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?!??!?!?!?!?!