job-needing Tara Lipinski.) I ended up loving Michelle. She was cute, she was exhilarating to watch on the ice and what's even cooler, she has the same birthday as me (although seven years my senior.)

In my eyes, Michelle Kwan was robbed of a gold medal twice, first by nose-job Lipinski (who eventually got one, I believe) in '98 and later on in Utah, by two skaters whose names are escaping me now. I actually cried during that second Olympics. I couldn't believe that Michelle had only come away with the bronze. And what was worse - the number that she skated to AFTER the competition was over (all of the skaters performed a number for the crowd after the ceremonies were done) was Sting's "Fields of Gold," decked out in a sheer shiny gold dress, a hint of a tear in the corner of each eye. Even she knew that she should have won that year.

Let's face it - winning the gold medal for your sport in any other competition except the Olympics is like winning an acting award in any other category except the Oscars. Simply put, it just doesn't matter. If you haven't achieved your life's goal, which was to get to the Olympics and be awarded the highest honor for your years of sacrifice and dedication and ultimately, your unconditional love for the sport, you haven't achieved your nirvana. Your ecstasy. Your final satisfaction and your free pass to retire in happiness. It doesn't matter how great you may be - without that medal, you suffer internally, forever, the doubts of what your years of practice and patience were worth. And you always wonder why you weren't good enough.

I wouldn't be saying this right now if Michelle's face hadn't said it for her during the 2002 Olympic games. Although she stood up there, at a lower altitude than the other two performers on the podium, she looked numb. And disappointed. I don't blame the poor girl. And since Michelle, I have never gotten close to any other female figure skater. The heartbreak is just too much.

::Cue the sobs::

Nam

2010-02-19T17:37:00.001-08:00

"Sometimes I want to eat this place. Vietnam. I want to swallow the whole country - the dirt, the death - I just want to eat it and have it there inside me. That's how I feel. It's like . . . this appetite. I get scared sometimes - lots of times - but it's not bad. You know? I feel close to myself. When I'm out there at night, I feel close to my own body, I can feel my blood moving, my skin and my fingernails, everything, it's like I'm full of electricity and I'm glowing in the dark - I'm on fire almost - I'm burning away into nothing - but it doesn't matter because I know exactly who I am. You can't feel like that anywhere else." - Tim O'Brien, The Things They Carried

Johnny Gets Gipped

2010-02-18T23:56:00.000-08:00

Sitting in what's known as the "kiss-and-cry" station after his superb Long Program performance, with a crown of red roses perched on top of his head, Johnny Weir sat next to Galina, his Russian coach, and waited patiently for his scores. When they came, they were jaw-dropping, but not in a good way. He had placed fifth, with Evgeni Plushenko, two-time Russian Olympic medalist, yet to skate. So in actuality, Johnny would finish sixth in the 2010 Vancouver Winter Olympics. Poor guy didn't even make the podium. And what's worse than all of this? His scores were tailing behind those of two men, Stephane Lambiel from France and Daisuke Takahashi from Japan, who had each fallen once during their own Long Program performances. But Johnny had not.

How does a man, who skated an almost-flawless four and a half minutes on ice, come up short-changed like that? Well, politics has a lot to do with it. It's a known fact that most judges don't like Johnny, but no one can really extract the reason why. Is it his flamboyance? His brashness? His feathery costumes? Possibly a combination of all these things and more. But I think it's because Johnny is different, and with difference comes uneasiness, and with uneasiness comes low marks on the score board for Mr. Weir.

Those roses on his head might as well have been thorns. Okay, maybe that's an extreme analogy - but like Jesus, Johnny was wronged. More than wronged. He was robbed of a bronze medal. Sure, he was never going to win the gold, which, by the way, wasalso stolen from Evgeni Plushenko by American Evan Lysacek, whose outfit kept reminding me of Mugatu's, the fashion designer played by Will Ferrell in Zoolander. With a silver sequined serpent adorning the neckline of Mr. Lysacek's costume, I couldn't help but notice how intense and stiff this guy was - how incredibly unlike Johnny. So naturally, I don't like him.

Still, I'll give it to the guy - his performance was outstanding. However, he did not attempt a quadruple axle. Plushenko did, and landed it. Both men were as close to perfection as any male figure skater could hope to be. But as Plushenko's score lit up, so did Lysacek's eyes - he had won! Even Evan didn't believe it. Right before he hugged one of his family members, he belted out the words "Nooo way!", in obvious awe of the results - most likely because he knew he didn't deserve it.

Yes, I'm bitter. My favorite skater came away from this year's Olympic games empty-handed. But I should probably bite my tongue here, because even after hearing the news of his placement, Johnny was still smiling. The kid skated his heart out - the best performance of his career to date. As he held his head in his hands, kneeling on the ice for the last time ever as an Olympian, you felt happy for him. And even if he didn't win a medal, he has certainly won the hearts of many a fan across the globe, including my own.

And The Flying Tomato Wins The Gold!

2010-02-18T12:19:00.001-08:00

Honestly, did you really think he wouldn't? The guy is dynamite when his feet are strapped to a snowboard. Makes me wonder if he was born with one attached to his feet. I must confess, I know very little about the sport of snowboarding, let alone about the kind of internal balance and patience one must possess in order to stay on a snowboard. But after last night's jaw-dropping, gravity-defining program, I do know one thing for sure: no one else's performance in that competition even compared to Shaun White's precedent-setting spectacle.

After his first run, when he had soared higher and more gracefully than the rest of his fellow competitors, Shaun White had already won the gold. You knew that he knew it, too. That big goofy grin spoke for itself when he triumphantly completed his first run, jumping up and down like a giddy schoolboy. Logistically, he could have taken it easy during his second run. But after consulting with his coach about whether or not to pull out the big guns, his coach simply said, "Don't do this unless you're going to stomp it."

And stomp it he did. Shaun White's Double McTwist 1260 might sound like some kind of Big Mac on steroids, but really, it is so much more: it is a trick that has re-defined the sport of snowboarding, all because one kid had the guts to pull it off, even when it wasn't necessary for him to do so. And that, ladies and gentleman, was a stunt that is all things Olympic: record-setting, gravity-defining and above all, absolutely beautiful.

2010-02-17T14:08:00.000-08:00

True, this February has brought us Americans many a bountiful entertainment gift - the Saints triumph at the Superbowl, the awesome Vancouver Olympics, a brand new season of "16 and Pregnant." But in my opinion, this month is torturous and elongated, despite its curtailed twenty-eight day calendar. February is way too close to spring, yet so far removed from it. Funny how the shortest month of the year is feeling like the longest...

So how can we, fellow summer-supporters and beach-lovin' folks of the world, get through these darkest and dreariest of days? Well, I recently google'd the phrase"beat the winter blues" and what did I find? Stuff that my doctor's been telling me to do all my life: eat healthy, exercise, avoid binge drinking (sorry about that last one, Doc!) But most people don't follow these overly-obvious instructions. Most people sit down on the couch with a pack of Oreos, channel surf until their fingertips hurt and maybe glance once or twice at their folded-up treadmill, mocking them from across the room, sporting a fine layer of dust on its metal handle bars.

One thing I did recently to battle my own blues was sign up for two adult education classes, which start in a couple of weeks. One is Italian Cooking. The other is Pilates for Beginners. So now, I can learn how to make fattening, delicious meals on Mondays and work off those calories I consumed on Wednesdays. Move over, Giada de Laurentiis - soon enough, I'll be able to cook as good as you AND look just as good as you...maybe ;-)

Here Comes JOHNNY!

2010-02-16T22:10:00.000-08:00

If heterosexual men had difficulty sitting through figure skating (or, even more sexuality-defining, MEN'S SINGLES) before Johnny Weir came into play, I can only imagine the distance they must keep now between themselves and their blaring television sets while this perky little performer struts his stuff on the big screen.

What can one say about Johnny Weir? Well, one word definitely comes to mind: unconventional. Interesting is an understatement; flamboyant is an insult. During tonight's short program, in his tight, open-chested black ensemble, with three pink straps stretching across his bare, skinny midsection, Johnny gave an awesome performance, as always - but he only came in sixth place. The judges are harsh on him, more so than on others, in my opinion. Not because he isn't good. He's phenomenal. But even when he gives a stellar performance, it's always short of transitions, which are Johnny's weakness.

Personally, I think Johnny has too much personality and vigor for stiff Olympic standards. His executions are always beautiful, but the level of difficulty in his programs are just not up to par with his competitors. He does, however, put on one hell of a show for us spectators, which is, after all, what Johnny Weir does best.

Calling All Harry Potheads!

2010-02-16T21:30:00.000-08:00

Hooray! I always knew this day would come! (Or, rather pathetically, always secretly hoped it would!)

Universal Studios in Orlando, Florida has created ::cue the eerie theme music:: the WIZARDING WORLD OF HARRY POTTER, scheduled for its glorious opening this spring! Zonko's joke shop, Honeydukes homewade sweets and the Three Brooksticks pub are among the actual, TANGIBLE landmarks one can visit if they so happen to step foot inside this most magical of theme parks.

I won't be surprised if, on opening day, the Orlando Sentinel reads, "Boy, 8-years-old, Dies of Asphyxiation at Wizarding World Entrance."I'm not saying here that I want this to happen - I'm just saying that it MIGHT!

Now, before you trod off, poking fun at my child-like delight here, know this: YES, I am a twenty-two-year old self-proclaimed lover of all things Harry Potter. NO, I won't push kids over in line to get to the Dragon Challenge (which is actually a roller coaster) or to buy myself a Sneakoscope at Dervish and Banges magical goodies store. I might, however, have one too many Butterbeers at the Three Broomsticks, and then, well...I won't be held accountable for my actions.

(Note: "Butterbeer" is actually a non-alcoholic hot beverage that Harry and his buddies consume during many a late-night out in Hogsmeade. Or, more precisely, it is a made up drink by J.K. Rowling. Hahaha.)

National Anthem Singing Contest in Vietnam: My Students!

2009-12-17T17:46:00.000-08:00

Nobel Peace Prize Goes To...Obama?

2009-12-13T14:15:00.001-08:00

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

2009-12-11T23:22:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-09T20:21:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-08T17:39:00.000-08:00

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...

2009-12-07T19:04:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-02T17:02:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-01T21:11:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-21T09:53:00.000-08:00

“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

2009-11-18T07:28:00.000-08:00

"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

2009-11-15T16:46:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-14T17:41:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-13T19:59:00.001-08:00

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

2009-11-13T18:22:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-13T18:04:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-12T10:11:00.001-08:00

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

2009-11-11T15:29:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-11T06:09:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-11T01:40:00.001-08:00

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

2009-11-10T07:25:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-09T02:48:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-09T02:21:00.001-08:00

***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!

2009-11-09T01:30:00.002-08:00

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...

2009-11-08T11:24:00.000-08:00

"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

2009-11-07T02:38:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-05T11:42:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-05T09:00:00.000-08:00

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!

2009-11-05T08:38:00.000-08:00

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?!

2009-11-04T22:51:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-04T11:13:00.000-08:00

"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!

2009-11-03T20:57:00.001-08:00

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...

2009-11-02T02:19:00.000-08:00

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

2009-10-28T21:26:00.001-07:00

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

2009-10-28T02:57:00.000-07:00

"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:

2009-10-27T07:02:00.001-07:00

“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?!?!

2009-10-27T05:49:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-26T07:25:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-24T22:34:00.001-07:00

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

2009-10-24T04:43:00.000-07:00

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!

2009-10-24T02:03:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-23T02:15:00.001-07:00

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

2009-10-21T16:42:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-21T08:55:00.000-07:00

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!"

Two of a Kind

2009-10-20T07:33:00.000-07:00

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."

Holy Heat, Batman!

2009-10-19T20:55:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-19T03:09:00.000-07:00

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...

One Dolla!

2009-10-18T08:49:00.000-07:00

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?

Beer, I <3 You

2009-10-15T09:48:00.001-07:00

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.

Lost In Translation

2009-10-13T17:20:00.001-07:00

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..."

A Thought For The Day

2009-10-12T05:23:00.000-07:00

"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.

Yayyy, My Writing Is Being Taken Seriously!

2009-10-11T18:36:00.000-07:00

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/

Acrobatic Vandalism At The Halfway Point

2009-10-10T20:13:00.001-07:00

(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.

"The Worse It Smell..."

2009-10-08T23:22:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-08T02:00:00.000-07:00

"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"

Ship, or Sheep?

2009-10-07T10:25:00.000-07:00

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...

Blackout

2009-10-06T09:55:00.000-07:00

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.

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

2009-10-05T04:26:00.001-07:00

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

And So The City Floods...

2009-10-05T03:21:00.000-07:00

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.

The Vietnamese Moon Festival, aka, Lots of Vegetables

2009-10-03T10:40:00.000-07:00

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.

The Displaced Person

2009-10-02T09:41:00.001-07:00

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.

A Trifle Rifle Matter

2009-10-01T22:13:00.000-07:00

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)

2009-10-01T12:01:00.000-07:00

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...

Rush Hour At 4:30 A.M.

2009-09-29T09:30:00.000-07:00

Last night I had difficulty sleeping. Instead of trying to force submission that would not come, I let my curiosity get the best of me and ventured outside at 4:30 a.m. in pursuit of any fellow insomniacs I could find.

Instead of the few wandering souls I expected to encounter, I got the whole neighborhood.

Everybody was out - running, doing tai chi, drinking coffee, setting up their food stations for the day. The party was bumpin'. And so was the Vietnamese pop music blaring from the boom box of the Motorbike Taxi Entourage, perched a top a set of handle bars. The men smiled at me as I walked through the gate of campus 1, even more so than they do regularly...probably trying to figure out why I was up.

Here I was, still not having slept from last night, and these people were already at work.

I felt like such a bum!

When I started to backtrack home after my forty-five minute stroll, I noticed two Vietnamese girls (who looked to be about sixteen or so) jogging close behind me, stopping abruptly a few feet short of my heels. Giggles ensued. When I turned around to look at them, they both looked straight down at the ground, in complete silence.

I turned forward and smiled, still never ceasing to be amazed by the Vietnamese fascination with Western-looking people, such as myself.

Ohhh, Vietnam.

A Word A Day Keeps Dementia Away

2009-09-28T09:52:00.000-07:00

So, I should really get to sleep - this I know. But before I go, I wanted to share this website with ya'll:

http://wordsmith.org/awad/

I wouldn't be surprised in discovering that many of you already know all about it and consult it quotidianly. BUT, I've just discovered it, and it makes me happy - so let me have my moment!

Basically, this website posts one new word every day - its' definition, origin and use (all the usual dictionary stuff), as well as an inspirational quote, which isn't related to the newly-learned word, but enlightening all the same!

In Vietnam, my life is pretty good. I teach three hours a day, I run daily (in preparation of a 5K I intend on taking part in come December, in Cambodia) and I frequently gorge on delicious cuisine that costs me less than a buck. Pretty awesome.

I also read, a lot. And I find that I long so much to hear the English language when that's no longer a luxury to me. Vietnamese is, well...not exactly light on the ears. Like most other Asian languages, it's tonal, and many of the sounds required to say these words must come through your nose. Not a skill I have mastered yet, to say the least...

So anyway, yeah. English. I love it. It's beautiful. I often find myself reading and researching new and different things during my time over here (don't worry, I'm not a complete loser - I do go out on occasion, when my Vietnamese friends are granted permission to stay out past their usual curfew time of 11 p.m.) and I have learned one thing: I am a lover of the English language. And I find that my amazement with words (the Oxford English Dictionary contains over 170,000 of them) is somewhat simlar to the opinion that my favorite TV personality, Anthony Bourdain, holds about travel:

"I know that I will never understand the world I live in or fully know the places I've been. I've learned for sure only what I don't know - and how much I have to learn."

Cockroaches Can't Fly, Can They?

2009-09-28T06:43:00.000-07:00

Yes, people. We're back to the bugs. And today's top story surrounds the Insetcal Mother of All Creatures Disgusting: la cucaracha.

Last night, while lifting my mosquito net and anticipating sleep like no other, I looked down at the cold tile floor and saw the last thing that one wants to see before climinbing into bed: that hard-shelled, long-antennae'd copper-colored creature, the cockroach.

Grooossssssssss!!!!!!!

Reaching for my right sneaker, I stopped myself short and remembered what an elementary school teacher of mine once told me.

She said that the last thing you want to do is kill a cockroach with your shoe, in the event that you may have squashed a pregnant female with hundreds (or thousands) of eggs in her belly. Now, with those eggs stuck to the bottom of your sneaks, you'd be taking those unborn embryos with you everywhere.

Crap. Plan B...

But before I could even think of what to do next, my little friend took flight. And when I say took flight, I don't mean that he leaped/hopped to his next location. He actually flew.

Never before have I seen a cockroach fly...never again do I want to.

...And just a few hours ago, as I hung my towel on the hook in the bathroom stall, there he was again. This time, he was taking refuge among the shadows created by my shampoo and conditioner bottles, thinkin' he was slick, like I couldn't see him.

I made a move for him, but he quickly scurried away.

And I am left to hope that the bathroom becomes his new bedroom, so that I can rest peacefully in my own...

Gettin' Dolled Up, Vietnamese Style

2009-09-27T04:49:00.000-07:00

With my eyes closed and Minh's make-up brush grazing the surface of my skin, I can't stop laughing to myself about how funny this situation is:

I am getting dressed up like a bride - make-up, hair, the works - so that An and her husband can put pictures of me and my friend Zen (playing 'the groom') around their bridal shop. Ha.

As Minh continued to drown my skin in foundation and an assortment of other creams, I began to realize why I never wear this stuff: my skin felt like it was suffocating. It will be a miracle if I don't wake up tomorrow with ten bulging pimples on my face.

After I was "beautified", I descended from the top level of An's three-story house down to the middle floor, by way of the winding staircase - trying, as always, to keep my balance. When I made my way into the dressing room, I had to laugh when I saw the size of the dress I was expected to fit into: in American terms, roughly a four.

That wasn't happening.

"It's your shoulders," Zen said, laughing at me as my two sweet-as-can-be Vietnamese assistants attempted to sew the back of the third runner-up shut. "You've got that swimmer's build."

The girls did somehow manage to squeeze me into this third and final dress. It was an ivory-white halter gown, with a red bow and sash at the waist, and my hair was bobbing with beautiful curls, thanks to the handiwork of the "hair guy" upstairs - sorry for that impersonal label, but I don't remember/couldn't pronounce his name. Sweet boy, though!

Lights, camera, action...

I ended up having a really great time. An, Minh and several other hair/make-up artists surrounded us, adjusting and readjusting the light and our poses, sometimes physically turning our heads in the direction they wanted us to face. We took somewhere around eighty pictures, in a variety of different poses.

But after reviewing the photos on An's digital camera, I found that I did not look like myself...

...at all.

Sometimes, in Vietnam, I feel the way I look in those pictures - completely different, independent of the person I was back at home. Disconnected, if you will. Someone who, even though she may not look it on a day-to-day basis, is undergoing massive internal changes and is having difficulty recognizing herself in the mirror.

So maybe the girl in that white dress is me, after all.

Hue, I'm coming!

2009-09-26T04:50:00.001-07:00

I have yet to venture to Hue, but I think the New York Times would agree with me that it's definitely work the trek:

http://www.nytimes.com/indexes/2009/09/27/style/t/index.html?hp#pagewanted=0&pageName=27vietnamw

I Like My Eel Dead, Thanks!

2009-09-25T01:59:00.000-07:00

So, as you'll notice, there are two posts today about food.

That's because after I finished my first lunch (yeah, I said first!), An and her friends called me up and invited me to a second.

I had to go - they were having eel!

My first introduction to this slimy yet scrumptuous fish was through sushi. Cut up into tiny cubes and served in a ball of rice and seaweed, I never got to know my eel all too well. Also, it was served to me dead, on a platter, with other dead things - usually the way I like my food to be prepared in the States.

Not the case in Vietnam.

After our waitress had set the cooking pot down in the middle of the table and walked away, I saw what I thought was a mushroom sticking out at the surface of the stew: it was that typical blackened-brown mushroom color, bobbing up and down in the broth, but this piece was slightly longer than any cut up mushroom I had ever seen, and with a distinct sharp "tip" on the visible end.

Excited, I grabbed my chopsticks and reached for it.

As I attempted to drag the anticipated mushroom out of the pot, it just kept going and going and going...until I realized what it was: the whole eel.

I dropped the fish and laughed.

"It's not dead yet," An said, smiling at me. "It has to cook a little bit longer."

Of course it does, I thought to myself. And after just being told by An's husband Minh that I'm the only American they've known to try "everything" in Vietnam, I couldn't back out now...

Alas, I've come to realize one very important thing about eating, thanks to Vietnam: the scarier it looks, the better it tastes. So let go of your inhibitions and try everything.

In the end, you'll be glad you did.

Fish, or Fat?

2009-09-25T01:42:00.000-07:00

Although there are a plethora of eating facilities all throughout Can Tho, my laziness usually kicks in around noon and I tend not to venture very far for lunch.

Meaning...I only go across the street.

The ladies who run this cute vegetarian joint know only a few words in English, but that's more than the majority of the other places we dine at. So far, their linguistic knowledge of our native language has led them in the direction of asking Christine and myself how old we are, what our names are, and that we are very beautiful. (If you're ever down and out about your looks in the States, hop on a flight to 'Nam. I guarantee that frown will be turned upside down in a quick minute. Everyone is gonna think you're gorgeous!)

Anyway, we have the same dish every time we go here: a plate of rice, topped with vegetables, sugar-coated tofu (which I love now, by the way), pineapple, shredded onion, and something else...

Is it fish, or is it fat? Smells likes fish, but tastes like fat. And being that this place is "vegetarian", I want to assume the first one.

Regardless of what it is, though, it goes in my mouth. Just like everything else I eat here.

Insert "That's what she said!" joke.

Haha. VERY funny!

Wipe-out!

2009-09-24T22:00:00.000-07:00

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/09/24/world/asia/24delta.html?_r=1&emc=eta1

*Attention: The above article is NOT there to scare you folks at home. If further signs of a potential natural disaster become more evident, I'm sure the Vietnamese government would prioritize the expedient evacuation of foreigners...

On second thought, I think I'll start constrcuting a raft out of bamboo. Pretty durable material, so I've been told. Elian Gonzalez ain't got nothin' on me.

Jerry the Journalist

2009-09-23T04:33:00.001-07:00

"Teacha, in little whiles, I ejec from class."

Those words were spoken today by my most animated student, Jerry. He's one of the tiniest boys in the class but undoubtedly has the biggest personality.

He also has the hardest time pronouncing English words.

After cocking my head to the side and asking him "What?" in the sweetest teacher voice I could muster up, he repeated that statement. Still perplexed, I handed him a piece of chalk and pointed to the board.

He wrote "eject" and then looked at me and smiled.

I still didn't get it. Then it hit me.

"Ohh, you mean EXIT!"

He smiled, nodded and enthusiastically answered back, "Yes, what I mean!"

I still don't know where he was planning on going, but he stayed for the remainder of class and never made a grand departure.

I was glad for this, because Jerry is one of my favorite students already. I learned last week that he plans on being a journalist (hopefully for a Vietnamese newspaper, because there's no English publisher in their right mind that would hire him...yet) and he always talks with his hands when he speaks in front of the class. He likes to include me in his dialogues whenever he can, but normally doesn't have much patience for my response.

While his partner and him were nearing the end of their conversation about the weather in France, he looks at me and says:

"And what about you, teacha? You sinks is cold in France too?"

Having been there once myself, I smiled and said, "Yes, the weather in France is very similar to New..."

But then he waved his hands in my face and turned back to the class, continuing to describe a European country that he's never been to before. I laughed to myself, because clearly he wants to steal the spotlight. For my own enjoyment, I'm more than willing to let him have it.

Does it get any better?!

2009-09-22T09:04:00.001-07:00

Top 5 things that I love about Nam:

5) KFC delivers
4) Everyone smiles at me, for no reason at all
3) I seem to be getting thinner, due to a lack of fatty cooking oils in my food
2) I'm still experiencing warm weather, unlike the folks back at home, who are already starting to bundle up for the inevitable, bone-chilling New York winter ;-)
1) SINH THO - the best fruit smoothie ever created. And made with NO preservatives. Sweet.

"Shhhh, Be Quiet!"

2009-09-21T02:46:00.001-07:00

One thing I'm learning about my Vietnamese students:

When I ask them to speak in front of the class, it's like pulling teeth. When it's someone else's turn to speak, all of a sudden, they can't shut up.

They don't get chatty when I'm speaking, of course. That's the kind of stunt you would NEVER see a Vietnamese student pull off. However, when their friends are reciting dialogues at the front of the room or answeing a question of mine that requires at least a few sentences in response, I hear voices all around.

And they're not even trying to be quiet!

Upon reflection, I find this funny. During class, though, it's quite irritating. I keep putting my right index finger to my lips and making the "shhh" sound over and over again. Silence follows for about ten seconds. Then the talking resumes. Incredible.

I've got some hypotheses as to why this is. For one, maybe they're just as fed up with the fact that they, like me, have literally no idea what their fellow students are saying in front of the class. They all whisper when it's their time to shine. And with the fan blowing, and even when I'm right beside them, I'm still having difficulty comprehending. I can't imagine how the rest of the class might feel...

Secondly, maybe they simply just don't care. I've noticed that when I actually get them up there, they don't want to stop talking. And they don't really care about what their partner in the dialogue has to say, either. They just want to hear their own voice, and look at me for validation. Cute, but we're certainly not making much progress in developing good listening skills.

During the middle of the fifth group that was performing their dialogue, I stopped them. I told one of the girls to go to the back of the classroom, and the other to stay put. They just looked at me, not understanding at first. Eventually, after my repeated "Go, go, go's!" and hand gestures toward the back wall, she understood.

For the next twenty minutes, I had a dozen or so groups perform their dialogues this way. And that finally got them talking. LOUD.

"I Can See You, Your Brown Skin Shining In The Sun..."

2009-09-20T07:00:00.000-07:00

Things to note about Nam:

1) The dogs in Can Tho are similar to the people here: small, and timid. All of them look like they're starving. And the only one that barks is my neighbor's. He actually COMES to the edge of my sidewalk as I walk to my front door. He yelps at the top of his lungs until I'm safely inside, then skitters away. I hate him. We will never be friends.

2) The skin thing. It's outrageous. They literally hide from the sun here. White skin is revered, I get that. But I still don't understand why. The typical Vietnamese skin tone - the one that you'd see on the backs of workers in the rice fields, doubling over in the long grass, admidst the sweltering heat and penetrating UV rays - is beautiful. A color that desperate housewives all over America would kill to have. While those women spend thousands of dollars each year at tanning salons, the Vietnamese are dressing in layers to keep their flesh a milky, ivoy color. Crazy.

3) The pagodas. Today, I went to the province of Soc Trang. About an hour and a half after our bumpy bus ride, we arrived at the station, only to be told that we wouldn't be able to purchase tickets for our returning trip home. Apparently, they were booked. Lovely.

As always, when things go wrong in Nam, we called An. Our angel in disguise. She has helped us out in more situations than I can count. After the workers at the Mailinh bus company handed my friend's cell phone back to us, An informed us that we could come back later, at any time, and they would send us home.

First, we had no way of getting home. Now, it was up to us when we departed. TIV, man. This is Vietnam...

Anyhoo, the PAGODAS. Yes, they are beautiful. So colorful and so elaborate. The use of color in the Buddha paintings that adorned the temple walls was the kind you would find in a Crayola crayon box. I'm talkin' the loud, vibrant section of the box - the macaroni & cheese, the magenta, the teal. You name it, it was up there. It made the dull murals of my hometown St. Augustine' church seem so boring in comparison. Maybe if mass had looked this cool growing up, I wouldn't have been so reluctant to tag along all those year. Ha...just kiddin' mom ;-)