New Math

My apologies if the last post was too fraught with bad language.  I'll try to tone it down.  But you watched the commercials, right?  Yuck...

Let's take a journey together. 

Imagine you get on a plane and fly to Hong Kong, on your way to Macau.  When you reach the Hong Kong airport at 2:30pm, they tell you that because you were forced to check your tripod in Vietnam (something that NEVER happened in the US), you will have to wait for the 5:00 ferry to Macau, rather than the 3:30 ferry.  You don't argue.  You know that arguing with the lady at the desk isn't going to get you to Macau any quicker.  You quickly realize that you are stuck in the no-man's land between arrivals and immigration which contains almost no place to eat or get a beer.  So you sit in the rows of seats for two hours, thankful you have a good book to read if you could only find a place to sit where people aren't talking loudly (more difficult than it might seem). 

Finally you are allowed to board the boat and get on your way.  The boat ride tends to be one of the funner parts of the trip because you pass the airport runway and see the entire process of planes taking off and landing; something that I always find fascinating.  If I'm not in the plane, planes are awesome.  When I'm in the plane, I just want to not be in the plane.  Anyway, this particular ferry has been getting used all day, and consequently has a crusty build up of dried water all over the outside.  This means that you can see exactly nothing out the windows of the boat.  Five minutes after departure a ferry employee hands you a slip of paper that you need to fill out in order to gain entrance into Macau.  You slap yourself in the head because, despite making this trip half a dozen times in the past, you have yet to remember to pack a pen so you can fill the form out on the boat.  This means you will have to fill it out at the immigration area while everyone on your boat, and a thousand other boats, rushes ahead of you in line.  Again you are thankful for your good book and it's escape. (Bill Bryson -At Home. Seriously, go read it).

You arrive in Macau, wait in their immigration line for 20 minutes, fight through the throng to pick up your tripod (being careful that backpack doesn't make your shirt ride up giving your fellow passengers a show of your ass crack) and walk out of the terminal.  Pass the gypsy taxi guys that want to charge you quadruple what a normal taxi to your destination costs.  When you exit the building you find the taxi line to be 35 people deep.  So you stand in line, watching the sun slowly set, realizing that all those evening photos you'd spent the day composing in your head won't get taken now because you aren't going to make it before dark.  After all, you've only been given from the time you arrive until 6am to document the entire project (in this case somewhere in the neighborhood of 60,000 square feet of private gaming salons), and that's assuming everything is ready to go when you get there (Hint: it's never ready to go).

So you left at 9 in the morning, missed lunch, and skipped dinner so you could start work.  You aren't in the best mood. Then you get the priveledge of spending 5 hours trying to focus on photography, all the while paying attention to chairs that aren't straight, flowers that aren't centered, chandeliers that don't line up with furniture and 150 ladders in your way.  This all happens while simultaneoudly fighting off an endless parade of security guards telling you you aren't allowed to take photos.  By 10pm you feel like you might implode.  You're so hungry you think your body might actually turn itself inside out.  Salvation comes in knowing that one of the most fantastic gelato places on the planet is just a five minute walk away.  After the day you've had, it would be really great to munch on some fabulous ice cream.*  That would be just the thing to cheer you up after a day of waiting around so you could stay up all night and work.  Because that's the majorest bummer of the whole thing.  You  wake up at 6am, hang around being bored (or reading a good book) all day long knowing that you have to stay up all night, and there's nothing you can do about it. No preparations to be made, no time for a nap when you have $10,000 in camera gear at your feet in an airport.  Ice cream would really hit the spot right now.  Despite knowing that security might not let you back in once you leave, you can't wait.  You must eat something or risk collapsing on the marble tile.  Silently you pray you haven't waited too late and the ice cream shop is still serving.

*I know it's not actually ice cream, but I still call it that.  Is it cold?  Is it creamy and delicious?  It's ice cream.    Until I find a store that has different sections for gelato and ice cream, it's ice cream.  It's like the difference between sherbert and sorbet.  They may call it sorbet at Pallazzo, but in Mississippi, it's sherbert. Deal with it snobs.  I dare you to comment and correct me on the differences, geeks. 

The ice cream shop is open!  It's a wonderful place.  Even at 10pm the store is bright and colorful, and the workers seem genuinely glad you decided you needed a cool treat, very unlike the jerky security folks you've been haggling with all evening.  There aren't any emo Ben & Jerry's workers here, no. You know how when you go in Hagen Daaz and you act as if you aren't sure what you want, so you ask for samples of 12 different things?  Inevitably the sales person knows what you're up to.  You want ice cream, but you're too cheap to pay $8 for a scoop.  To make up for the loss you sample everything else so you feel like you didn't just get gypped on ice cream.  That's normal, right?  Well this place is different.  They actually encourage you to get samples.  Take as many as you want.  Do you want to try two flavors together? three flavors? Sure, here you go.  You can sample every flavor in the place and then leave.  They don't care.  Amazing.  And the ice cream.... *

*I've never really considered myself that into ice cream.  I like it.  It's good.  I buy it occasionally, but I never eat a lot.  I can't eat a pint in one sitting.  But this place.  It's so good that I almost force myself to call it gelato.  It transcends ice cream.  And the flavors are strange and amazing.  Sesame and ginger and durien and other things I've never heard of.  I will risk not doing my job, a job with a hyper-strict deadline, to eat this stuff.  It's that good.  But I digress...

So you're working through your customary 12 samples, savoring every new flavor, when your eye falls on this:

About10 inches tall it's just sitting there on top of the glass freezer that holds the ice cream like a dog turd on top of a cake.  You stare at it as you move into slow motion sample eating, lost in thought.  The first questions that come to you are: What is that?  Is that supposed to be a stripper dancing on a pole? And then you will laugh, when you see that that's exactly what it is.  But what you won't realize in that moment is that you will be haunted by this thing for weeks to come.  Your mind will be flooded with questions everytime you happen upon it.*  What is it made of?  Is it edible? Did someone order it? Why would someone order it?  Who thought that up?  Why is it in front of the prices?  Did someone find it worthy of display when they finished making it?  Was it a gift from an autistic kid? Does the owner of the shop know it's there?  Is this in celebration of strippers? Mocking strippers?  Is this ice cream shop for adults only?** Should I ask about it? Is it for sale? Does this have something to do with the Lunar New Year? and on and on and on. 

*I'd actually managed to forget about this thing while I was trying to think of something to write about yesterday (no such luck on that one), when I came across the photo on my phone.  Now it's like having Moves Like Jagger stuck in your head for 10 days straight (yes that happened to me after hearing an entire bar do an impromptu sing along with the chorus one night).  Sure it may be the best pop song of 2011, but after ten days of "I got the mooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-oooves like Jagger" running through your mind, you might feel differently.  I know I did.

**I'm always in the shop late at night because that's when I shoot stuff in this particular spot, so I've yet to see a kid under the age of 17 in there.

The questions start to flood in as you turn away from the thing to make your purchase.  Mid-turn you remember that you can't ask anyone about it becasue no one in the shop speaks enough English to explain the significance of the Play-Doh stripper on the cookie pole. You'll order and eat your ice cream, and you'll still enjoy it; but the rest of your trip will be spent wondering what it is that you saw.

I think the most curious thing about it is where it's placed.  I actually spent time framing up this photo to give it some context.  The sculpture is sitting in front of the only placard bearing the price for the ice cream.  This means that if you don't have the prices already committed to memory, then you have to see this thing to make sure you have enough money to make your purchase.  Now that we've gotten to this point in the entry, I'm sorry I didn't take another photo to give the sculpture a little more context in the room at large.  At the time I wondered why it took me actual minutes to notice it sitting there, and then I wondered if people that come into the shop notice it at all.  I tend to get transfixed by the ice cream.  I get to eat at this place so rarely that it takes a lot to change my focus. If people do notice it, do they take time to ask the 99 questions it inevitably generates? Or does it just make sense to people more in tune with the Macanese culture?  We may never know.

After another 24 hours spent being tortured by this thing I decided that this is what makes living in Asia so fantastic.  I can't imagine any scenario in which you would find this in an ice cream shop in America.  They're places for kids and families.  The ice cream shop we go to in HCM has a playground in front of it.  Children + Families = Ice Cream Shop.  That's how I'd always done that math.  I'd never done Potentially Edible Stripper + Possible Cookie Pole = Ice Cream Shop math before.  But that's why we're here.  To do the math in strange and unthought of ways.  Sometimes things make perfect sense: when it's chilly out, you have socks that separate your big toe from the rest of your toes so your flip-flops fit right -smart.  But there are many more things we can't explain surrounding us all the time.  Sometimes they overwhelm us, but many times they're just intriguing and confusing, which is really fun.  After all, if stuff like this didn't exist, I wouldn't have much to write about in this here blog.

Which brings me to today's deep thought.  I had to get up and go get a snack to have it, but here it is.  I didn't realize how many hang ups I had about the way things are "supposed to be" until we moved here.  When we lived in the US, Target was supposed to have toilet paper and staples.  That's what they do.  Wal-Mart doesn't do burgers, so they hired McDonalds to put a restaurant in their store.   It just makes sense: we sell cheap and crappy products; maybe we should add a place where people can also get cheap and crappy food.*  It's not like that here.  All the "supposed tos" are upside down.  Places that sell computers are supposed to sell routers and modems, but they don't.  Places that cut hair aren't supposed to also sell fresh squeezed juice, but there's a place that does just that across the street.  It does not make their juice inherently less tasty than Jamba Juice either, it's just a strange juxtaposition of offerings.  No one says, "I'm gonna go get some juice, a shave and a haircut" in America do they?  Maybe they do and I just had to move around the world to experience it.  And I suppose they do say it here, it's just in a language I can't understand.  Isn't that interesting?

*I won't go into the American strangeness of placing a place where you can sit and eat inside a place you go to buy groceries.  Think about it for a minute.  Everything you need to make the thing you're eating is available the exact same building.  Not only is it available, but it's likely cheaper, and you might get to have that thing you really like twice. There is some assembly required, yes, but it's all there.  But still we sit and eat something we're perfectly capable of making ourselves while sitting inside in a place that is built to do exactly that; empower us with the necessary items to make it ourselves.  The Wal-Mart thing is an especially interesting case.  It's likely you can buy hamburger at Wal-Mart that is better quality and tastier than McDonalds, but I've never seen a McD in Wal-Mart that didn't have a line of people in various stages of perspiration inside.  Somehow that is normal, but juice and a haircut is weird and gross.  I said I wouldn't go into it, but it looks like I just did. 

Awesomely Awesome

The commercial below was airing on Vietnamese television when we first moved.  When we saw it we laughed and laughed.  Take 30 seconds and watch it.

In what universe is the slogan "Malaysia Truly Asia" catchy? Of course Malaysia is truly Asia, it's in Asia.  If you really wanted to blow people's minds, you could advertise Malaysia as being not like Asia at all. "Malaysia, Truly Canadia" would really mess with people's minds and it almost rhymes in the same way that Malaysia Truly Asia almost rhymes.

 For the first month we lived in Vietnam we made up our own Malaysia tourism slogans. Things like "Malaysia maybe you heard it's in Asia,"  or simply "Malaysia it's in <dramatic pause> Asia."  When you say our alternates to yourself do they sound any different or better than "Malaysia Truly Asia?"  I don't think so.  Couple that with the fact that we already live in  SE Asia, it all seems rather stupid.  We don't need additional convincing that we are, in fact, in Asia.  But perhaps our Asia is not really Asia?  This Vietnamese Asia we find ourselves in is just a rank imposter compared to Malaysia?  I can just imagine deplaning in Kuala Lampur and thinking, "and here I thought we'd lived in Asia all this time... this is truly Asia."  

Oh and one more thing; you can't make a good sounding rhyme using basically the same word can you?  Malaysia must have taken a cue from American hip-hop.  I find rap music tends to do the same thing.  It's difficult to take hip-hop seriously when all the lines a song end with the same word.  Examples:

Lil Jon:

Only bitches talk shit
Only bitches talk shit
Only bitches talk shit
That's why we're bustin' your shit 
--Taken from "What They Gon Do"

Waka Flocka Flame adds these thoughtful lyrics:

See Gucci that's my muthafuckin' nigga
I hang in the Dale with them hit squad killas
Waka Flocka Flame one hood ass nigga
Ridin' real slow, bendin' corners in my nigga
--Taken from "Hard in da Paint"

Aside from making little to no sense, these things don't actually rhyme, do they?   The quality of rhyming "nigga" with "killas" is questionable at best, and that's one of the better rhymes in the song.  Regardless, three of four lines in both examples end with the same "word." (Not sure if the OED recognizes "nigga" yet.)  I don't classify this as clever, or edgy from a linguistic standpoint.  Perhaps crappy rhyming makes the songs sound more authentic.  "I'm so deep in this shit of mine, I don't have time to make a good rhyme." I just thought of that and it rhymes better than anything so far. Take that Waka Flocka Flame...  However, if we apply the "crappy rhyming makes things more authentic" metric to Malaysia Truly Asia, then they're dead on with their marketing.

Not to mention that if you spend 3/4 of your verse talking about how "only bitches talk shit", then how can you "bust" it?  You just spent a lot of time defining the word "shit" to me.  It's something that bitches talk, and by definition, things that are spoken cannot be busted.  They're just words not skulls or bottles or another object that might actually get busted when "bitches talk shit."  I'm going to need some other word to let me know what will, in fact, be busted if I'm a bitch and talk shit.  Okay L'il Jon?  How about "Only bitches talk shit, that's why we're bustin your lip?"  Why am I not a rapper?

In researching this blog post (yep I spent actual minutes finding the videos and looking up lyrics) I learned that the Malaysian Tourism Board has been using this lame slogan since 2008.  That's four years of trotting out variations on a slogan that doesn't entirely work.  Weak.  How about "Malaysia: Better than Hip Displaysia" or "Malaysia: Nothing like Euthanasia" or "Only Bitches Talk Shit...About Malaysia."  They could get Lil Jon to do the commercials (YEEAHYA!).  In other commercials they say, "Beautiful Malaysia.  Truly [fucking] Asia."  Is there anything wrong with "Beautiful Malaysia?" Keep it simple guys.  If they did change it, it would probably end up being "Beautiful Malaysia: It's Beautiful." Yaaargh.

So we'd spent months entertaining ourselves by mocking Malaysia Truly Asia (and lots and lots of bad rap/pop music) and all it's ridiculous iterations when we saw this:

I guess Thailand felt the need to jump on the redundancy bandwagon.  Really Thailand?  Amazing Thailand always amazes you?  This is the best you could come up with?  I was actually a little surprised that you didn't go with "Thailand Truly Thai" (it's at least alliterative) or something a little more similar to Malaysia and it's Asian-ness.  If Thailand didn't amaze then you couldn't call it Amazing Thailand could you?  It would just be "Pretty Good Thailand" or "Occasionally Amusing Thailand."  I like that better actually.  "Occasionally Amusing Thailand: Occasionally Amuses."  That has a better ring than what they currently have.  Nevermind that the montage in the commercial is made almost entirely fictional occurances you wouldn't actually want to happen  Do you really want to see domesticated elephants in a city park being ridden by construction workers?  No you do not.  Do you want a strange chick throwing "water" on your good suit? No you do not.  Ocean water on your dress shoes?  Walking into a flooded subway terminal, and then having a boat drive by and splashing you before work? No and no. 

Why not make a commercial about a real amazing Thailand adventure?  I didn't see a foreign object being removed from an unspeakable oriface or two 9 year olds kicking the shit out of each other or a man with boobs anywhere in that commercial, but I absolutely saw those things in Thailand (I'm working on that story -it's almost too horrible to retell).  Amazing Thailand did amaze me, but not in the way the commercial shows...  I haven't yet decided if that's a good or bad thing.  Maybe a better slogan would be "Unexpected Thailand"  or "Thailand, Yes That Just Happened."

I think I'll make an appointment to visit the Vietnamese tourism board.  We discussed it with friends and coworkers and decided that "Awesome Vietnam: Awesomely Awesome" works nicely.  Now we just need some montages of people with horrible teeth throwing litter in the street.  I've already started my timelapse video of mold growing on the walls of buildings and men hammer drilling at two in the morning.  It's a goddamned goldmine.

To be honest, I'd really like some other country (I'm looking at you Myanmar) to come out with an advertising campaign that goes something like "X...More Asia than Malaysia."  Let the tourism wars begin.

Finally, it's not lost on me that my rant is nothing more than a testament to the brilliance and effectiveness as marketing tools of those commercials.  They bug the crap out of me and consequently I am singing the stupid Malaysia song all the time.  Or anytime someone says something to me about Thailand, I say "You mean amazing Thailand? You know it always amazes, right?"  Plus, I just spent more than an hour on a Sunday writing about how much these two commercials suck.  So bravo tourism boards of SE Asia.  You have done your jobs well.  I salute you.

Tet-ah-Tet

Only the most sadistic of companies gives it's employees every day of the week off except Friday.  But I suppose bad news for me is good news for you dear reader(s) because I'm back in the blog saddle.  My apologies for short entries and speedy videos over the Tet holiday, but there was crucial sitting around that needed to get done.  I can honestly say that I've watched more tennis in the last four days than maybe ever before. Australian Open... Who knew?

 The day after the purse snatching incident, Reyna and I decided we should conquer our fears and walk to Buddha Bar again.  To say we were hyper-vigilant would be an understatement.  Since there was little to no traffic, I was whirling around to watch every motorbike pass.  This would have been impossible under normal circumstances.  Orgininally, I wanted to make a time-lapse video of the walk from the house to the bar, but as I am still too self conscious to galavant around town wearing a camera strapped to my chest (they even call it a "Chesty," ugh), I decided to carry it instead so I could make a video of us eating (which I did, it's below).  The camera was bouncing in my pocket, and the ""Chesty" was safely folded up in it's little bag in my hand as we walked and talked. 

Of course, the fact that I wasn't recording demanded that we encounter an accident.  It looked as if a man riding a bicycle was hit by someone on a motorbike.  Both bicycle and motorbike were on their sides and a small crowd had gathered.  We then saw two unmoving legs sticking out from behind the mangled motorbike.  We had to completely pass the accident before we could look back and see if the man on the ground's head was still attached to his body.  I let Reyna look first because a.) she's braver than me and b.) I didn't think I wanted to see brains that day.  With relief we found that he did, but was lying completely unconscious in the middle of the street.  As we turned to see if he would come to, a Jeep came speeding down the road and we were almost witness to a head-on collision between two cars in the exact same intersection.  The cars passed maybe two feet from where the unconcious man lay.

Reyna and I had a brief and uncomfortable exchange discussing if we should stand and make sure the guy was alright or whether we should just continue on.  It went something like this:

Reyna: He's going to wake up, right?
Me: I hope so...
Reyna:  Should we make sure he does?
Me: I have no idea...

I'm not sure what we would have done to improve the unconscious man's situation other than add a Tower of Babel flavor with our non-Vietnamese speaking ways, so we just stood there, a little removed from the scene.  Basically we looked like the kind of rubberneckers we were trying to avoid looking like.  As the seconds passed I went from cursing myself for not recording, to being thankful I wasn't recording.  I could just picture the other people recounting the stories to their friends how some jackass western dude stood there, not helping and recording the entire scene for his blog.  Classy...  After a motionless minute (a minute is a long time to stand and wait for someone to regain consciousness -unsettling), the man's head popped up.  It was clear by the look on his face that he had no idea what had happened.  I can just imagine what that must feel like: wake up from an unscheduled nap and find yourself in the middle of the busiest street in District 2 with a crowd of strangers standing over you.  I imagine it would ruin your whole day. We watched long enough to see the other people grab his arms and help him to his feet (is that what you're supposed to do?) before we turned and made our way into the bar for a drink.  Just another day.

As you know from the video, I had a beer and Reyna had a Coke.  Then we had a plate of french fries.  What you don't know is that the beer in the video is my second, and that we ordered another plate of french fries after we finished the one shown in the video (the necessity for the second plate was apparently my fault because I said I wasn't hungry when we got there, but ate most of the fries anyway -this is why I'm fat).  I tell you that to tell you this: when we got home that evening, our neighbors stopped us and invited us to a party at their house on Thursday*.

*A little background here.  Our neighbors are also our landlords.  They are the parents of the woman who actually owns our house.  She is married to an Australian guy, and they live in...wait for it... Nepal.  They were home visiting her family for the Tet holiday, so we got to meet them for the first time last week.  They are the ones who invited us to the party.  Incidentally, Nepal doesn't sound like a very fun place to live.

Fast-forward to Thursday.  We realized as we ate breakfast that morning that they didn't tell us what time the party was to start, or what we would be doing at said party.  We went about our business; Reyna planning for the upcoming school semester and me dicking around making not-overly-inspiring-or-groudbreaking time lapse videos.  Periodically we looked outside to see if a crowd was gathering at the house next door, but it was quiet.  Four o'clock came and went.  Five o'clock came and went.  Six o'clock came and went.  As seven o'clock came, Reyna said "I'm hungry." 
"Should we cook?" I asked.
"I don't want to wait any longer."

Before we started, I walked outside one last time to see if there was any hint of a party cranking up next door.  Nothing. So we walked inside and made dinner.  Reyna made a beautiful salad with tomato, basil and fresh mozzerella and I made spaghetti.  We opened a bottle of wine while we cooked and were having a fine time.  We finished cooking, served ourselves and sat down to eat.  It was good, we were happy (well I was happy watching the Australian Open.  Reyna was likely bored to death.  It's the semifinals!  Nadal vs. Federer, we can't not watch.)

As I shoveled the last bite of spaghetti in my mouth and poured myself a fresh glass of wine I heard a small "Hellooo?" outside.  It was past eight o'clock, and apparently was time for the party to start.  I went downstairs and greeted our neighbor.  I'd never seen him dressed up before, but there he was.  I tried not to think about the fact that I'd answered the door in ratty shorts and a tshirt dotted with spaghetti sauce.

"Please come over and have party with us." He said excitedly.
"Okay! Five minutes." I replied.  I don't think he noticed the worry in my voice.  I ran upstairs and found Reyna finishing her spaghetti.
"We need to change clothes.  The party is starting next door." I said.  We spent the next 7 minutes and 23 seconds hustling around the house getting ready.  In my hustling I definitely noticed the weight of a large-ish bowl of spaghetti and half-bottle of wine sloshing around in my stomach. 

We spruced up and walked next door.  There were about 15 people crammed around two tables right at the front door.  We were seated on the obligatory Vietnamese eating stools in front of about 37 plates of food. It was the whole family... and us.  I looked around at the spread and noticed that there wasn't a single dish that didn't have meat readily visible.  I had mixed feelings.  On one hand, I wasn't even a little hungry, so the thought of not eating held appeal.  On the other hand, I didn't want to offend our hosts by not eating their food.  Lukewarm beers appeared before us while large chunks of ice were tonged into our glasses.

"You want beer, right?" said the Australian.
"Yeah, sure." I replied.  I didn't actually want beer.  I wanted to lie down and digest.
"Reyna?"
"Um, yeah, okay*."
"Eat! Eat! Plenty for everyone!" Our hosts implored us despite the fact that they hadn't touched a morsel of food themselves.
"Um... I'm vegetarian..." I said hesitantly.
"Why didn't you tell me that when we came over the other day?" said the Aussie next to me, "we would have made something for you!"
"I didn't know it was a dinner party.  I didn't think to say anything. Oops."
"No problem! We make vegetarian for you!" exclaimed our host.
"Yeah Aunt So-and-So is also vegetarian, she'll make something for you." said the Aussie
"No, no it's alright. I'm fine. Really."
"No problem, no problem!"

*I should note that earlier in the day, Reyna announced that she would not be drinking at the party.  We went out the night before to a new and semi-fancy French restaurant and just had to have that second carafe of wine.  Headaches abounded Thursday morning.

I don't know how Reyna did it, but she dove right in.  She ate like she hadn't eaten all day.  It was pretty amazing really.  Five minutes later a plate of noodles with vegetables materialized in front of me, along with another beer.  It became clear that the party, or some party somewhere, had indeed started earlier because everyone at our table was mostly in the bag by the time eating began in earnest.  The chatter was boisterous and loud.  It was really fun even though we couldn't understand most of what was being said.  Food and beer kept coming.  I found that when my glass got about half full, an unopened beer would be placed in front of me -so I'd be left with a full glass, half an opened can and an unopened beer in front of me.  In Vietnamese culture you never drink alone, so anytime I needed a sip to force down another bite of food, I had to clink glasses with everyone.  There were also seven other people at the table doing the same thing.  So we were "cheers"ing constantly.  Soon the table was littered with empty beer cans.  I found myself with three empties in front of me before we were halfway through dinner.  They weren't there long though because one family member was apparenlty tasked with whisking away the empties periodically.  I decided to stop drinking my beer.  I had to be at work in the morning.  Clearly, I was the only one because beers were disappearing at an intensity that belied the jocularity of the atmosphere.  Besides, by this point I was so full I thought I might burst.  I actually felt heavier.

As we sat and ate, our host turned to Reyna and said, "You like ka-ra-kee?"
"Yes I do!" said Reyna.  I was baffled as to how she could sound so energetic after eating so much food and drinking so much beer and wine.  It was truly an inspired performance.

We've been in these people's house a lot of times.  I'd say we've been in the room we were sitting in at least a dozen times since we moved to conduct various landlord/tenant business.  What I didn't know, couldn't know, is that there was an enourmous karaoke machine mere feet from where we sat all those times.  Soon, there was odd Vietnamese background music playing.  Microphones appeared from somewhere and various family members started to sing.  Sometimes they would get up and stand in front of the television and sometimes a person would just turn around on his stool and sing a song.  Eventually they rang up the Abba song that has been deemed this year's "New Year's Theme Song."  Reyna jumped up, was handed a microphone and she sang with them.  The whole scene felt like a dream. 

Soon everyone was just sitting and absently picking at the food left on the table.  The Aussie excused himself from the table.  A few minutes later he returned with not one, not two, not three, but four bottles of apple wine.  Small saki sized shot glasses followed soon after.  Dread is really the only way I can describe my state of mind.  Quietly I told the Aussie, "I have to work tomorrow, I'm not sure I should do this."
"No worries, mate, it's only 20%." was his response.  I was not getting out of anything.

So I had a shot.  It was okay, not great.  Tasted like a Granny Smith apple and scotch at the same time.  I drank it and thought, "that's over."  No.  Moments later my glass refilled and we drank again.  And again. And again. And again.  Somewhere in the shot-fest about half the people in the room left.  This included the Aussie, after untold amounts of beer plus at least half a dozen shots of apple booze; carrying the 92 year old grandmother through the crowded room, down about ten stairs, and placing her gently into a waiting taxi.  And here I was worried about making it to our house, up the stairs and into bed.  After around an hour of shots all four bottles were gone and another bottle of something appeared.

"Dear god..." I choked.
"No worries, this one's only 19.5%." The Aussie was quick to point out.
"Oh great."

I lost count of how much we had.  As the last of that bottle went down our throats, I turned to Reyna and said, "Are you ready?" 
"Yeah..." was all she could muster through her haze of food and booze.

We said our farewells and hugged all around.  We managed to negotiate the stairs and walk the eight feet to our house.  We made it upstairs and laid down.

"That was really fun." I said
"Yeah, but I'm so full I think I might die." Reyna said.  I started to respond, but she was already asleep.  Soon I fell asleep as well, but my dreams seemed a lot more real than the evening we'd just had.

Stay tuned dear reader(s) because I actually DID manage to shoot time lapse of the dinner I've just described.  We got home so late I didn't have a chance to do anything with the footage I shot.  And today, of course, I'm chained to my desk for ten hours.  I hope to have it up this weekend. 

Two Minute Tour

I've been messing around with Time Lapse videos during the time off work.  Here's a ride from breakfast, through Pham Ngu Lao, out over the Cat Lai bridge and home.  There is little to no traffic due to the holiday, so it's reasonably smooth.  Enjoy.

And what do you do after all that riding around?  Have a drink and eat some food...

Near Miss

We're in the midst of the Tet holiday here in Vietnam.  It's odd because the streets are strangely quiet and most of the stores and markets are closed and boarded up.  All of the metal gates on the shopfronts are drawn making our neighborhood seem desolate.  There is little to no traffic, which only serves to punctuate the emptiness.  In order take advantage of this strange lull in the buzz, we decided to walk to dinner last night.

Since nearly all our usual dining spots are closed for the holiday, we had to go someplace new.  We decided to go to Buddha Bar, where Reyna has been once and I have never been.  It's still on the main drag of our neighborhood, but a slightly further walk than either of our normal places on this street.  I suggested we walk since we'd both spent most of the day in the house; me working on photos and Reyna working on her schoolwork.  Even though we're supposed to be on vacation, we're never really on vacation. We walked together chatting on the quiet street.  Enjoying the fresh air and the quiet.

Reyna was walking on the street side of me as we passed the gated area of our district that houses the ultra-riche oil barons and gas giants. I heard Reyna utter a half-scream/half-groan.  I looked over to see a man on a red motorbike grabbing at her and then speeding off.  "Holy shit!" we both exclaimed at the same time.

"Did they get it?" I asked.
"No." She responded breathlessly.  "I had it under my arm and I don't think he could get a grip on it."

So we were victims of a random purse snatching attempt.  It was amazing how quietly the motorbike crept up on us.  I always thought when it happened, it would be on a more crowded and noisy street.  The numbers allow for greater anonimity and make it easier for the victim to not hear the approaching thief.

We changed places -me on the street side and Reyna to my left- and continued our walk to dinner.  I put my wallet in my front pocket and Reyna put her purse under her shirt.  A minute later we were laughing about it even though the entire event scared us both.  Despite being hungry when we left the house, by the time we reached the Buddha Bar neither of us felt like eating.  The adrenaline had killed our appetites.  I looked around at the people at the bar.  None of them seemed interested in talking with us and the extent of the bartender's English was limited to the items on the menu.  There was no one to discuss our recent adventure with.  We clinked our glasses and then sat quietly watching tennis until the shock subsided.

We ate, chatted, and listened to the strange mix of music in the bar (pop-punk and Elvis?) until it was time to walk home.  We walked on the opposite side of the street this time.  I was careful to make sure that I walked between Reyna and the street.  As we passed the closed gates and darkened houses, a huge dog went into attack mode.  A gigantic rottweiler lunged at us from behind one of the gates. It looked like a black spectre behind the bars of the house and we nearly jumped out of our skin.  "I'm so jumpy!" Reyna exclaimed.  We quickened our pace and made it  home.

It was quick and frightening reminder that this is a big and potentially dangerous city, even when only about 25% of the population is actually in the city.  We got lucky and will have to be more vigilant in the future.

Big Ass Tet

My apologies for being an inattentive writer this week.  The truth is that I was out of town pretty much the whole week, so I was busy.  I did snap this photo in honor of the lunar new year.  Keep it in mind as you make your resolutions.

  It doesn't say you can't urinate or deficate ON anywhere.  Probably explains the pee stains. I honestly think that I've never struck either one of those poses in my life.  I like that someone took the time to create that sign in Illustrator or Photoshop or some other expensive graphics program.  Which one is the chinese character for "urinate?"  Come on people, don't let me down!

And as you find yourself descending the fire escape of life, I hope that when you reach the door you don't find this:

Happy Lunar New Year everyone.  Or as they say in the new homeland Chuc Mung Nam Moi!  I'll do my best to do some writing while we're sitting around with most of the week off, everything closed and us with no plans.

Grand Day Out

Those who know me have done some minor complaining that I've taken very few photos since we moved.  The main reason for that is I don't really like taking my $5,000 camera onto the streets of HCM.  So for Xmas, my wonderful mother gave me a smaller, cheaper, less cumbersome camera to document our experiences.  On Saturday we went to the market and I took some photos.

The Good



I don't know what it is, but wow.





You get to see some of the most beautiful produce at the market.  Bear in mind that it's January and we can still get stuff that looks this good.  I try not to think about what had to be sprayed on this to make it grow so well and look so appetizing.  That would just ruin it.  There are tables and tables and tables like this.  It's pretty amazing.  Some of what you see here we had for dinner that night.  Yum.



I honestly think that she knew I wanted to take her picture but was being too shy to walk over and ask.  I thank her for sitting still while I quietly shot this from my hip while Reyna was getting a drink.  Nice work lady I'll never meet or talk to.  You got to be in the best photo I took all day.



The Questionable

We arrived at the market shortly before noon.  It was hot on Saturday.  I actually got sunburnt a little in our market wanderings.  I think it's safe to say that this meat has been out since five or six in the morning.  I'm sure she sanitizes her cutting board, and table, and scale and feet at regular intervals during the day.  I'm sorry that these photos don't come with scratch and sniff because let me just tell you how great it smells.  This is only one of 20-30 tables like this with similar meat displays.  Some beef, some pork, and some fish.



The knife sharpener comes to you!  I didn't stick around long enough to find out if the ones on the ground were pre- or post-sharpening.  I'm going with pre-.  It doesn't really matter which it is because I'm certain the knife wielder wipes it down with a bloody rag before using it on the meat.  How many health code and OSHA safety violations can you name? Also note that Tet begins in less than a week, and we were there late, so the meat counters that would normally be open behind him are empty. 



Remember that time I said, "I'm sure they sanitize their feet periodically?"  Well I was right.  This isn't exactly how I pictured it happening, but I can tell you it's happening.  Concrete is just a more widely available version of a pumice stone.  It exfoliates like you can't believe; especially when you rub your skin on it going 20mph.  As you can also see, the Vietnamese are not afraid of bold patterns.



We did not take any of this home with us for dinner....  Behind me is baskets of snails, mussels and other shell fish for sale.  I didn't post the photo because there is really no way to capture a giant basket of writhing snails with a photograph.  Maybe next time I'll make a video.



 The Ugly

Can you guess what's in the bags?  I'm not sure if the bag in front was originally red or not.  It was hard to tell.  They were definitely approaching maximum capacity as it took two guys to pick up each one.  At one point they were holding it above their heads.  I was having a definite "Carrie" moment picturing the bag splitting and entrails raining down on them.  Thankfully, both bags held up and kept their contents inside while I was standing there.



As we stood watching the knife sharpener we were nearly hit by a passing motorbike.  The bike ran over this pile of garbage.  In a moment that is generally reserved for slapstick comedy movies, the bike ran over the bag, which burst, and projected a spray of brown snotty liquid onto both of us.  It was like it happened in slow motion.  The liquid even made a fart noise as it shot up at us.  I wish I had a video of the whole thing. We told ourselves and each other that it was coffee.  It was the sort of thing that is hilarious when it happens to someone else, but utterly nauseating when it happens to you.  And it happened about two minutes after we got to the market.  My market luck is not the greatest.  Later that day, as we sat on the sidewalk having a cool drink and I worked on a time-lapse movie (coming soon!), I got eaten alive by flies who were definitely excited about whatever had dried on my leg.  Disgusting... I took a shower when we got home.



On the way home we stopped at the "normal" supermarket to pick up a few things we didn't find at the market.  It's one thing to park illegally while you're sitting on the bike waiting for the other person to run in and grab something, but this is not really the same is it?  Just because you make 200 times the salary of the people working in the parking lot doesn't entitle you to this... Just sayin.  Sometimes people are worse than anyone.

And finally, the answers to the pop quiz from last week.  I guess I'll be keeping my VND500 because not a single person even guessed.  Weak people.... Weak.  You know I have a little counter that tells me more than 100 people have looked at that post since I put it up.  Not a single comment?  C'mon!

1. Hair Curler in public (they do this all the time.  Need your hair out of your face for a few hours?  Leave your hair curler in.  It comes with the added benefit of doing your hair while it holds your hair in place.  Two in one.)
2. Big Print Pajamas (I would have also given credit for wearing fleece pants when it's 90 degrees)
3. Fake Eyelashes
4. Big Fake Diamond (People who wear knuckle sized diamonds don't take the 11:00 ferry to Vung Tao)
5. Garish Red Heels (it's before noon on a Wednesday remember.)
6. Toe socks (Socks with a big toe division for easier use with flip flops).
7. Camera bag (this one was pretty tough to see in the photo, but it's there)
8. Misbehaving child (not necessarily exclusive to Vietnamese, but she almost whipped me in the face and tried to put my eye out with the stick holding her balloon...twice.  I don't think dad even noticed, and that is what makes it worthy of the list.  And speaking of that balloon...)
9.  Random Hello Kitty merchandise (yep, it sure is a Hello Kitty balloon)
10. Face mask (everyone should have gotten this one)
11. Unidentifiable produce under the seat.

How many did you get?  I won't hold my breath waiting for your responses.  Deadbeats.

Game of Thrones

So I give to you an essay I wrote in August after four months of EXTREME Vietnam Action.

When the economy collapsed in Las Vegas in 2008, one of the first office cutbacks was that our bathrooms went from being cleaned nightly to being cleaned three times a week (Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday).  Why this was deemed a prudent cutback was never fully explained.  The bathroom itself contains two stalls, two urinals and two sinks.  The office contains 41 men (yes I counted), all sharing the same two stalls, two urinals and two sinks.  I will spare you the full details, but there were times when I thought some type of hunting accident occurred in a stall prior to my arrival.   I would have rather interrupted men field stripping freshly killed game than endure five minutes in the men’s bathroom on a Friday afternoon.  With that image firmly in mind, I packed my bags to move to Asia.

On my first trip to Asia in 2008, I ate in a restaurant, a really nice restaurant mind you, in which the toilets were holes in the floor.  I shrugged and took aim, only realizing upon my exit that I had just used the women’s restroom.  The men’s indeed contained urinals.  Oops.  Later I was told by an American expat that many local women, even when a proper toilet is provided, squat on the bowl.  In Southeast Asia there is a quaint nostalgia to using a hole in the ground rather than the newfangled porcelain.  The hole is the Wurlitzer of toilets in this part of the world. 

In fact, squatting itself is proving a difficult habit to break here in HCM.  I find it strange that this city, containing sidewalks littered with tables and chairs, also contains thousands of people just squatting around.  Somehow it’s relaxing to squat flat-footed on the sidewalk, as if you are preparing to have an enormous bowel movement and can’t wait to find a toilet, or a hole or take your pants off.  In my younger years, this position was adopted as a stretching technique before soccer matches.  I suppose it shouldn’t have been a huge surprise since we now live in a country where people hang their urinating children off the side of moving motorbikes.  This sort of behavior begs the question “Is this place really an emerging country?”  All things considered, Vietnam is considerably less developed than Macau. I didn’t really know what to expect from the bathrooms in Vietnam. 

There are a few marked differences between bathrooms in the US and in Vietnam.  Vietnam is still mostly unacquainted with the notion of central air conditioning.  My office, my apartment and every place I’ve visited since moving here with conditioned air utilizes individual units rather than one large unit outside that feeds vents inside.  What this means is, on the whole, bathrooms are not air conditioned.  The office bathroom ventilates to the outside through a gap between the wall and ceiling.  If you are unlucky enough to be occupying the end stall when the monsoon hits, you can expect rain to blow in during your repose.  Beyond those very isolated incidents, they are hot and sweaty places. 

All toilets come equipped with a hose next to the bowl.  Our apartment doesn’t have a toilet paper dispenser, but it does have a chrome holder for the sprayer.  It is exactly like the sprayer we had on our kitchen sink in Vegas, except I wouldn’t use this one on the lasagna pan, and the hose doesn’t retract into the wall.  One of my coworkers referred to it as the “poor man’s bidet.” They have these exact same sprayers in our office bathroom.  It’s not unusual to walk into the stall to find the floor and seat covered with water from some erstwhile working man’s cleansing ritual.  After all, there is a water gun in the stall next to you.  Sadly, Northern or Cottonelle do not exist here.  There is nothing that could be marketed as “bath tissue,” as if it’s so soft you could wrap a gift in it.  The toilet paper is called Pulpy, and that is an appropriate name.  It requires half a roll just to clean the puddles on the doughnut.  Is there any worse feeling than walking back and sitting in your desk chair with wet ass?  But don’t worry; the back and cuffs of your pants will already be wet from the water left on the floor.

The relationship between the Vietnamese and water is an intimate one.  Perhaps because it rains so frequently and with such ferocity, they are accustomed to spending a great portion of life wet.  This is the only explanation I can think of for the state of the sink.  The local Vietnamese use the sink, but they only occasionally wash their hands.  They splash water on their faces, their hair, and rinse their mouths in an orgy of water splashing, sighing, throat-clearing and other man-noises I reserve for the privacy of my own shower. This was a shocking display for a guy who, after brushing his teeth, still rinses his mouth out with bottled water.

Everyone has a little cough here because the air quality is so bad.  In the smog wars, Los Angeles is a rank amateur compared to Saigon. Factor in that about 70% of Vietnamese men smoke, and you’ll find some outrageous fits of coughing.  It is normal procedure for a man desiring to freshen up to hock a ball of phlegm from the deepest, darkest regions of his blackened lung and spit it into the sink.  This is not done quietly or with any discretion or deference to the person in the stall trying to serenely coax last night’s dinner out of his body, or concentrate on the game he’s playing on his smart phone, no.  It’s as if ignition has been called for a rocket set to launch a distant satellite, both incredible and jarring all at once.  At least the rocket provides a photo opportunity.

Generally this festival of noise is concluded by the unmistakable sound of the snot rocket, the cymbal crash of body fluid expellation.  For those unacquainted with the “snot rocket” in modern parlance, it’s when one nostril is closed or blocked with a finger while a sharp exhalation causes a phlegm projectile, or rocket, to shoot from the unblocked nostril.  There are only two places I ever utilize this nose blowing technique.  First is the shower.  Things are already getting cleaned, so it’s easy to deal with the fallout of a little nasal passage clearance while standing in rushing water.  The second is when I’m riding my bicycle.  It took me years to perfect the moving snot rocket without sliming half my face.  Look closely at any serious bicycle rider’s gloves, and you will see the stiff terry cloth patch between thumb and forefinger that serves as the Kleenex for snot rockets gone awry.  It’s a delicate art, one that is almost exclusively employed by men.  Imagine my surprise when I witnessed a man in a button down shirt, nicely pressed slacks, dress shoes  with hair combed neatly leaning over to eject a load of snot from his nose  into the vessel in which I was preparing to clean my hands.

All this activity makes the counter appear as if a group of grown men have just concluded an epic water balloon fight.  Despite the lack of “employees must wash hands before returning to work” signs, I am a hand washer.  I brave the wet, slippery and germy mess to handle my due diligence only to find that there are no paper towels. 

There are almost no paper towels in the whole country.  I have been in exactly two bathrooms containing paper towels in Vietnam in four months, only one of which was in HCM.  Paper towels are one of those luxuries that I didn’t even know was a luxury.  Paper towels are a given in the US.  You pee, you wash your hands, you get a paper towel and you dry them, period.  Not here. Here you pee, you wash your hands and then you wave them around or wipe them on your clothes all the way back to your desk, hands smelling like a Strawberry Shortcake doll.  The soap in the bathroom is not subtly scented.  You are not greeted with a scent that whispers “these hands are clean.”  You return to your desk stinking like you went to the bathroom and got a lap dance.  Some higher end places will provide little towels.  The problem with the towels is that many times they’re already moistened.  So you wash your hands, only to realize that all you have to dry them with is a wet towel.   One bar we like has a sink outside the bathroom to be used by both men and women.  Hanging opposite the sink is the towel.  That’s it; one big bath towel that everybody uses to dry their hands after using the facilities.  I choose to believe that the towel is rotated periodically, but it always looks the same when I’m there.

I shudder to think what the office bathroom might look like were it not for the small army of tiny, rubber-gloved women tasked with keeping it clean.  They are there before I get to work, and stay until the last person leaves waging a constant battle against the evils of mankind.  If I could understand what they were saying, I’m certain they could regale me with stories of the things they’ve seen.  They truly have been to the dark side.  That fact is made clear by the way they kick in the door to do their job.  There is no discrete knock as if the housekeeper has appeared at your hotel room a little earlier than expected.  It makes no difference what vulnerable position you find yourself in when it’s time; or what position you will find them in if you walk in as they’re cleaning your favorite stall.  They are going to clean.  Try not to make eye-contact because they already know that you’re here to literally shit in the thing they just spent the last five minutes cleaning.

When I encountered the bathroom for the first time I thought, “What else was I expecting?”  How could I have expected anything different in a place where men grow their fingernails long and it’s considered low class for a woman to have a tan?  Everything has that foreignness, that backwardness that makes living here just plain odd.

 Incredibly, despite the horrific scene I’ve just painted, the bathroom in my new office is paradise compared to the one I left behind in America.  They say scent is the sense most inextricably linked with memory, so I have to laugh when I think of the billionaires who have been forced to endure the stink these oft used, oft abused, receptacles when they adjourn to those particular facilities.  When they cast their minds back to the meeting in our office, do they remember the renderings and the presentation; or, do they remember walking into the bathroom, the air still and pregnant with the stench of forty-eight hours of non-stop use? 

That was written in August.  In December I returned to the US and worked a week in the home office.  Sure enough, during my week back I found a turd the size of a baby lodging in one of the stalls.  It was so big I actually had to go tell an adult, an adult with children, to come and verify that I was not imagining and to flush it down.  Parents have the stomach for this type of activity, where I have not yet acquired the necessary life-skills to do battle with foreign excrement as big as your head.  To be honest, the sight had rendered me powerless.  I was paralyzed by visions of attempting to flush it, only to have it back up the toilet and then come at me in a vengeful rage.  Lucky for you, I accidentally left my phone at home today, otherwise you'd have photo documentation of the offending ordure.  I'm not normally the type to take pictures of this sort of thing, but it was that big.  At once both shocking and fantastic like a fatal car accident.  You know you shouldn't but you get a sick thrill of exhilaration seeing the carnage.

Anyway, the point I'm trying to make here is that I believe the massive duke was left in the office bowl intentionally.  A symbol of anonymous pride.  A "Look At What I Have Made!" moment that the creator decided required a little more time to be appreciated; that needed a witness before leaving on it's long journey.  This has never happened in Asia since my arrival.  What does it say about our respective cultures?  I'm not sure, but it has to say something about the differences between us. 

Pop Quiz

There are at least 11 things in this photo that are wonderfully stereotypically Asian.  Can you name them? You have until my Monday morning at 8am (UTC/GMT +7) to submit your answers. The person who gets the most correct will win VND500!  Submit your answers in the comment section.  Remember you can click on the photo to enlarge it so you can examine it in greater detail.

A few notes about the photo to keep in mind while you're thinking.  This was taken at 11:30am on a Wednesday while I was riding the ferry to Vung Tao.  The ferry ride lasts around one hour and fifteen minutes.

Do you...?

After 33 hours of travel I made it home safely.  My journey home took me from Atlanta to Denver to San Francisco to Taipei to HCM.  Althogether it was 24 hours of flying and 9 hours sitting in various airports wishing for death, or at least a place to lie down.  I managed to finish one book, read about half of another* with time left over to watch five movies**.  It's depressing to fly from Atlanta to San Francisco, which takes about the same amount of time as a flight from Atlanta to London or Paris and then realize that your journey is significantly less than half over.  After that 7 hour domestic journey, I still had another 17(!) hours to fly before getting home.  The Pacific Ocean is a big place.

*I finished reading Galveston by Nic Pizzolatto which I highly recommend if you're into darkish southern gothic style novels with white trashy characters (Flannery O'Connor he is not, but I still liked it).  I then was pleased to find Bill Bryson's "new" book At Home in the San Francisco airport.

**Let's see... Moneyball, The Debt, Real Steel (sad but true -choices are limited on airplanes, okay?) The Driver (which was absolutely awful.. I didn't realize Ryan Gosling looking glum and not speaking above a whisper for 90 minutes is all it takes to make a critically acclaimed movie these days), The Warrior (surprisingly good) and Forrest Gump.  Incidentally, I chose Forrest Gump because it is 2.5 hours and I was on a 3 hour flight.  The main thing I took away from my umpteenth time watching the movie is that a Boeing 777 can travel 1300 miles in the time it takes to watch the movie in it's entirety.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little apprehensive about coming back.  It was very easy to fall back into the American lifestyle.  Everything just a short drive or button click away is quite an aphordisiac for people who have to go to six stores just to make dinner.  It also took us so long to adjust to living in Asia, I was concerned about having to re-endure the culture shock of being back. 

As I climbed into the taxi that drove me home, I found myself smiling.  I realized that I'd missed the chaos and the outright strangeness of my new home.  America is so buttoned up and clean that it's actually a little boring.  I found the whole experience in America somewhat sterile.  I suppose it is a great way to spend a vacation: not worrying about anything and having everything you need nearby, but no one drove within an inch of me.  No strangers grabbed my arm and pointed at my tattoos.  No said hello to me as I passed (especially in Vegas).  No one blatantly stared at me at a stop light, or pointed and laughed (at least not that I noticed).  I didn't see anyone driving around with an obscenely large amount of junk on the back of a motorcycle.  I saw little to no weird Hello Kitty merchandise.  I didn't have to play charades to get what I wanted at the store, nor did I have to point to my selection in a single menu.  It was all so....simple.

And when things get that simple, there is free time to worry about other things.  Namely, one's health.  I watched the national news a few times with my parents and every single commercial was for a perscription medication.  When did that happen? Have I just not been paying attention?  People in America must be enourmously medicated.  I bet you could live off nothing but perscription drugs in the US.  You could take so many you actually feel full.  I don't even know where to buy aspirin in Vietnam.  If my head hurts, I have a headache.  When I eat a giant spicy and greasy Indian dinner I get heartburn (and then firey poops).  That's what's supposed to happen.  When you put crap into your body, you feel like crap and suffer the consequences.  Every time the TV came on it was a parade of:  Do you have restless legs? Do you have trouble sleeping? Do you have arthritis? Rhumetoid Arthritis? Do you want to enhance your male performance? Do you have genital herpes? Are you over the age of 50? Do you need brith control? Weight control? Muscle control? Mind control? Child control? Do you suffer from chronic back pain? Mesothelioma? Dry Skin? Heartburn? Dry Scalp? Acne? Athlete's Foot? Cramps? PMS? Dandruff? Diarrhea? Constipation? Mucus buildup? Plaque buildup? Debt buildup? Been in a car accident? Work accident? Need a loan? Need energy? Need pain relief? Stress relief? Feeling Tired? Down? Depressed? Suicidal?  After being bombarded with it for three weeks, I started to feel ill.  If I had to endure another Cialis commercial, I thought I might have a psychotic break*. 

*My father has been saying this for years, and I used to think it was silly, but WHY do the couples in the commercials have an intimate moment and then go sit in separate bathtubs?  What is the point of that?  When I get in the mood there's nothing better than going and sitting in a hard, cold outdoor bathtub to really express my desire.  Stupid...  Also the Cialis commercial never says what the drug actually does.  It just says, "when the time is right, will you be ready?"  What does that mean?  When the time is right to plant beans, will you be ready?  When the time is right to put the burgers on the grill, will you be ready?  I suppose both of my examples also have double entendre potential so they work as well.

"This channel is obsessed with growing hair, muscles and cocks." My brother nailed it as we sat, mouths agape, watching a marathon of Hardcore Pawn on TruTV (a channel I never knew existed until this trip back) one night*.  Every single commercial was either Hair Club for Men, Just for Men, Grecian Formula or some other hair growing formula or surgical procedure, some kind of MMA-endoresed exercise device or pills that make your dick bigger.  It was funny and amazing at the same time.  Since moving to Vietnam I can honestly say that adding a suppliment to increase the size of my penis to my diet has not occurred to me a single time.  I'd actually forgotten these pills even existed.  I only saw about three commercials that advertised ways to make one smarter (all Rosetta Stone commercials).  I saw more commercials in three weeks than I'd seen in nine months of Asian living.

*If you haven't seen this show.... Wow...  I had no idea you could say or do half the shit they do on television.  After two shocking hours of it, I knew why the evil-doers hate us and want us all dead.  I'm ashamed to admit that I loved every second of it and was sad when it ended at 2am. It was easily the most indulgent two hours of television I've ever watched.  I'm sure there is plenty more on YouTube.

It's odd but I found myself relieved to get back to Vietnam.  Most people when they come to visit us are totally overwhelmed by the beehive that is our new home.  It's all garish, loud, stinky and foreign from top to bottom.  I agree with their assessment, but it's also a total escape from the western advertising juggernaut.  In Vietnam I'm more concerned with getting into a firey crash on my motorbike to concern myself with advertising.  Plus it's all in Vietnamese anyway.  The only thing I can tell you is that Lionel Messi advertises Vinamilk. At no point during my time in the US was I unaware of the presence of advertising.    From everyone's clothes to signs to stores to television to the golf course it was everywhere.  So which is stranger?  At this point it's difficult to decide.

So I'm back now, and I hope to get back on track with my writing schedule.  Thanks in advance for sticking it out through the vacation.  And hey, if you like what I'm writing here or if you think it's totally stupid, feel free to make a comment and let me know.  If there's something you would like for me to write about, or if you have a question about how we manage to do certain things, let me know.  Comments people!  I know you're out there.  I also know you have questions because I just talked to most of you while we were in the US.  Make yourselves heard...er...read.

What's it like?

My apologies for taking so long to write.  It's not that I haven't been taking some time to do it, I'm just trying to spend as little time as possible sitting in front of a computer while I'm on vacation.  I'll rot in front of a television rather than a computer, thank you very much.

Most everyone wants to know what it's like in Vietnam.  I don't really have a good answer.  My usual response is "crazy" which really couldn't be more vague.  I suppose this curiosity makes sense, but I'm more interested in telling you what it's like in the US after being in the third world for 8 months.  Perhaps telling what the US is rather than what Vietnam is will be more accessible for those who have never been to SE Asia.

Since we got back I've been amazed by a lot of little things.  One major one is how well everything works.  When we got to our host's house in Las Vegas, I used the bathroom.  When I finished I flushed the toilet and it just flushed.  Immediately.  I didn't have to hold the lever down. I didn't have to surprise the flushing mechanism with a quick action to get it started.  I didn't even have to stand there and make sure it stopped running; it just went down without fanfare.  I know I shouldn't be astounded by a device performing the job it was purposely designed to do, but it happened with such effortless efficiency I was actually surprised and amazed.  I then turned to the sink to wash my hands and hot water came out. It took less than two seconds for the water to go from cool to hand-scaldingly hot.  I couldn't remember the last time I'd washed my hands with hot water.  The bathroom sink at both home and the office in Vietnam doesn't have hot water.

Our hosts repeatedly apologized because the bathroom we had to use for showering was being remodeled, and was consequently somewhat construction-y.  I asked him if workers would be over at 4am using a hammer drill or jack hammer outside our room.  He said no.  I said "we're good."  Later on I got in the shower.  When I turned the shower head on the water pressure nearly knocked me down.  I had completely forgotten that there are places where the water doesn't just trickle out like an old man with prostate issues.  The water wasn't just hot, it was consistently hot.  It stayed the same temperature throughout the entire shower.  I didn't have to adjust it one time once it was set, nor did I have to remember to flip the switch that turns the hot water on and off.  I could have even taken a hotter shower if I'd wanted.  Since we left, our entire neighborhood has been without water altogether for four days.

Later one of our hosts offered to let us use his car.  "I haven't driven this thing in like three months." he said as he climbed in to back it out of the garage.  It started on the first try.  It didn't sputter, it didn't fire up and then immediately die, it didn't make any noise except that of a car starting.  This is to say nothing of the following 15 minutes we spent driving, with little to no stopping, at 45mph to dinner.  The streets were gigantic and I didn't feel like death was imminent even when we got on the interstate the next day.  It was like driving on glass.  I haven't smelled exhaust in days even though I've been driving around in an open Jeep Wrangler.   I'm already dreading going back to Vietnam and  having to start my motorbike after three weeks of sitting outside.  Let's hope it's in calf deep water when the time comes.

The internet works with blinding speed.  I didn't know my iPad could stream video without having to periodically stop and wait for buffering.  At my desk in Vietnam, if I want to have a pop out chat window so I can talk and do things at the same time, it takes 30-40 seconds to appear.  In the US, it pops out instantly.  Later Reyna called to make a reservation at a hotel she would stay at with her friend who came to visit.  She called and gave her name, spelled it once, and gave them a phone number.  The whole transaction took about 30 seconds.  In Vietnam, just giving someone your phone number takes at least a minute.  Amazing.  On the other hand, we have to remember that people can actually understand the things we're saying here, so we have to be mindful of how loudly we talk.

We'd also clearly forgotten how much things cost in the US.  Our first night we went to McMullan's, which was our favorite bar.  Reyna and I even  had our first date there.  We had dinner and two beers each.  The bill was $54, easily triple what we would have paid for the same meal in Vietnam.  And while it used to be one of my most favorite places to eat, I found the food to be outrageously salty.  It seemed like every time we left the house, it cost $100.  Before our flight to Atlanta, I stopped at the airport Starbucks for a bagel with cream cheese and a bottle of water because I was too hung over to eat proper breakfast with Reyna and  her mom.  Cost? $8.18 and I couldn't even get the bagel toasted.  It was a cold land mine of dough that tasted like shoe leather.  We may not have much in Vietnam, but we can always get hot bread baked that day.  I go to a bakery and get two little baguettes for breakfast most days and it costs less than $0.30.  Shame on you Starbucks.  If I'm going to have to take out a second mortgage on my house to have breakfast, it better taste delicious.  This may explain why I'm getting fat living in Vietnam...

I find myself continually amazed by the sheer amount of stuff available for purchase in the US.  It rides the line between amazing and nauseating.  We went into Target a few nights ago to look for envelopes for our xmas cards.  After finding what we came for, we just wandered around the store.  We weren't shopping, we were marveling.  The most amazing area is the health and beauty section.  Inside I counted 53 different types of shaving cream.  Men's shaving cream, women's shaving cream, shaving cream, shaving gel, shaving powder, shaving soap, enviro-conscious, enviro-unconscious, enviro-subconscious; it was overwhelming.  And then the scents; lemon lime, arctic berry, pure sport, classic, desert bloom, tea tree oil and jojoba.  I didn't know whether to be disgusted or impressed.  I have memories of being bummed because I couldn't find "my" kind of this or that in stores before we moved.  Now I can't believe I ever thought that.  I was disturbed by the thought that this gross excess is considered normal.  In the past I wouldn't have thought twice about being angered by the fact that the store was out of Old-Spice-High-Endurance-Pure-Sport Deodorant (not anti-perspirent) despite 30-40 alternate options sitting on the same shelf.  It's deodorant, not a bullet-proof vest.

The response I've repeatedly been given for this flood of choice and products is, "that's capitalism at work."  To quote one of my friends and mentors, "Moderation in everything."  I agree.  Too much of anything is bad.  After our Target experience I couldn't help myself and agreed to accompany my mother to Sam's Club.  I knew I would be disgusted. Or, I expected to be disgusted.  It was a strange feeling.  I didn't find myself disgusted, but rather found it overwhelming and just plain amazing.  Let's say you're walking around the local Sam's Club and find yourself thirsty.  It wouldn't be as surprise if you were thirsty because the place has cover about a square mile.  I think if you took the merchandise out of the store and stood in one corner, you could see the curve of the earth.  It's that big.  I also find it interesting that people pay money for the priviledge of spending money.  That isn't new, I've always thought that.  $25 a year, so I can enter and spend money...strange.  Anyway, you're wandering the aisles looking for that electric toothbrush, or keg of popcorn, or 6lb block of cheese, or flat screen television, or dog food, or Slim Jims, or 32-pack of Dove soap when you find yourself thirsty.  Juice is too expensive, it's too early for beer and you can't bring yourself to shell out money to hire a Sherpa to help you find a water fountain.  What are your options?  In an effort to be a more full service blog, here they are:

Smart Water, Fruit 2.0, Propel Zero, Vitamin Water Zero, Vitamin Water, La Croix Free, Perrier, Lipton Green Tea, Lipton Diet Green Tea, Lipton Green Tea Citrus, Sparkling Ice, Monster Energy, Monster Rehab, Monster Regular (in about 37 different flavors I didn't have the will to write down), V8 Splash, V8 Original, Yoohoo (in a bottle for single people I guess), Yoohoo in a can (for those with small children), IBC Rootbeer, Orange Crush, Starbucks Frappucino, Coke, Deer Park Water, San Pellegrino, Mtn Dew (I guess it's not called "Mountain Dew" anymore), Diet Coke, Coke Zero, Sprite, Diet Sprite, Sprite Zero, Pepsi, Diet Pepsi, Dr. Pepper, Diet Dr. Pepper, Faygo, Red Bull, Sugar Free Red Bull, Fanta (in it's rainbow of fruity flavors), 7up, Diet 7up, Fuze, G Series, G2 Thirst Quencher, G2 Low Calorie, Nestle Pure Life Water, Crystal Springs, Aquafina, Dasani, Powerade, Propel Zero Powder (in skinny "pour-in-the-bottle" packaging, and normal pouches for pitchers), Crystal Light Powder, Crystal Light Mocktail Powder, Country Time Lemonade Powder, Country Time Pink Lemonade Powder, Kool Aid Tropical Punch Powder, Kool Aid Cherry Powder, Tang, Little Hug Fruit Barrels, Kool Aid Jammers and Capri Sun.

It's possible I missed some, I only walked through 2.5 aisles.  People must have thought I was crazy as I walked slowly through, frantically typing on my phone, a sickly shocked grin on my face and glassy look in my eye.  Isn't that an incredible list?  This is one store in one medium sized town.  I'm not sure Athens actually ranks as a city yet, since it's basically deserted while UGA is on holiday. I live in a gigantic city and have yet to enter a store with half the options listed above.  The aisles were so wide I could do cartwheels perpendicular to the merchandise without touching anything.  No one touched me, and I didn't inadvertently touch anyone.  No one spoke.  Perhaps they were speaking, I just couldn't hear them in the enormity of the space.  And that isn't even the amazing part.  All of the products above were being sold in CASES, not six packs, not single servings.  The sheer volume of liquid in the Sam's Club could easily flood my parent's basement to about six inches.

The refrigerated food section in Sam's Club is larger than the grocery store we shop in in Vietnam*.  In Sam's Club I walked past the yogurt aisle (yep, an entire four sectioned refrigerator is dedicated to nothing but yogurt).

Dan-o-Nino, del Monte, Yoplait Trix, Go-Gurt, Chobani, Chobani Greek, Dannon, Dannon Light and Fit, Yoplait Greek, Yolait Light, La La, Yoplait Original, Yoplait Light with Granola, Yo Crunch, Activia and Activia Light.

In Vietnam we can't even find yogurt that looks and tastes like yogurt, and here I was standing in front of an entire case of cases of yogurt.  I turned, slack-jawed, to my sweet mother as she opened the door and pulled out a case of Chobani Greek.  "This one has the highest protein content, so I buy it" she smiled and said.  I remembered back to when I lived in the US and read the labels on products for things like fat and protein and sugar.  Now we just go, "there's the x!" (there's a breathy excitement that comes with finding the thing you're looking for) and in the cart it goes. 

*I should mention that we moved into our current Vietnamese neighborhood because we nearly peed ourselves when we found the An Phu Supermarket. That's how good it is compared to other supermarkets we'd been frequenting.

I'm still not totally sure what to make of all this excess.  It would be easy to be disgusted or on a soap box about it.  And perhaps I am on a soap box about it just by bringing it up.  At first I was grossed out and disgusted, but now I'm not so sure.  I think I feel ashamed.  Ashamed that I'd never appreciated the options.  It never occurred to me until I moved away that most people don't have 53 kinds of shaving cream to choose from.  Most people can't afford a Starbucks Bagel at the airport, let alone a flight to another country.  I used to bristle when George W was president and said, "they hate our freedom" when referring to the evildoers.  It's not that they hate our freedom, it's that they hate we don't appreciate the holy-cow, blow your mind, overwhelming amount of stuff we have that's just a short drive and a few dollars away.  Everything you need, plus a whole lot more is RIGHT THERE, yet we still find ways to not be satisfied.  In coming back I find that I am fundamentally changed in this regard.  I hope that when/if we move back to the US, I don't ever want to find myself annoyed by the fact that there are only 17 brands of toilet paper available, but not the kind I prefer.