Shocking

After many polite requests, and then some rather impolite ones, I have decided once more to put pen to paper, as it were, and clue you in on the happenings of my life here on the far side of the world. I have been meaning to write more, but honestly, I get some pretty fantastic TV channels here and I usually get sucked into such winners as "Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader?", "I'm a Celebrity. Get Me Out of Here!", and of course a past favorite, "Seventh Heaven". The ups and downs of the Camden clan never cease to keep me on the edge of my seat, and more importantly, up to date on theology. So if you were wondering why I wasn't writing more, it's because I was watching television. At the moment there's not much on so I'm taking advantage of the lull. Hope you enjoy.

Today, I pimped my ride. Not my motorbike. That's already pimp as is. I'm talking about my bicycle. I have a true bicyle now, and today I pimped it. Said bicycle was acquired as a result of a romantic gesture from the Welshman I've been dating for the past few months. You may be thinking, "What did said Welshman do in the first place that would cause him to need to make said romantic gesture? Did he lie? Cheat? Steal? Smuggle? Ignore? Run you over? Change the channel while Seventh Heaven was on? What?" Well, as far as I know, he did nothing wrong. He merely felt I deserved a romantic gesture. Also, my constant nagging to the tune of "Why are you not romantic?? Why do you never do anything nice for me?? Why do you never buy me presents?? Be more romantic!! I want a bicycle! Get me a bicycle!" may have had something to do with it. I suppose we'll never know. Whatever the cause, the effect is that I have a gorgeous bike. The bike needed some work though, thus the pimping. The bike is black and gray with a, let's say, more comfortable than uncomfortable seat, a nice bell, and a rack on the back that I thought would be ideal for transporting produce, lumber, or a second person. However, as I found out today, the rack on the back is possibly one of the most painful things to sit on, save for razorblades. As the Welshman cleverly put it, "I am now sitting on a cheese grater." Something had to be done. Me and the Whale...excuse me...The Whale and I booked it (and when I say "booked it" we actually went quite slow due to the fact that we had to constantly stop, switch places, pull our ass fat out of the grater, and continue on our way. What should have been a short 3 minute trip took about half an hour. Also, we stopped for lunch.) to the nearest bike pimping station. Once there, we alighted and a woman came out. We quickly put her to work. I says to her I says "Hey lady, Pimp my ride!" And you know what? She did. Pimping in Vietnam (at least when it comes to bikes) consists of putting a basket in front to hold all that produce and lumber, a cushion on the back to accomodate that second passenger, pegs on the back wheels, reflectors all over, tightening up the brakes, adding air to the tires, and finally WD40-ing the squeaky wheel...all for the price of roughly $10. Take that MTV. I am now proud and thrilled to ride around on my bike. I wish someone had taken a video of me driving off into the distance, waving as I go. Alas, my memory will have to suffice.

As it turns out, having a pedal bike in Vietnam is a whole different experience than having a motorbike here. This is for a few reasons.

1. You don't need to wear a helmet. This means EVERYONE can see my red hair and constantly scream out "HELLO! HELLO! HELLO!"

2. A bike is much slower than a motorbike. This means EVERYONE can see my red hair and constantly scream out "HELLO! HELLO! HELLO!" Also, people on motorbikes can slow down and ride next to you for as long as they like, pointing, laughing, going off in Vietnamese, and then just speed off once they've had their fill.

3. Since people notice that I am not Vietnamese when I am on a bike, the roads tend to be safer. People slow down, people pay attention, people let me have the right of way, people actually begin to obey the rules of the road (at least for the 10-30 seconds they are in my vicinity).

I quite like riding my bike around. My favorite time to ride it is from 11am-2pm. This is the time when the entire country of Vietnam (the ENTIRE country) stops what they are doing, lies down wherever they may be, and naps. It's fantastic because I am the only one on the road. As I ride I pass by taxi drivers dozed off in the front seat, cyclo drivers sleeping awkwardly on the seats of their bikes, shop keepers lying on pieces of cardboard in their shops' doorways, and then the random Viet man, woman, or child, peacefully slumbering in the shade of some tree or on some park bench. The city is still but for me and my trusty pimped out steed.

But then the city wakes up and all hell breaks loose.

I would write more but I believe I just heard the opening music for ANTM cycle 11. It's Tyra time. Be fierce bitches. I'm out.

To report:

Here is my life in bullet points from the past 2 months:

• I ate dog and enjoyed it.
• My toenail fell off.
• I killed 10+ cockroaches in my apartment.
• I'm in Saigon at the moment getting my certification to teach lil kids.
• I'm watching 27 Dresses when I should be doing work.
• I watched the American Idol finale and surprised myself when I was happy that Kris won.
• I got a pedicure and only got nine nails painted (see second bullet point).
• I spoke the most Vietnamese of my life a few nights ago with a beggar women and her 5 year old son. I then bought a toothbrush from her.
• Starting next week my official job will be to find a leaked copy of New Moon. 
• Trish is coming to see me really soon!
• I bought a motorbike.
• I haven't been eating enough vegetables.

More to come...

Tolerance

Since coming to Vietnam I have found that my tolerance for just about anything has gone up. I've become much more tolerant of bad driving. More tolerant of the humidity. More tolerant of showers that never seem to be the right temperature. More tolerant of sweet old women who smile at me and then rip me off when I try to buy produce. More tolerant of people speaking poor English. And finally, and maybe mostly, I have become tolerant of the filth here. Now, don't be mistaken. Vietnam is a relatively clean country. Every morning I see Vietnamese sweeping floors, sidewalks, and streets free of the dirt and garbage that accumulated there the day before. And somehow, and this continues to amaze me daily, despite the fact that there are thousands of stray dogs running around this town, I have yet to see any dog poop anywhere. I don't get it. It's as if these mangy dogs with their fleas and their bastard pedigrees have all been born with the inate ability to use a toilet. It's quite fascinating. As I was saying, my tolerance for all things filthy has increased tenfold. Why, just last night, I stopped at a cafe with my friend Elsbeth to drink some tea before bed. It was a lovely cafe with bright lights, comfortable seating, and wifi. About halfway through my drink that, on the English menu was loosely translated to "Milk Tea with Strawberry Pudding" Elsbeth let out a scream and nearly jumped onto the table. I turned my head just in time to see an enormous black rat (pushing 2 feet long tail included) scurry out of sight behind the counter where all the drinks are made. I scream. She continues screaming. I scream louder. Back and forth we go. The cashier, alarmed by our shouts, couldn't seem to figure out what was wrong. She was quickly filled in by two Vietnamese girls sitting outside who saw the whole ordeal go down, and who, I slowly realized, were laughing at us. The cashier turned her eyes to the floor and gave a knowing smirk. How silly of these American girls to be frightened by a rat. As time ticked by, my heartbeat slowed and I tentatively removed the iron grip I had around my knees as I hugged them to my chest as not to allow any part of my person to be within a foot of the ground. More time passed and, like a small child testing the waters of the ocean for the first time, I put one toe on the ground. Then another. And another. Until both feet were firmly planted.

Now, in any other country, had I been at an establishment where food and/or drink was being served and I saw a rat, I would have most definitely left...without paying. Well, I would probably shout, "I'm not paying! This is an outrage!" but then leave money on the table...with a 25% tip included. I have no backbone. But, being in Vietnam, and having this increased tolerance for filth, I simply screamed, shed a small tear, and then continued to sip my milk tea with strawberry pudding (and yes, it was as strangely delicious as it sounds). Moreover, when I was about two thirds done with my drink, the rat emerged again, this time to leave. One more scream was heard from my lips, and then it was done. I finished my tea, stayed another few minutes talking to Elsbeth, paid my bill, thanked the cashier, and went on my way thinking, "What a lovely cafe. I must remember to go there again." 

I have had many similar experiences to this one in my time here. Simply substitute "rat" with "giant cockroach" or "obviously a human hair in my rice." It just doesn't seem to bother me anymore. In fact one of my favorite places to eat here is a restaurant that we've renamed "Filthy McFilthy's". A family establishment with more than a little grime around the edges. You are familiar with the phrase "You gotta eat a pound of dirt before you die"? Well, let's just say, after three months in Vietnam, I could die tomorrow having successfully fulfilled that statement. Whenever we go the boss woman squeals with laughter and joy (probably because she knows she can overcharge us) and runs over to the table jabbering on in Vietnamese. I smile and nod and go off in English. The two of us like a pair of old deaf friends; having no idea what the other is saying. The food is always good. The service excellent. The name completely appropriate. Filthy's is quite filthy and yet I go there anyway. Despite the ants that regularly crawl up the table to share your meal, despite the permanent layer of food and garbage on the floor (when they clear the tables they just wipe it all on the ground), despite the animal parts that hang outside in the heat, despite all that, I still go and eat and most of all, enjoy.  

Demolition 'Nam Style

I live in an apartment on Phan Chu Trinh. It is fantastic. I have a bedroom, living room, kitchen, dining area, two bathrooms (full), and two balconies. I live on the 2nd floor (which is really the 3rd floor but let's not get started on that. I have enough conversations on a daily basis about the differences between America and the world). I have two televisions, two mattresses atop my queen size bed, and my own washing machine. I have milk in my fridge, handsoap by my sink, and I bought two dish rags with the sweetest little apple pattern on them you could just whip out a jar of peanut butter, slap some on, and start chewing. I single handedly managed to hang up a mosquito net around my bed (true, it fell down shortly after, but the fault was not mine. 'Twas the lousy hooks I stuck to the wall, and fine, maybe I did ignore the directions when it said to wait for 24 hours before hanging things on them, but they should know no one is going to do that. Patience, thy name is not Caolan). I'm slowly adding my own small touches to the apartment. For example, I plugged in two mosquito killing devices that are supposed to kill mosquitoes. The picture on the packaging is this really heinous dead mosquito lying on it's back with a big X over it. I figured any product that claimed to hate mosquitoes that vehemently was exactly the product for me. I spent a couple thou on them so they better work. Everyone knows that any device that claims to kill mosquitoes is clearly not a scam. I also stocked up on Raid and Orange Cleaner, both of which I keep under my sink. The Orange Cleaner is obviously for show. As is the washer machine. And the dish soap. And my stove top cooker. And the garbage can. Who actually uses these items? Oh, you do? Teach me. 

My apartment wasn't always like this though. I used to live one floor up in a small hotel-room-like apartment. I'm being kind. I lived in a closet. Let's not mince words. My entraceway was my kitchen. My living room, my bedroom. My bathroom, well that was still amazing. My balcony, suh-weet. But besides my "near ocean" view and my own private bath (which is my dream since I was 10 finally realized), the apartment left much to be desired. I knew that I wasn't going to stay there for long so I didn't even unpack. I sort of let my clothes flow out of the suitcases and left them where they lay. Anyone who has seen my room in the past 23 years should have a pretty good visual. I asked my landlady if there were any bigger apartments opening up and she didn't quite understand. So then I began my usual song and dance of using a combination of charades and bad grammar to explain myself to a Vietnamese person. "Small room no good. You have big room now?" Blank stare. I'll try this again. "I pay 4 million. I can pay 6 million?" Nothing. Last attempt. "My room bad. I want bigger."  There we go! Sweet Jesus she understood! She nodded and informed me that there would be a bigger single opening up at the end of the week. That was fine. I'd wait it out.

[a few days later...still living in the small apt.]

I came home after work and saw my usually smiling landlady named Ni (spelling most definitely not correct) looking forlorn and morose. I couldn't help but be concerned. While we do have our fair share of communication issues, our relationship is like a marble pillar supporting a house of wood; out of place but completely beautiful. I immediately asked her what was wrong, and she told me as best she could that there were not going to be any bigger apartments opening up for at least another month. Oi. Another month in the chest of drawers? It would be cluttered but doable. But wait! Ni's demeanor quickly changed from "I just ran over my dog" to "just you wait little American, all is not lost, I have the best solution EVER!" And then she said something that went like this, "No big apartment. We take down wall tomorrow. My mother take down wall. Tomorrow morning. Yes. I tell me mother. She take down wall." I'm just going to throw in this small sidenote. The apartment building I live has JUST been renovated. And when I say JUST been renovated, I mean I moved in while there was still dust on the floors. So in effect, Ni is telling me that they are going to take down the wall separating two small apartments to create one big apartment for me. The concrete is not yet dry and they are going to take it down. Obviously I protested, but I have found that disagreeing with the Vietnamese gets you no where slowly, which is even more futile and painful than no where fast. So I agreed. I agreed with this insane idea to tear down a wall dividing two apartments in order to create my dream apartment. And that's exactly what happened. They took down the wall that was put up mere days before. Correction: Ni's mother took down the wall. Ni is at least 25. Her mother is at least 50. So there she is, wielding her sledgehammer, tearing down the wall that she probably put up herself last Friday with her own sweat and tears, oh and blood of course. 

Did I feel guilty about this? A little. Then I got over it when I saw the sweetness that was born out of the demolition. Then I got completely over it when Ni decided to stick me with an extra 5ook a month in rent. Sneaky little...

An Addition

One More Homework Assignment...
Melanie Larsen: I give you the task of mobilizing a large group of Italians and convincing them to leave La Madre Patria and settle in Vietnam. You have one week.

A haiku: am in Cambuja; white people all around me; temples at my feet. And: recession hits hard; Europe no longer ideal; let's exploit third world

A quick note on my developing skills in poetry.

I was in Cambodia (or Cambuja as they used to call it in the days of yore) for half a fortnight. Being a third world country, there was not much access to internet. I did find one cafe called "The Blue Pumpkin" in Siem Reap where I was able to check my email on my handy dandy iPod touch, or as I like to call it, my first born child. I hoped to be able to post in my blog as well because I knew that some of you would be waiting with breath that is bated to read new tales of me via 'nam. Well, at least I knew that Aileen was since she sent me about 27 emails in 3 days wondering if I was still alive and threatening to dismember me if I didn't write soon. So I tried to write a post, but alas, my first born would only let me write in the subject line. I decided to make the most of the little space I had and compose two haikus. No father, I was not drunk when I wrote them. It was 11 in the morning. No father, nor was a hungover.

Basically I meant to say that I was visiting the temples at Angkor Wat and that there were more Westerners than Cambodians in the small town where I was staying. The favored currency is the US dollar. You can tell a local from a Westerner not only by the color of their skin or the way they talk, but by the number of limbs they have. Two legs, two arms=Westerner. One hand, two feet=Cambodian. Ten fingers, two ears=Westerner. One eye, no feet=Cambodian. You think I'm joking. I'm not.

I now have to plan for a class, so I will write later. Miss you all.

The year of the Ox

The Vietnamese have a gesture. It's a simple gesture that involves raising your hand to the level of your head and shaking it back and forth. This gesture is not to be confused with waving hello. Oh no. This gesture is not a hello, nor is it a goodbye. This gesture, although simple, is deceptively profound and so incredibly useful. It is used in various situations and it's meaning changes slightly with context. For the most part it means something like, "Whatever it doesn't work it's not my fault get out of my face you white girl or I'll punch you oh you wanted the drink on the menu well we don't have it don't tell me not to use my electronic dictionary I don't understand you get away from me my parents are rich and I can do whatever I want of course I'm going to charge you for the peanuts on the table oh the bike is broken that's fine I can't fix it and no we don't have that item on the menu either we actually don't have anything on the menu I tried to cut you off and you fell over well that's your own fault are you really only giving me that much money for carrying your bags you cheap bastard these things were heavy and I know you have loads of it again with the menu why are you even here if you can't speak Vietnamese don't ask me to work in a group I already told you my parents were rich how bout you just leave now before someone needs to file a missing persons report yeah like that would ever happen in Vietnam you're just going to wash up on the beach 8 days from now." The sentiment is doubled when you use both hands. Imagine you are reaching up to unscrew a lightbulb, but the light bulb is in line with your nose. Now do that with both hands. Good. You've got it. You are now one step closer to being Vietnamese. If you master the gesture and drive like you don't have eyes in your head, then you are so close to being Vietnamese the Jolie-Pitts might consider adopting you.

It's an all purpose gesture unless you want it to mean something positive. The gesture never expresses something positive, but it doesn't have to be a curse either. I'll elaborate. One night my friends and I went out on the town. I hadn't really been to many bars since I'd arrived so we decided to go to as many as possible this one night. In my short experience here in Vietnam, I've noticed that the menus are very extensive, even at bars. There are pages and pages of things to eat, things to drink, and things I hopefully will never eat or drink in my life. At a restaurant, half the menu will be food and the other half will be drinks. Pages and pages. Like reading a short novel. Steinbeck perhaps. The Pearl. I digress. So at the bars in Vung Tau, if you don't know what you want to drink ahead of time, you better bring your reading glasses and a nightcap (the nightcap that goes on your head, not down the hatch). I am one of those that knows exactly what I want when I go to a bar. Can you guess? Beer. Beer. Beer. Not only do I love it, but it is also the cheapest thing on the menu. My friends, however, were not as decisive as I this one night. They scanned the menu of mixed drinks, fruity drinks, coffee drinks, beer drinks, water drinks, Western drinks, solid drinks, frozen drinks, and drinks that you eat with a knife and fork. Most decided that beer was the optimal choice (god love 'em), but my one friend Ellyn decided to try the elusive "Long Is Land Ice Tea," spelled as such and pronounced in such a way as to be completely incomprehensible to the non-Vietnamese ear. So she pointed to the drink of her choice, the waiter nodded, and rushed off to fulfill the order. Not 3 shakes of a lambs tail later, our waiter returned with a frown on his face, and started shaking his hand at the level of his eyes as if to be unscrewing a lightbulb. We were perplexed. What could this man mean? One need not unscrew a lightbulb in order to make the "Long Is Land Ice Tea". He could tell we were not understanding, so he pointed to the menu and gestured with his hand again and shook his head. We knew he was trying to tell us something, but what? Then, like the sun coming after the rain, it dawned on is. Perhaps this tiny fellow means to say that the bar cannot make a "Long Is Land Ice Tea." Fair enough. Ellyn points to another drink. I believe it was a "Sex on a Beech," but it was dark in the bar so I didn't get a close look. The waiter took one look and gestured again with his hand ferociously. So no sex on any beech then. Ellyn looks again and points to her third selection. No good. Fourth choice? No good either. I think she finally settled on a beer. Success! Smart choice. So although the Vietnamese have what seems to be a very good drink selection, in reality it is too good to be true. And furthermore, if you do select a "Long Is Land Ice Tea" and the bar decides, "Yes, we can make that," there is about an 80% chance that your drink will come out the wrong color. Like clear, for example. A clear "Long Is Land Ice Tea". Or perhaps you wish to sip on a refreshing Mojito. Be prepared to be drinking any color of the rainbow. It could come to you blue the first time, green the second, and the third time you order it you might just be delivered a can of beer.

So that's the gesture. Learn it. Love it. Use it. Always order beer.

I’ve found my asian persuasian

I am no longer single. I am taken. I am a taken woman. Put a ring on my finger, stick a fork in me. I. Am. Done. Are you surprised? Taken aback? Scratching you head? Patting your belly? Are you asking yourself, “Whaaaa?” Well, it should come as no surprise. I came here to find an asian persuasian and my gosh I did. Does he speak English? No. Is he taller than I am? No. Is he good looking? Yes. Do we get along? Famously. Is this the real thing? More real than ever before. What’s his name? Honda. Honda? Honda. But isn’t Honda the name of a car manufacturer? Yes. Well then are you telling me you’re dating a vehicle? Yes. Yes? Yes. Are we all on the same page? Good. I am dating my motorbike. We’re in a relationship for at least the next 30 days which is how long I’ve paid for him. It’s fantastic really. It’s the best 700,000 dong I’ve spent in my life. For those of you eager readers who are whipping out your calculators right now, it comes to about 45-50 USD. Have you ever been in a relationship that cheap? I mean, if I were dating a real boy I’d be spending at least that much a week. At least! As of yet, I have not yet named my boyfriend. I’m open to suggestions.

I’ll now describe him in detail. He’s a shiny ocean green color that shimmers in the sunlight. One of his mirrors is missing from a previous accident but that’s nothing a little TLC won’t fix up right away. His mpg is fantastic, and as far as mph goes, I wouldn’t know. Firstly, he only does kilometers. Secondly, he doesn’t always like to tell me the right speed. That’s fine. We all have our secrets. He’s very giving of his time and he always lets me go out with friends. My busy work schedule doesn’t bother him at all. He just waits for me patiently. He has 4 gears. That’s right. You heard correctly. He’s a manual. So it took us a little longer to hit it off, but once we were on the same page, boy oh boy, did we hit it off. He’s kept me safe for the past 48 hours, which is quite a feat in Vietnam. Motor accidents happen every single second of the day. As I mentioned before, the Vietnamese don’t put much stake in traffic rules. I did have a close encounter this afternoon though. An “almost accident” as it were. I blame myself entirely. I tried to stop at a red light (silly me) and ended up nearly crashing into someone else. My stalwart b/f took great care of me though, throwing himself in harms way to protect me from a near almost but not quite at all fatal collision. ::sigh:: It’s good to be loved. Don’t worry mom. He sleeps outside. And I keep my door bolted from the inside.

In more serious news, the past 5 days have been touch and go. There have been challenges, as I knew there would be. Small things tend to set me into an unhappy mood. Like when a taxi driver told me the ride cost 2 million dong. Are you trying to figure it out in your head? Here, I’ll help. 2 million dong is over 100 USD. So he wanted to charge me $100 for a 5 minute taxi ride. And it wasn’t even a proper taxi ride. It was a motorbike taxi ride which is supposed to cost half of what a taxi costs. 2 million dong he says. Would an unknowing tourist actually fall for that? I certainly hope not. Luckily I’ve spent enough time in Vietnam to learn that nothing in the entire country ever costs more than 100,000 dong. Never. And if it does, you’re being taken for a fool. So when the taxi driver tried to get me to pay him 2 million for a ride that should have cost 15,000 I was pretty upset. I was upset for a few reasons. One, it signalled to me that no matter how much time I spend in Vietnam, I’m always going to be recognized as a tourist. Two, since I’ll always be recognized as a tourist, the Vietnamese will constantly be trying to pull the wool over my strangely colored eyes. Three, it made me feel as if I were at the mercy of this man since I didn’t speak Vietnamese, nor did I technically know the going rates of a motortaxi, so he could have charged me anything and I wouldn’t have been any wiser. Also, in disputes such as this, the tie goes to the local. Forget tying. Even if I win straight out, the win goes to the local. Asian beats caucasian just like paper beats rock. There’s no reason for a piece of paper to just automatically beat a dangerous and blunt object. It just does. No arguing. And say, for example, that rock doesn’t speak a word of paper language, well that rock should just go throw itself into the sea cause there is no hope for you. Is this all being understood? Are my metaphors tripping anybody out? They’re tripping me out. Here I am reading over my post thinking, “What was this girl on when she wrote this? Oh it was me? I wrote it? Must be the MSG.”

But don’t start thinking that I’m miserable here just cause some old man probably mixed up the word “thousand” with “million”. It works the other way too. The smallest thing can set me in the best of moods as well. I shall now share with you another anecdote. At the real grungy (and here grungy doesn’t mean dirty, it just means “bare bones” or “carved out of a hole in the wall, added table and chair and rice cooker and called it a day”) Vietnamese restaurants they don’t give you napkins. They give you some variation thereof. Sometimes it’s a box of kleenex. Other times it’s a roll of toilet paper lovingly placed inside a tissue dispenser to made it more visually appealing. There is one other option for the wealthy or hygienically inclined among us. It is what can only be described as an oversized moist towlette. Individually wrapped in plastic and placed in front of you on a plate, these are by far the best choice of hand wipe, however the restaurant will charge you if you use one. To get the towlette out of its plastic wrapping one could easily tear where it says “tear here”. However, if you want to truly embrace the culture, you throw instruction to the wind, and squeeze the bag as hard as you can until it burts open with a loud POP! Much like bubble wrap or a pimple. The Vietnamese take no notice as, throughout the course of dinner, random POPS! resound from different corners of the restaurant. Myself however, being a strange westerner whose only encounters with popping at dinner come in the form of too much strain on belt buckles or buttons, do in fact take notice when, suddenly from behind it sounds as if a gun has gone off. So, getting back to my story, at dinner tonight when a small Vietnamese man decided to wash his hands before dinner, and did so by POP!ping open the plastic wrap (and just let me say one more time that there are directions clearly written on the packaging, and I think there is even a diagram that illustrates the proper way to open the bag by simply “tearing there,” no sound effects required) I immediately jerked my head up and gasped in semi-fright. The man looked at me, looking at him. There was a small moment of confusion in which I was thinking, “Dear God! Who just got shot?” and in which he was thinking, “Dear God! What color is that girl’s hair?” Then a pleasant sense of calm and understanding took over and we both chuckled and smiled at eachother. Then my heart lit up as I realized no one had died, and that I had come one tiny step closer to understanding this culture that so often eludes me.

Should I tell you about my classes? Here is the quickest of quick rundowns.

Monday aka Day One of Teaching: Class was, in the words of Ms. Perez Hilton, totally shiteous.

Tuesday aka My Day off: Grand. I went to bed at 8 and slept like a babe.

Wednesday aka Today aka Yesterday aka Second Day of Teaching: Started off rough, but ended fantastic. I finally got a handle of how to deal with teenagers. And I learned that even in Vietnam the Jonas Brothers are popular. I knew I chose the right country.

Future Plans: Going to Cambodia for Chinese New Year or “Tet” in Vietnamese, finding an apartment that suits me, learning this language that makes absolutely no sense to me, and romantic dates with my b/f. Remember to give me name suggestions.

Miss you all! Oh and I think the Vietnamese internet server may have blocked my blog url. I’m not able to load the page. Censorship works quick here. Wait, maybe I shouldn’t say that. Let’s hope this is only a temporary glitch. Aileen will now post in my stead. Thanks.

Posted by Aileen!! Hi everyone!

Don't drink the water

I usually learn the hard way. This time was no exception. I drank the water. I paid for it later. Paid for it on the bathroom floor. Paid for it the next day. Paid for it the day after that. Then I was done paying, but the exchange rate really bit me in the ass. I'd been warned, and I took the advice to heart, but sometimes a habit is a hard thing to kick. I was never one for bottled water...except for that "Smart Water" stuff. That just makes me feel like a million bucks when I carry it around. In fact, I used to keep the same Smart Water bottle for weeks on end and just refill it at the water fountain. Then someone told me that the plastic erodes and causes cancer, or poor circulation, or frost bite, or some other strange disease that everyone claims to have but doesn't actually know where it comes from. Other than that, if given the choice between bottled or tap, I would choose tap. It always tastes like you're drinking something hearty. Like you're gearing yourself up for a long winter. You can actually taste the lead and rust and other such metals when you drink tap water. But no more. My days of tap are over. Now I choose bottled because I choose to live.

The beer is good though. You can drink that from the tap and feel good all night. How you feel in the morning is iffy, but that's pretty universal. The Vietnamese really like their beer. They also really like their karaoke. So much so that they've erected full on karaoke amphitheaters that are open every night of the week. Karaoke here is not for the faint of heart. And if you don't know every single word of a song, don't even bother. Your lack of professionalism is not appreciated. When I first came across Vietnamese karaoke I thought I had stumbled into a bar with live music. There was a raised stage, a band, dramatic lighting, and a singer who took himself far too seriously. He looked like the frontman of a band. Faux hawk, tight faded jeans, button down shirt with the top buttons unbuttoned, belt buckle the size of Australia. You know the type. While I didn't know the song, being as it was in Vietnamese, I did know that the singer was off key. I wondered how any establishment could hire such a person to perform all night and call it entertainment. My ears were near bleeding. Then, mercifully, the song ended and the singer left the stage. "End of the set," I thought. Little did I know. This was karaoke. It was merely one bad act after another. And the the singers thought themselves close to cleanliness which is next to godliness. But really, they were dirty, and couldn't sing on tune if a gun were pointed to their head. So after the a man with the faux hawk left the stage, he was replaced with another man with a faux hawk and tight jeans and a belt buckle the size of Australia. The band played behind him and he sung off tune. Like Carrie Bradshaw I couldn't help but wonder...the Greeks have their tragedy, the Romans their gladiators, the English have Shakespeare, the French have baguettes, the Americans have everything, the Germans have their breadth, and the Vietnamese...well they have their karaoke. And they'll be damned if anyone is going to take that away from them. 

I'll post and then get back to you later. I have so much to write about and don't want to keep you waiting. My first week is done, and I have survived. Mercy me. Thank God. 

...forgot to mention

I HAVE A PIRATED COPY OF TWILIGHT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

and a ton of other movies that cost like negative 5 cents, but who cares about other movies when you have Twilight?!??!?!?!?!?!

Motor bikes and sunrises

For the past few days I've been waking up at ungodly hours. It's crazy how long the day becomes when you aren't sleeping until 3pm. Ok fine, 4pm. On Friday at approximately 6:34am I was startled from my slumber by someone attempting to get into my hotel room. I had bolted the door from the inside (having heard some stories about how the Vietnamese can be pretty resourceful with their thievery) so the person on the outside was having a hard time getting into my room. I jumped up and opened the door to find one of the hotel staff on the other side. He looked almost as scared as I was but managed to blurt out the following sentence, "Your friends tonight." Just like that. I guess it's more of phrase. My friends tonight? I churned it over a couple of times in my head and still couldn't manage to figure out what he was getting at. He noticed my blank stare and gestured for me to come to the front desk where the ladies speak moderately better English. So I do, and find out that three of the teachers who had picked me up from the ferry had stopped by the night before after they got out of work to see how I was getting along. A lovely gesture, but sadly futile since I had passed out cold around 8pm and didn't hear their knocks, calls, or the doorbell they rang which is loud almost to the point of being painful to the eardrums. Needless to say I had been pretty exhausted from all that had happened in the previous day and there was no waking me. I'm sure most of you are familiar with this facet of Caolan Sleeper. So I then started putting the pieces together and realized that the hotel probably thought I was dead and came to check on me at 6 in the morning to make sure they didn't have a lifeless American on their hands. Well, luckily I was alive and in retrospect I do appreciate their concern. My friends had come up with three options for me not answering the door. 1)I was at the cafe down the street. 2)I was passed out. 3)I was an insane party girl that decided to go bar hopping my first night in a foreign country where I don't know the language nor any bars to which I could hop. 

The Vietnamese have a very different timetable than Americans do. They wake up at 4 or 5 am and are busy at work. Not just fluffing around work, but real loud work. Like chopping and drilling and cooking and cleaning and basically being as loud as possible as early as possible. So for the hotel staff to come to my room at 6:34 is basically equivalent to 10am or so. I guess that's acceptable. 

Since I was up, I decided to go exploring. After my shower in which the water wasn't cold but still not hot enough for it to be enjoyable, I headed out with my red hair and backpack to the sea and walked along the sidewalk for about half an hour until I found a bench in the shade. I sat and thought for a while. I smiled at all the faces that gawked at me and politely refused all the vendors that offered me stange fruits, peanuts, scorpions, unidentifiable objects, and tourist photos. I did accept the offer of one vendor that was selling water. She gave me a bottle, a straw, and then plopped herself down right next to me. She had the face of a 12 year old and her hair was going gray. We didn't speak (not that we could), we just sort of sat there, enjoying the shade and the nice winter morning. Then, assuming I must have been hungry, which was not far from the truth, she took it upon herself to feed me all sorts of treats. First she pulled out these small eggs that were hard boiled. She peeled one for me, dipped it in what I later found out was a salt-like concoction (read straight up MSG) and gave it to me. I ate it much to her joy and peels of laughter erupted. I laughed too. She gave me another. And another. And another. Each time, she laughed and laughed. The eggs were good although I have no idea what animal had laid them. Then she stopped one her vendor pals and bought 2 "oi." I made up that spelling so don't try to google it. Oi is a fruit I have never seen before. It is somewhat like an apple in that it is green and crunchy, but other than that the fruits share no similarity. We sat and ate slices of oi dipped in a chili powder sauce which was really good. Then, I had an idea. I whipped out my iPod and clicked on the free Vietnamese language application I had just downloaded. I pointed to the line that read "What's your name?" "Zoom!" She pronounced as she pointed to herself and smiled her yellow toothed smile I had to find so endearing. I pointed to myself and said, "Caolan." Then we were stuck again. Being a free application it only had about 3 phrases. The other two being "Where is the bus station?" and "Can I have the check?" Sooo we ended our conversation pretty much where it started. It was then time for me to be on my way because I was meeting some friends for brunch. We said our goodbyes, and I left, feeling not hungry at all.

I met my two friends Ellyn and Elsbeth at a cafe near my hotel and we dined on omelets, fruit, and this amazing cafe latte thing which I really can't explain, just believe me when I tell you it is fantastic and I would live on it for the rest of my life. We then tried to go to the bank to retrieve my ATM card, but since the Vietnamese are up at 5am, they like to take naps at midday. As we arrived at the bank, it was closing. So in a nutshell, I'm still without money, but not having any problem with that because I've been living off of about 2 dollars and 50 cents a day, and because random Vietnamese people have taken it upon themselves to feed me.   

My orientation started at 2pm. I met some of the other teachers and the academic manager, Connie. We sorted out all my Visa and contract paperwork, and then I learn that I'll be teaching my first class within 48 hours. Yikes! I thought I was going to have a week of mental preparation before I was thrown to the wolves. That's Vietnam for you. And the wolves aren't even cute little pups or old aging blind wolves. They're teenage wolves who will actually eat me alive.

Oh and I forgot to talk about my means of transport these past few days. You'll be happy to know that my dream has finally come true...sort of. I rode on the back of a motorbike! Yes mom, I wore a helmet. Initially my dream was to ride on the back of a Vespa with an Italian man at the wheel as we twisted and turned on the Amalfi Coast. In reality, Ellyn drove me, which was just as nice, if not better since she can actually speak English and she won't send me unwanted squilloes fifty thousand times a day. When I first got on I was flipping out because the Vietnamese drive like crazy people. They keep one hand on the gas and one hand on the horn. They honk instead of braking. They honk instead of signalling. They honk instead of using their mirrors. They basically honk at all times. There are traffic lights, but nobody obeys them. There are also traffic rules, but you wouldn't realize that by watching the Vietnamese drive. One way streets? Don't be silly. Pedestrian crossings? Never heard of it. No right turn on red? Actually alot of drivers obey that one. That's Vietnam for you. When they do use their blinker, which is a rare occasion, the noise is loud and blaring. When  I first heard it I thought there was something wrong with the bike, like it was low on gas, or the oil was leaking, or I should immediately jump off and run for cover because the bike was about to explode. That's the kind of sound it makes. There are cars on the road too, but not many of them. Those people that have a car are either a taxi driver, or exceedingly rich. This means that all the cars are really nice, but they also think they own the road. Actually, everyone on the road thinks they own the road. And it's not so much a "road rage" thing, but more of a "this is where I'm driving, and if you get hit it is entirely your own fault" type thing. I'm excited but secretly scared to own my own motorbike and drive it by myself. But I'm sure my fear will be quickly replaced with an affinity for horn honking and a disobedience of traffic signs. 

I'm going to post this now because I've been writing it for the entire day and even though I'm not finished, I'm going to set it free. When I saved it in word I think it was 5 pages single spaced, so sorry for the length. That's Vietnam for you.

I put on sunscreen

I'm sure all will be surprised by this next sentence. This morning I woke up at 7:30am on my own, and I stayed awake and actually got things accomplished. For example, I found the Disney Channel on the television and then watched it for a bit with Vietnamese subtitles. I also people watched for about half an hour from my 3rd story window, taking pictures of the old ladies in their pointy hats selling clementines on the street. There was also one street vendor that appeared to be selling raw slabs of meet in the baking sun. I can only hope my eyesight was marred by the air made hazy by humidity and pollution. Ok so I got two things accomplished, but that's alot more than I usually get accomplished between the hours of 7:30 and 9:30am. Oh and I also put on sunscreen before leaving the hotel, so mission "don't get skin cancer in Vietnam" is underway and on course. 

I left the hotel around ten and took a taxi to the ferry. Upon reaching the ferry, Vietnamese men materialized out of thin air and carried my bags on board. This was quite nice of them considering I would never have been able to manage on my own, however they then wanted a tip, which is completely understandable, and I would have given them something but for the fact that I had absolutely no money on me. It was a tense few minutes as one guy just stood there with his hand out, palm up, waiting for me to give him money. People stared, I blushed and made gestures of helplessness. The guy didn't budge. I showed him how I only had a five dollar bill and his eyes lit up. Turns out, US dollars are basically a second currency here and really valued so I gave him the wadded up bill and he gave me 2 dollars and 10,000 dong back. First I felt rich! Then I felt swindled when I realized 10,000 dong is about 60 cents.

When I reached Vung Tau 1.5 hours later, there were four teachers waiting to pick me up. Three of them I already knew from emailing back and forth. The other one is from NY and as it turns out, we actually took our CELTA course at the same center and taught some of the same students. What a small world. We dropped my luggage off at the hotel I'll be staying in for the next week and then headed off to lunch. However, not wanting another incident like the one on the boat I decided it would be a good idea to stop at an ATM and get money. Well my good idea turned bad when the ATM decided to eat my card. I mean it literally stole my card. It is no longer in my possession. I started to flip out, but apparently this is a common thing for the ATMs to malfunction and steal cards. "That's Vietnam for you," seems to be a pretty popular answer to many things that happen. No one seemed too bothered by it, and I'm going to the bank tomorrow to see if someone retrieved my card from the machine. Let's hope it's there because I already owe 500,000 dong in loans from the other teachers.

On a good note, lunch was de-lish and my hotel is pretty decent. The weather is also lovely and tonight there is this really nice breeze that's cold enough to be refreshing but warm enough to be comfortable without a jacket.

My future plans are as follows: get a motorbike, get a cell phone, stay out of trouble, don't be late for orientation tomorrow at 2pm. I'm pretty sure I'll be able to accomplish 3 out of the 4.

I'll write again soon. Miss you all.

First Impressions, Last Requests

In starting this blog, I have high hopes of it becoming more popular than perezhilton.com. A million hits a day? Easy peasy. This is going to be bigger than Tila. Pretty soon VH1 and MTV will be knocking down my door with reality show offers involving barely clothed women, obnoxious men with six packs (of beer), and of course the eating of disgusting and often toxic food. I shall accept the highest bidder of course and become ridiculously famous. I shall then end up in rehab, be released, write my memoir at the old age of 24, and then become a recluse, while only occasionally coming out in public to appear on other VH1 and MTV reality shows. Flavor Flave will become my best friend and I'll spend the rest of my life always knowing what time it is.

Actually, I'll settle for like one maybe two hits a week. Maybe a comment here and there too. And if I ever wear a clock around my neck, just disown me. 

Since I'm writing this post, it means I have made it safely to Vietnam. I have all my luggage, my new Vietnamese Visa, all my affects (or is it effects?),  and the numbers and email addresses of my two new friends I met en route. My first new friend is a Japanese girl with whom I attempted to converse on my way to Tokyo. Half the time I didn't know if she was speaking English or Japanese, but we somehow managed to get along. Within the first minute of meeting her she promptly took out her camera, gave it to the stewardess, and asked if she could take a picture of the two of us, and yes, she gave the peace sign. Sometime after the picture, and after she made me eat noodles and wasabi with chop sticks, we learned eachothers names, and it turns out she is not a girl, but a woman of 35. So I need to get better at this age guessing thing. My second friend I met on the plane to Vietnam. Again, I thought he could have been young enough to be my son, but through the course of our conversation I determined that he is probably closer to 40. My new rule now is that when I meet someone, I'm just automatically going to add 20 years to whatever age I orginally think they are. 

My first impressions of Vietnam are that the people are very friendly and very loud. Not a minute has gone by that I haven't heard a car horn honk or shouts on the street...and it's 1:30am here.  At this point I think I'm going to pop some Tylenol PM and go to bed. I'm getting picked up at 10 in the morning to catch the ferry to Vung Tau. I don't know when I'll be able to write again, but hopefully soon. I miss you all. 

One final thing. Since I'll be out of the country and out of the loop, I have homework assignments for some of you.

Tinou- keep me posted on Ugly Betty

Aileen- you're in charge of Top Chef and pay close attention to what Fabio does and says

Tricia- I'm giving you Gray's Anatomy

Castro- you have enough homework to do so you're off the hook

Siobhan- Siwanoy gossip. Tell me everything.

Tones- don't get a girlfriend

Joey- don't let Tones get a girlfriend

Adrienne- Your job is to find cheap ways of communicating with me. I'm giving you this task cause I know you can handle it. If you figure out a way to text back and forth to Vietnam I will love you forever.

Elena- obviously I'm giving you No Reservations. I need to know what your tv bf is doing.

Lillian: become rich and famous and support me.

And thus, my first post is posted.