Sai Gon, June 27, 2001
Over the weekend, I went to Phan Thiet with Di 9 & 10 and stayed at Novotel, part of the French Accor hotel group. As the weather was temperamental, we spent most of our time sleeping, eating, and watching HBO. The rest of our time was spent swinging in the hammocks hung between palm trees, playing foozball, and wandering around the hotel.

Saturday night we had a seafood buffet all-you-can-eat dinner. I had a plate of a half dozen clams, a half dozen mussels, a crab, 5 king prawns, and fresh fish all grilled over charcoal, and then followed with a plate of 5 different salads, bread and pate, bread and brie, bread and Roquefort, a dozen steamed shrimp, a slice of quiche, and thai noodles. Then I had 2 peach custard tarts, a kiwi custard tart, a scoop of coffee ice cream, a slice of apple honey crisp, watermelon, dragon fruit, and flan for dessert. It was all so good…

The only time we spent away from the hotel was when we went out to eat, and when we went to visit Ong 10 (my grandfather’s cousin) who gave me a bag full of star fruit that he picked from his tree in the back yard. Ong 10 lives across the street from my mom’s old house which is now an Exxon gas station. It's teeny; I don't know if her whole family lived there or if it was her home before everyone was born. We also went to visit Chu Ngoc at the Saigon Mui Ne resort where we lunched with him before returning back to Sai Gon.

Less than 2 weeks until I return home, and I’m counting the days until I set foot back in good ol’ U.S. of A. I miss NYC like crazy, I miss walking and I miss biking. I miss the Brooklyn Bridge. I miss driving and I miss steak. I miss reading English signs and hearing English spoken. I miss not having to bargain when I shop. I’ll be back in time to watch the Tour de France on ESPN (although ESPN in Vietnam will have more coverage on cycling than the measly 30 minutes per day we get in the U.S.). And I’ll get to go to California just in time for a – well, a Vietnamese wedding.

No blogs for a coupla days. Tomorrow I go to Phan Thiet with Di 9 & 10 for 3 days for some R&R. We’re not staying at Saigon Mui Ne Resort this time (Chu Ngoc’s hotel) since Di 10 has a voucher to stay at another place for free (someplace where she plays golf).

Went to print with issue 3 of the guidebook today.
Check films on Tuesday when I get back.

Otherwise, nothing new. H.

Sai Gon, July 21, 2001
I had a dream two days ago where I was giving instructions to someone else over the phone IN VIETNAMESE. When I woke up, I was really quite amused with myself, as much as I would be I suppose, if I ever find myself thinking in Vietnamese (this has happened with French before, but never Vietnamese). I suppose dreaming in another language is a sign that it’s nearly time to go home.

Today is the middle of the month of the lunar calendar (am lich). It’s called Ram, and it’s of course, a vegetarian day for the Vietnamese, as is the first day of the lunar month. The 2nd and 16th of the month, however, are the days the vietnamese commemorate and pray for, well, everything. The verb is to “cun” and you cun your car, your house, your business, and anything else that needs protection or prosperity. Tomorrow we’ll have fruit (usually mangoes, lychees, longans, and dragon fruit) to snack on at work, since the process includes offering fruit to the Gods and burning incense at miniature shrines, which will be found in nearly every commercial and retail outlet, hotels, restaurants, and any other place you can imagine. The one at work I’ve never seen, though I’ve sensed traces of incense on my way out for lunch before.

Miniature shrines are most often produced of wood that is then most often painted red, and most often highlighted with gold stamping, and is generally rather tacky. Sometimes they include flashing holiday lights, fake candles with fake flame shaped bulbs and long electrical wires (who ever thought this was an improvement on the original?), a plastic Buddha with a lightbulb inside his tummy, or – so 80’s – flashing fiber optic threads in multiple colors. You have to buy a miniature tea set with your shrine (how else are you going to offer tea to your Buddhas?), and usually a small cup or bowl to hold the uncooked rice in which you’ll stick the incense sticks. If you’re going to cun your car, then all you have to do is place a plate of fruit on the hood, and stick a few incense sticks in whatever cracks you can find in the front grill, and then make a few offerings to the Gods and let the incense burn down. This will prevent you from having a car accident. Even boat homes, which line the Sai Gon River (and most other rivers of Vietnam) have miniature shrines. Boat homes are a whole other image I can write about some other time.

Vietnamese houses also have shrines that range from miniature to entire rooms and some can really be quite elegant. All homes have proper shrines for commemorating your late parents and other ancestors – this is no matter your religion, it is a vietnamese rather than a Buddhist custom. The Vietnamese believe that your parents are constantly watching over you, even in their death. We constantly offer my grandfather fruit, but sometimes we offer him some soup and tea in case he tires of the fruit. Now that I’m recalling this, I had mien ga tonight for dinner – chicken noodle soup – which was one of my grandfather’s favorites and I (for shame) forgot to offer some to him. No matter, my grandad had plenty of extra weight on him, and as perhaps the most self-actualized person I’ve ever known, he wouldn’t mind that I forgot, always being ever so forgiving.

Only 16 days until I leave SaiGon. I arrive in DC on July 9, tired and fattened (I've gained at least 3 kg which makes me over 90lbs), and will shortly thereafter be going up to NY for a weekend. Hoping to see much while home though I will be spending about a week and a half in California if I can get my ticket confirmed and bought soon. Imagine, I’ll be taking a ten day vacation to California from my five week vacation to the U.S. from my two year vacation from New York. I like this life. And after this vacation, I think I'll go vacation in Italy or Greece, though I've never been to either. There is much to look forward to, beginning with steak in the western world (forgive me, Buddha).

Sai Gon. June 16, 2001
I forgot about the conversation – or rather, the interrogation – I had in Buon Me Thuot with a group of young hotel clerks and waitresses. On our second evening after dinner, I happened to step just far enough away from my table to be considered standing alone, when a young waitress accosted me and asked, “Where are you from?”
“The States,” I replied.
Suddenly, there were three waitresses around me.
“What’s it like there?” “Is it true that American men don’t really mind if a girl isn’t a virgin?” “What state do you live in?” “You don’t live with your family? Don’t you miss your mother?” “I hear that you only have to be married for a year before you can get a divorce if you want citizenship.” “How old are you?” “Oh, my; hey Trang, she’s so youthful! Guess how old she is?” “Are you mixed? Your skin is so white! Your eyes are so round!”
Another waitress and the hotel clerk joined in or animated conversation.
“We knew you were a nice person when we saw you having dinner yesterday. We said to ourselves, ‘oh, she’s sweet.’” “What’s your name?” “Oh, that’s a nice name. Where did you get it? Do you know the story of the girl named Han Ni? Your name is much prettier.” “I’m going to name my kid ‘Hani’.” “Do you have a brother?” “Can you help us meet your friends?” “You only have one brother! Can you find four more available men? Don’t you have friends who want to marry asians?” “I heard that life is really easy in the States.” “Is it true that women are equal to men in the States?”

Their want for knowledge of life in the States was insatiable, and so it went for about 10 minutes before I was separated from them by excusing myself to go out for dessert with my friends who stood nearby waiting for me. And that is what people have in their heads about life in the States.

When I first arrived in Vietnam, I met an English fellow named Dave at an internet cafe (before I had access at home & work). We often ran into each other at my aunt’s cafe, where Dave once said to me, “I know you can’t be Vietnamese since you haven’t tried to marry me yet.” I was amused. It was nice running into Dave since he was one of few people with whom I conversed in English. He’s back in England now, and I’m not sure what he’s up to.

Time to go.

June 14, 2001.
Until I've got the energy and time to indite another blog, you'll have to to just be satisfied with a little hello, I'm fine, slightly stuffy nose, 2 scoops of ice cream in my stomach, (went to dinner with some girlfriends tonight) and counting down the days till I get a 2 Chefs steak & cheese sandwich.

And the fact that I'm amazed; I've been recently receiving responses from people who say "where have you been? What have you been doing?" when all I've been doing is keeping a blog since February...

Sai Gon. June 13, 2001

Hi!
:)

there is something amusing I've been wanting to write, but everytime I come close to a keyboard, I forget.
Must make notes. Stuffy nose, but clear headed today. Went to work as usual.

Souris hasn't had a chance to post pictures yet (sorry) but if you really want to see some soon, ask me and I'll forward them to you.
h.

Sai Gon, June 12, 2001
The WEDDING. I forgot to tell you about the WEDDING. On Saturday night I went to a true Vietnamese wedding (well, okay, the reception) of the forty-something son of my Di 9's sister-in-law, whom I've never met. I missed the morning session where the son and his parading family had to go collect the bride and her parading family (like we did with my uncle in February), but made it to dinner. Vietnamese weddings are extraordinarily noisy. There were tables of beer-drinking men behind us who would grab their brews, count to 3, and yell "vo!" which means "in!" and they'd all clink mugs, take a swig, and sit back down. They'd do it about every 7 or 8 minutes. On stage, there was great d飯r of red everything, balloons that popped confetti when the newly married couple walked in, silly string, and an emcee on the mic. The house singers sung and later passed their mics on to guests who wanted their turn at karaoke. Singers were rewarded with long-stemmed roses that were purchased (I think) by spectators from the girls in ao dais carrying them in baskets, the way you see flower peddlers in Olde Towne Alexandria in romantic restaurants.

In the meantime, while we were served our multiple course meal, as all respectable weddings of the Vietnamese must be (my mother once paled at the suggestion that buffet weddings were not only practised, but perfectly acceptable for Americans, though she's seen enough now to know that there isn't anything wrong about them), the bride and groom swept from table to table to table being photographed with all their guests. Of course, the bride changed into three different wedding gowns in this hour long process. The Vietnamese say "well, you're only married once. You might as well wear as many as you can."

No cake was cut (as the cake is fake, and only for show), and as soon as the dessert (lychees) was served, tables cleared as the majority of guests went home. The entire fantastic affair lasted until 9:00 (It was scheduled to begin at 6:00, but since we are on Vietnamese time, we did not arrive until 7:30). And that was it. A Vietnamese wedding.

Sai Gon, June 11, 2001

I haven’t had a chance to expand on my trip to Buon Me Thuot, and yet, much has happened since then. I’ve been feeling under the weather ever since the trip, and it caught up to me by the end of the week. Friday night I went to bed (after reading some Harry Potter, Book IV), and woke up about 14 hours later at 2 in the afternoon on Saturday. Talk about tired! I then spent the rest of the day working on menus for Di 10’s restaurants, and despite my cold, rode on a motorbike out to the city in the middle of a rainstorm in the evening. I met up with Thanh (who had a CAR) at Dong Du Cafe and showed him how to play Gin Rummy, one of the only card games I know (and I can’t even remember all the rules really), and we played till we had to pick up Di 10 at a wedding she was attending.

Sunday morning I went with Di 10, her friend Mr. Hoang, and Trinh Murphy. Trinh is a distant relation with Di 10, has lived in Paris and NY, and is settled in Williamsburg, VA with her husband Joe, a U.S. Diplomat. They are wonderful companions and it was such a relief to have a normal conversation with some Americans over the last week. I so enjoyed their company. Anyway, as Joe was not feeling well, he did not join us. The rest of us went to visit a home beyond the city that is taken care of by a man we call Thai (meaning “teacher”).

Thai’s home is built from scraps that he collects, and in it lives elderly women, and young children, most of whom are physically disabled, mentally retarded, or otherwise handicapped. Some of the children go to school. All are far below normal height and weight for their ages. All are loved and respected in this humble home.

There are about a dozen women in their 70s and 80s, and around 20 children. Older children care for younger children. Abler women feed the more disabled, abler children feed the more disabled. All are taught to be so very polite and kind to strangers. I took pictures, which I’d like to share when I get them from Trinh. If you could see what I saw, I don’t think you could ever go back to wasting the way we waste, and you would have total appreciation for what you have. It is incomprehensible to waste food, toys and clothes the way we do in the States. I’m guessing, but about ten US dollars could feed this family of over 30 for a week, $30 could send one of the children to school for a year. It's so easy not to think about this kind of poverty (even while in Vietnam!) when we're not facing it with our own eyes.

These kids sleep on the cement floors, black ants, bugs and mosquitoes biting them incessantly. Scrap food, of which ingredients are sometimes picked up from the piles of discarded and dirty legumes in the Sai Gon markets, cooked into hot meals and responsibility to each other are the core of their existence. One child was left mentally retarded from the ants that had attacked him when he was found abandoned and tied to a tree. The pain they have gone through is inconceivable yet they are able to find such joy in amusement from an object as simple as a rubber band.

I have to stop writing…
Mom, dad, my cold is wearing off. I’m okay and will be glad to be home in July.
H.

From two days ago-
Sai Gon, June 5, 2001
I’m back from Buon Me Thuot, two 8 hour bus rides and 8 mediocre meals later. It is a curse having been born to a good cook, because it is nearly impossible to eat on the road. The trip was a good and true VIETNAMESE experience. I went with Linh, her friend Truc, their professor (Truc’s father), his wife, and 45 other Vietnamese dentists, and dental professors.

I am so incredibly American.

The fifty of us loaded up the bus by 6 a.m. on Friday morning, got on the road for a breakfast nearby, and continued on the road. The tour guide, Tam, began with gifts for the children on board (there were 3) as it was International Children’s Day (which is celebrated throughout Vietnam in a variety of charitable events, entertainment, crafts, fairs, and festivals). Tam then followed up with a lot of talking that I didn’t completely understand, and then sang a song. He got off the microphone and I thought “okay, rest and peace.” But no, a play on video appears on the monitor and the box speakers, spread along the bus, are blaring the comedians’ voices. I put my MD headphones on and try to drown out the Vietnamese I can't understand with Bono singing in my ears.

A few hours later, we pull over at a restaurant that has a fake “SaigonTourist” sticker on its door. SaigonTourist is the largest tour operator in Vietnam, formerly a monopoly, and very reputable. I brought along a chicken sandwich that I ate instead of the eel that was served and met some of the other people on our trip. A few hours onward, we stopped at our first site, Dryspar or something (I can’t remember). A waterfall site. It’s pretty, but not remarkable. What was remarkable was the fellow standing at the top of the falls throwing out his fishing net and catching the downstream fish. Roughly an hour later, we climbed aboard and went to a second spot where there were other falls, beautiful landscaping, natural boulders, and tall treehouses that were easy to climb but difficult to descend.

From there, we went back to the hotel, and I will continue with Saturday’s events (the elephant ride) later as I’m too tired to go on right now. H.

Captions to additional pictures on Souris' site:
A full doc moc boat, me fooling around (see what strength fish sauce can give you?) in the woods (waterfalls in back complete with rainbow), another picture of Linh and I on Ban, and a waterfall we visited near Buon Me Thuot (not as great as Great Falls, I have to say).

The other four are described below

Sai Gon, June 7, 2001
Only about a month away from being home, Home!

Buon Me Thuot was a good trip for me to take. I spent a weekend with 50 vietnamese and have much to say about it, but left the part I wrote about it at the house (and I’m in the office).

Go to Souris’ site, Saigon Soldier, for pictures of my trip. I rode an elephant named Ban, who is 40 years old. She’s been in captivity since she was 2, once bore a baby that did not survive long, and she hauls logs when she’s not carrying people around. There’s also a picture of Linh and I feeding Ban with sugar cane sticks. The natives are M’nong and H’mong; some of the few minority groups here in Vietnam. They live in these great long houses where they invited us in and performed some traditional songs & danced for us. Typical of the area, these long houses have walls made of woven palm, and stand on logs and bamboo stilts. They’re generally one large room with cool hardwood floors, straw mats, and hold entire families. Pigs, chickens, dogs, and other animals live under and around the homes.

On Souris’ site, you’ll see my pictures riding in a doc moc, a boat made from a single log. It’s similar in width and length of rowing shell for 8 (plus cox). I sat in stroke.

Have again lost my train of thought as I’ve just been interrupted by a phone call and fear that Thanh might be by any minute to pick me up (then I won’t be able to send you these pictures).
So, till tomorrow.
H.

Sai Gon. June 6, 2001
Back from Buon Me Thout. Started a blog on the computer at home, but will just briefly say, “I rode an elephant!”
And that I’ll send pictures in the next couple of days.
h.

Sai Gon. May 27, 2001
So like I said to Kaly, just write to me about anything you might think is so very mundane; you have no idea how interesting garage door problems and other news can be. After all, VN doesn’t have garage doors, and things like that bring me home, if only for a few minutes.

Rained all day today. Yesterday, Linh came over and we watched a movie in Di 10’s room. Then stayed up till 3 a.m. talking. We got up relatively late (before 10), had lunch, and headed back up to Di 10’s room for 2 more movies, and then ate again. Linh went to meet friends in town and I stayed for our Sunday family gatherings. Three cousins, two nieces, 5 aunts and uncles and a lot of food. Just got a printer hooked up here for aunt 10. Plan on printing stuff for the restaurant.

All’s well. People around me are getting sick because of the weather changes but I feel like it’s just as hot now as it was when I got home. I go to Buon Me Thout with Linh next weekend. It’s famous for its coffee and lies somewhere in the highlands, about an 8 hour bus ride away. I can’t complain. The trip is only 500.000 VND for travel, food, and lodging for 3 days. Somewhere around $33 USD. I’ll take more pictures then and send them your way (I haven’t taken any new pictures in a while). Looking forward to some traveling.

Sai Gon, May 26, 2001
Just ate a bowl of homemade mac & cheese with chopsticks. Grammy had been craving it for weeks and Di 10 finally remembered to get the ingredients to make it for her today. For all you dedicated lurkers, blogspot was down for several days because of their T1 service provider. Nothing political, you imaginative worriers.

On Wednesday of last week, I took my ticket back from the agency where I left it (a “branch” of the office in Virginia). The guy had it for 11 days and after 2 reminder calls, hadn’t done anything with it. So I made him give it back and went directly to ANA (my airline) to get my ticket confirmed. Thursday morning I stopped in their office and spoke only English, and the girl behind the counter punched in my seat request for early July. All seats on all flights to Washington are booked through August. My ticket expires on August first, so I asked for a flight to Tokyo and then I can wait for the Tokyo-DC leg of the trip. I have to go the roundabout way from Saigon to Singapore to Tokyo to DC since I got my ticket before ANA received permission for direct flights from Tokyo. Anyhow, after sending in my seat requests, I left ANA’s office and went to work. Only 3 hours later, I got a call that my seats are confirmed (through Tokyo). I love Japanese efficiency.

Today I wandered around town with a couple of my aunt’s friends, Cammy and Lieu. Walked all around town, and then we met with Di 10 to get foot massages. Very interesting kind of pain.

Rain is in full swing. When it storms like this, it’s called “bao” and it goes on all day long. Huge pellets of rain drum loudly against the rooftops. The kind of rain that takes only about four seconds to get completely soaked. I have no idea how people manage to get around on motorbikes (I saw one today carrying a refrigerator on the back seat, no strings attached!).

I’m so looking forward to being home, I wonder if I really want to come back. Though there is still much for me to discover (and a lot of traveling to do while in Asia), I really miss NY and the States and of course, family. When I get back, I want to eat a steak and cheese sandwich from Two Chefs and then the corn-on-the-cob from Havana in NY. Mmmm. I’m watching a cooking channel with my aunt and it’s dubbed in Vietnamese. They’re making white-chocolate rice krispie treats. I think I want a rice krispie treat when I get back, too. I don’t even like marshmallows!

Anyway, I’ll know when I get back, I suppose. A presto.

test

Sai Gon, May 20, 2001.

After going to bed at 3 a.m., I was awakened at 8:30 this morning to a phone call. Three more phone calls for the household followed mine. Wanting to roll over and steal a few more minutes of rest, I then encountered a knock at my door just minutes later. The curtain people were here, and they needed to measure my bay window for my new curtains. Defeated, I got out of bed, and snuck away into Ba Ngoai’s room (grammy) and then joined her at the breakfast table and watched her eat heartily away. It’s nice to know that Ngoai has such a good appetite, and that she can still be such a picky eater at 93 (tastebuds still work!). If I had my choice, I’d say take the eyes and ears, just let me taste my food. It’s a good thing.

I’m looking forward to getting my plane ticket home confirmed. It’s been over a week since I left it with the “agency” that’s supposed to change my ticket for me. Inefficiency and incompetence are commonly practiced in business here and everyone tells me to just “get used to it.” I won’t get used to it, but I’ll just have to deal with it while I’m here. What else can I do, right? I just smile and say “thank you” and “please” a lot like I was taught to do in the U.S. and hope that people show a little grace.

I don’t want to get used to things that I don’t like. For example, littering. I think littering is a criminal offense, anywhere. Vietnamese people act as if it’s a national pasttime. Particularly on travel. Eat your meals on board your vehicle and empty your trash in your beautiful homeland. Plastic bags especially. Vietnamese people are fond of plastic bags. You get a plastic bag for everything you buy. Cards? Wrap ‘em in plastic first. Clothes? Fit neatly into plastic sleeves before being placed into plastic shopping bags. Food? Each portion of each morsel comes in plastic bags. Soup and sauces come in their separate bags. Drinks even come in plastic bags and so do jellied desserts. Our highway is littered with them, our fields, and our streets. It’s disgusting. It makes what is beautiful ugly. I mean, defecating and urinating are also commonly seen on the streets – thought not sanitary, it’s nature! I don’t have a problem with that. But the trash thing I can’t stand. And the most pathetic excuse is “well, everybody does it.” I think my blood pressure goes up 30% when I hear that. And I try to nicely explain that just because a lot of people do something does not make it okay, and most of all, if nobody did it, imagine how beautiful your country could be. And what a beautiful country you have, I say. But I am preaching to deaf ears, because there is no respect for the environment. They take what they can from the earth, because they are POOR and it is what they’ve been forced to do. And ingrained in that way of thinking, is that people come first, and the environment second. Survival is more important than natural resource, historical treasure, or preservation of any kind. And so, littering is as common and as eventful to the Vietnamese as brushing your teeth. Nothing to it.

Today the wind howled and blew and the knocking of bamboo reeds on Di 10’s balcony echoed in the wind. I ran over to the window to watch the effects on the SaiGon River, palm trees and tall bamboo swaying overhead. A cool sight to see, although it vanished nearly as quickly as it came. The sky is a bit temperamental of late. Rainy season is on it’s start. Every day for the last week and a half we’ve had thunderstorms in the middle of the day. A couple of days were actually grey all day entirely, which is not yet so common. Generally you get a storm, then some sunshine, and then a shower, and it checks and passes like that. There are two seasons in Vietnam – rainy season and sunny season. All year round it’s hot in the south. In the northern mountains, you get “VERY cold” weather – as low as about 40F in the winter months. Temperatures do drop a bit when it rains, which makes for many pleasant outings in the city.

Auntie is out now, and it’s Sunday evening so the other aunts and uncles will be coming over for dinner with Ngoai. Banh xeo – delicious hot mung bean “sizzle” cakes, made on a hot griddle and sprinkled with bean sprouts, veggies, and whole shrimps, and dipped in nuoc mam (if you’re southern) or peanut sauce (if you’re northern). It’s sooo good.

Sai Gon. May 17, 2001
Mike,
I think you're the only person who still reads the blogspot, as you're the only one who replies to any of it, and so, I will write them for you, and all other readers will plunge to from their receiver status to mere eavesdropper status. I've noticed lots of interesting things lately, but haven't had the time to organize my thoughts, so I will just haphazardly write about them here.

For one thing, there are vietnamese people who use a cart to wheel around a scale (the kind Americans usually keep in their bathrooms) with a little sign that says "health meter" and they go on pushing their scale through the streets wearing their conical hats of palm, and collecting a few hundred VND for every person they weigh. It's

May 19, 2001

That's as far as I got on the last blogspot message, and didn't even manage to send it. It's not that I'm bored of blogspot, but I am wondering if everyone else is.
I've also been really busy. Haven't had a day off for too long. Worked seven days last week (spent my weekend at the printer's, which is useless, by the way, since they print however they feel like printing after I sign off on a proof, which is why we have books with different colored covers), and then I spent all day today working on Di 10's menus for Dong Du Cafe. Menus, specials, signage, bags, the whole works (even though I know that printing any of it is ultimately going to be a chore, and the quality of printing will be the same as getting it done at Matrix, New York's Chinatown's worst printer).

Right now Di 10 is watching a Korean TV movie, dubbed in Vietnamese. Everyone in town earlier was talking about it. The funny thing about dubbing is that all characters have the same voice of one person. She is the voiceover for father, mother, child, friend, adultress, big boss, and whomever else is on the show. It's more like listening to a UN simultaneuos translator since you only get one voice and the sound from the original show is still heard. Not UN material, I don't think.

This morning we brought 200 cream puffs shaped into swans to Ba Tam's (great-aunt Tam) house for Trinh Cong Son's That Tuan commemoration. That Tuan (pronounced like "tuk twun") means "Seven Weeks" using the word that's borrowed from the Chinese language (rather than "bay" -- 7 in Vietnamese). It is the Buddhist ceremony that follows the death of a family member after 49 days. Trinh Cong Son is the famous Vietnamese composer that passed away on April 1. His younger sister is married to my paternal grandmother's cousin (though they are all younger than my parents), and I first heard of him when I went to his birthday party back in late February. The family members wear white gowns and have white cloth bands tied around their heads. Those who choose to, eat vegetarian during these 49 days because it is believed that the soul of your loved one is searching for its peace and berth in "heaven" and that during this period of time, you should not eat meat (killing animals and souls), and you should lead a most altruistic life (in helping your loved one find a good place with the gods). In the meantime, you say your Buddhist chant (of which I only remember the first line of "nam mo a di dai phat") daily. Mom says about 25 times a day should do it, minimum. You have to say the name of the person so that the spirits know which soul they're supposed to guide.

Most Vietnamese people think it is VERY VERY challenging to eat vegetarian and that you are making SUCH a sacrifice when you do it, and that you must REALLY have loved the person you lost to have done it. This is what I'm told when people find out I did it for my grandfather. I think it's a lot harder to do it in Vietnam because we eat nearly everything with fish sauce, and without fish sauce, who can eat vegetarian? And frankly, couscous and tabouleh are not widely available here.

The commemorative event basically entails a lot of people assembling at the home of the deceased where the family members are distinguished in white, and then each person present lights a stick of incense (one for the Buddha who gets 4 bows at his altar, and one for the deceased, who gets 3 bows at his altar), and then there's a lot of eating and socializing, and then everyone goes home. There was a professional team of 2 videotaping the event.

Now I've lost my train of thought; I'm watching "A Perferct Murder" bootlegged and sold with Vietnamese subtitles, so I'll send this and continue later.
H.

Sai Gon. May 11, 2001
Last night, I saw a man, who must’ve been no older than 35, perhaps only 30, who moved me more than almost any poor, disadvantaged, disabled person I’ve seen since being here. He travelled quietly down the street, not in rags, with a cane in his right hand, and a defining limp in both his legs. He faced forward, head up, eyes directed ahead, seemingly blind, and he moved in exact motions, step by step, inching towards his destination, if there was one. I don’t know what it was, but my eyes welled up. I couldn’t bear seeing him, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from him. I’ve seen, at the very least, hundreds of Vietnamese with a foot missing, a leg, sometimes both, an arm, sometimes two. I’ve seen the now-adult children who were born into wretched deformity from the chemical poisins that destroyed so many lives nearly three decades before. I have seen so very many poor, poor, poor people. And though I feel for all of them (which makes Vietnam a very difficult place for me to be), this man I saw made me want to know him, and I have no idea why.

Living where I live, and doing what I do, and eating the way I eat, it is sometimes a rude awakening as I think about how good I’ve got it. Ten fingers. Ten toes. Good health. Longevity. Heat. Air. People who bring me great joy. Food on the table and a roof over my head. I’ve always thought it so selfish of Americans who can’t seem to find a single good thing in their good life, and dredge on in their misery instead. How bad can it get, when you KNOW that someone out there has it far worse? I think, even as I lay dying on my deathbed, I’ll be having a good day. Why waste my last hours in sadness when I could be sharing jokes with friends over my last gin and tonic?

-----

May 11, 2001
While in Phan Thiet a couple of weeks ago, Linh (Chu Ngoc’s daughter) made an observation I don’t think I ever would have associated had she not said it. A German couple at the resort brought an assortment of mechanical puzzles. One was the size of Panang’s matchbook (about 1 cm square, 2 inches long, solid wood, with a small hole drilled down the center, parallel to the long side). A long tube that fit inside the hole drilled in the wooden block was attached to a triangular top. At the other end of the block, a portion of a rubberband stuck out of the bottom. The trick was to get the small notch at the end of the tube to hook with the rubberband that was inside the hole and to make the triangular tip snap back onto the block. I watched Chu Ngoc do it a few times. I took my turn. Couldn’t get it to work. Chu Thuong (Chu Ngoc’s associate) told me he fiddled for an hour before giving in to the Germans for the secret which he later passed on to Ngoc. Chu Ngoc’s wife, Co Oanh, took a stab. Then Linh took a turn. No avail. Chu Ngoc showed his wife how to line up the markings on the top and block, and to latch the rubberband by twisting and turning the triangle till it caught and then, fwwwing! I watched carefully. She tried again. Still, no elastic action. I took a turn. I had a revelation. Fwwwing! I cracked up, because the deception was a good one. I could barely re-demonstrate ‘cause my entire body was shaking with laughter. Linh and her mom kept trying, but gave in to share in the secret. See, there isn’t a rubberband at the bottom of the tube, even if they tell you there IS one and you can see with your own eyes that the other half of it is sticking out the bottom. It’s for show, as is the notch on the tube and the markings on the block. The TRICK is to pull the tube out of its home, pinch the triangle so it slides out of your fingers, and the top pops back into place, with all appearances of having been jerked back in by the unattainable rubberband.

Later in our room, Linh said to me, “you know, at first, I never did well in school because I always wanted to come up with my own answers for everything. If our teacher put a picture of a dog on the board, and showed us how to draw it, and then told our class to draw a dog, everyone would have to draw THAT dog. I would want to draw my own dog. You can’t draw another dog, because if you draw another dog, you get low marks. Your answer has to be the same as everyone elses and you have to learn to think like everybody or you won’t succeed in school. And everyone’s answer has to be the same as your teacher’s. So if my dad says that there is a rubberband at the bottom of the block, I have to believe it. It’s the way I’ve been taught to think.”

I think, “But that’s Vietnam’s communism rippling through your school system. It’s not what true communism is supposed to be about, but it’s the communism of this country.” I can’t say that, of course. It’s probably illegal, and besides, her family, all of whom I adore, were never Nationalists. So instead I say, “I see what you mean. In America, we’re encouraged to think for ourselves. [At least we were in the schools my friends and I attended and I unfortunately don’t think this is true of the entire U.S.] Independence and individuality are valued and prized in the States where in Vietnam, unity and harmony are more precious.”

I realized this years ago when dad told me how the French Catholic nuns in his prestigious school used to whack the back of his hands with a ruler when his handwriting differed from the other students. It still blows me away when I see people forcing VyVy (my boss’s 27 month-old) to use her right hand when she puts something into her left. I asked someone why Vietnamese still force southpaws to become right-dominated. She answered that it makes eating around the table more comfortable for everyone so no one knocks elbows. So I said “well, if that’s the reason, why don’t they just make everyone use their left hands?” Her eyes grew round like she’d never heard such an absurd thing and then laughed without an answer.

I continued with Linh that neither Individuality nor Unity is better or worse – that both have their virtues and both have their shortcomings. Our five day trip to Phan Thiet included a conversation about politics, which is very hard when my Vietnamese is only conversational, and Linh’s English long out of practice. We managed with two dictionaries by our side. It’s remarkable how politics develop inside people, how it grows in us. In the end, good people really just want what’s good for the most number of people, but everyone has their own idea about how to go about it.

Sai Gon. May 6, 2001
Phan Thiet was great; I met lots of people who are friends of Chu Ngoc, and we ate well, slept well, and had a beautiful view of the Pacific Ocean (have you ever seen the sun RISE on the Pacific?) from our third story (fourth by American standards) balcony. While at the beach, Linh (Chu Ngoc’s daughter) and I went for a walk on the beach where I explained how the world is turned around about 75 degrees. I showed her the big dipper, one of 2 constellations I can find with confidence. In Vietnam, it’s called “Bac Dau” which means in ancient Hoa language, “Northern Chair.” Why? Because it doesn’t look like a dipper from here, it looks like a chair! Tonight, Linh, her mom, and her brother came over to eat Banh Cang which is a specialty of Phan Thiet. Then we watched “The Saint,” candy for my American ears, and good for all in the room for learning English (watched it with American subtitles). Chu Ngoc called us from Phan Thiet (as manager of the Muine resort out there, he is out of town most of the week) to greet us while having dinner. I adore this family.

The other day I went to the post office to mail Mike a letter and met a most interesting and sweet italian family. The woman I met, Alexa, is Italian and just moved back to Rome to be with her parents. The gentleman I met with her lived on Sycamore in Arlington! Imagine, we’re all the way in Vietnam and he lives two miles away from mom and dad. Maybe he once went through dad’s grocery line even. Alexa seemed like someone I would have met before, and she reminded me of Lori (Nafshun). It’s too bad they were leaving Vietnam that day.

Last night Thanh and I went into town on the Honda and he drove me all through Sai Gon. There was a special concert commemorating Trinh Con Son (who passed away a few weeks ago, whose sister is married to my father’s uncle). The street in front of it was packed with Hondas, all there to freeload from the concert inside the chain link fence. Further ahead, Thanh drove me to another park where there was a play going on, again with a street full of Hondas viewing the comedy for free. We drove around and around for about an two hours before going home to get a good night’s sleep (so I could wake up in order to go get a facial with my aunts).

Summer is always here, but the flowers in front of Di 10’s house are now in full bloom, and even though I’m still always hot, I think I’m adjusting to the weather (in time to enjoy New York’s summer in July). It’s too bad I couldn’t find some nice guy to come explore Vietnam with me. I’m dying to go for a proper bike ride, and drafting behind some speedster would be fun for a change. Any takers? My palm reading aunt says I’ll make the man in my life rich. Cheers.
H.

Sai Gon, May 1, 2001
I’m back from a spontaneous five day trip to Phan Thiet so let me rewind a few days…

First message I want to deliver – Ki, DO NOT SEND THE GATORADE.

My dear thoughtful friend Mike sent me a package three weeks ago and was told it would arrive in VN in six days. It probably did. But I wasn’t notified until nearly 20 days later by a slip left at our house. All packages, large or small, must be picked up at the package office in the city. Thanh told me to be sure I bring my passport and proof of identity and the slip with me to pick up the package.

I arrived at the office where the officer at the door told me to go to desk #2. I get to desk #2 where I show my slip and am told to give it to the woman behind the other counter. She takes my slip, looks at my passport, asks me if I’m picking up the package for someone else. I tell her that I’m Hani and the name on my passport is my given name, so I pull out my Visa card which has my full Vietnamese name prefaced by “Hani”. She tells me to go to the the counter down that way, and buy a form. I buy a form for 3000 VND, which is in Vietnamese, go over to the tables where there is a sample filled out, copy the sample with my own information (who am I, where am I staying, what is my passport number, who and where is the package from, etc.). I fill it out, go back to the third person I had talked to. She takes my form, tells me to sit down and wait till my name is called. My name gets called, my package comes out, I sign a log book. I go back to desk #2 where there is a man sitting there with an exacto knife in hand. After asking me if I’m picking up the package for someone else (and I explain I’m really Hani), he rips open my package, empties it and finds: a two-page typed letter, a roll of double stick squares for photos, and a book. A BOOK! So he scribbles something on my form, signs it, gives it back to me, and tells me to take the book over to yet another counter. This is the CENSORING counter. All CDs, books, and other such items are censored here. The girl behind the counter picks up my new book, flips through the pages, browses the back, scribbles something new on my form, signs it, and tells me to go wait at the end of the room (this one actually speaks to me in English), and wait (while my passport and form are passed on to another desk). My passport and form are then signed by the man sitting behind that desk, he gives it to the desk next to him, the woman behind that desk stamps the form, and then lets it sit on her desk for 10 minutes. While I wait.

A stack of forms make it to the end of the room where a woman who stands in a plexiglass room announces the names on the forms on a microphone. Mine’s on top of the stack. She looks at the passport, moves it to the bottom, calls everybody else, and then I come up to get my passport and forms. As I leave the building, I am required to give the form to one more person sitting at the door who signs it, stamps it, and hands it back to me.

I walk out with my photo stickers and copy of Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet translated by Stephen Mitchell (whose Tao te Ching translation was gifted to me by Lisa). The book is moving, and I was first introduced to Rilke while reading Jack Kerouac’s letters. For Mike’s sake and mine, I’m glad the book is a great one because I don’t know if I want to go through all that again!

More about Phan Thiet later.
I’ve got some writing to do.

April 22, 2001.
Happy Birthday Nellie!
Sai Gon lately has been unbearably hot; even the locals can’t stand the heat. In other brief news, Chuong’s back from his trip to China, and because of our print deadline, I won’t make it to Bangkok (some other time) but may possibly take a quick trip to the beach at Phan Thiet/Mui Ne.

I’m adjusting further, and well, into life in Vietnam, but I think I hear New York calling. Recently, quite a lot of people have commented on the difference in my Vietnamese from when I first arrived, even the girl at the film developing shop. There is a noticeable difference in my fluency, though I still occasionally say things with the wrong tone (just yesterday I said “phan mem,” meant as “software” but instead I said “soft stool”), and my vocabulary is still limited. Natural language acquisition – learning to speak by what we hear – is not of good use here since the language of adults and elders is different than that of one’s equals and I cannot use the same vocabulary when speaking to others.

I’ve gotten used to eating on the streets here, though we bring our own disposable chopsticks with us for sanitary reasons. I have fallen into a relative routine (as I suppose we all do when we settle in somewhere) that generally involves drinking coffee in the morning, working about 8 hours, eating dinner out or at home, and then writing to all of you at home, and back into the next day. Weekends change slightly depending on whether I stay in town or not, but have been relatively mundane as of late (which is fine for a bit of rest). When I travel next should be when I have more to say about what I see. Till then, I hate to bother you with my daily details…

I am sending Souris more pictures of Hue, so go to her saigonsoldier site to have a look (give her a coupla days to get them posted).

Sai Gon. April 18, 2001
Last night I had a spectacular six course dinner at my aunt’s house with an Englishwoman, a Vietnamese couple from France, a Vietnamese woman, my aunt, and a true Parisian named Jacques. I love everyone I’ve ever met named Jack and I’m going to name my first son Jack. I’ll name my second son Jack, too. Since the Englishwoman, Vivien, spent the last 30 years in Switzerland, she’s fluent in French, and of course, all the Vietnamese people, and so I thus spent an evening recalling my long ago studied French. Jacques is altogether jolly and avuncular, loves food and wine and Vietnamese women, and is great company to be around. He also asked me if I was Sicilian.

This of course, can only be added to the countless times people have tried to guess my nationality (particularly here in Vietnam), but I think it’s second to “Are you Israeli” I got from my cousin’s Hebrew teacher while in Atlanta.

Tonight I go to meet Vivien at Dong Du Café with her friend who built and manages a hospice here for 25 children and about 20 – 30 invalids (from industrial accidents) as well. I’m looking forward to meeting her and having interesting conversation in English!

Our second issue of the guidebook is going to go to print soon and may interfere with my travel plans to Bangkok. My aunt who works for SaigonTourist has a special rate for me to go 6 days and 5 nights, includes airfare, hotel, breakfast, lunch, dinner, travel arrangements while in Thailand, and a trip to Pattaya from Bangkok for $275 USD all inclusive! I guess if I can’t go this time, there will be other opportunities. Other than Bangkok, there are not other real travel plans for at least another month.

Off to dinner. More later.

April 15, 2001. Sai Gon.
Much recovered from my bout of bad temper, particularly credited to Kaly’s letter and to yesterday’s activities in the house (that is, the recovery, and not the bad temper), and reading a good old english novel (_Sense & Sensibility_, in which I saw some of my lack of discretion in Marianne and my sister’s sense in Elinor), I now feel able to write again. Sitting in bed, listening to music and reading a novel easily takes me any where I wish to be in the world. The difference is that in Vietnam, I have someone come knocking at my door with my lunch, iced coffee, and freshly squeezed o.j. waiting for me.

Yesterday was the am lich (lunar calendar) date marking the first anniversary of my grandfather’s of having left us. There was a very very large affair at the house in which we each took our brief turn praying for him in his afterlife prior to having a very grand vegetarian luncheon. The commemorative event is called “dam gio” and Ong Ngoai’s was complete with paper money, paper shirt, cravate, sunglasses, comb, and other toiletries necessary to aide him in comfortable living in his afterlife. Of course, our family being one that values food far over material goods, he was sent with a plethora of real fruit and delectable dishes and the aforementioned paper goods and money (paper goods were later to be burned and food to be eaten).

Later in the evening, Di 10 showed some friends the pictures taken in his last few days with our family, which made me miss him all the more, but to be grateful that my grandmother is currently so settled and healthy and happy where she is.

There are a few things I’ve been meaning to mention for a while which I find simply amusing and entertaining. The first is the moon. You see, forever, the moon is one of my most favorite objects, as it follows me whereever I go. In Vietnam, however, my luna has decided to wear a different face. Rather than fattening up from left to right, the moon here fills from bottom up. It therefore begins not as a crescent set upright but as a grin set on its arc, increasingly filling up like a fishbowl would fill up with milk. As for other strange sightings, I can only say that my astronomy is dreadful, and that I only recognize Orion’s belt, and that I think the big dipper looks upside down from here if it is the big dipper at all.

Several hours later.
Abruptly interrupted by power failure, a rather frequent occurrence here, I’ve lost my train of thought to continue other observations further. I have at least to say that despite my previous fretful mood swing, it now appears that it was unbeknownst to everybody, particularly Di 10, who just earlier sent an email to my mom and dad telling them how especially well mannered and behaved and happy I am.

Thanh is the exception, who during my two-day low disposition, asked me several times if I was feeling unhappy or discontent and shared in my grief over my criticisms. Always thoughtful and observant, he is always conscious of my comfort and feelings here in Vietnam. It comes as a relief to have a friend like him here.

As further proof to myself that nobody really noticed my temper, at its absolute apex of frustration, I was to dine with Di 5, 9, 10, Uncle Tony, his wife, and Minh Thu (a friend of my aunts’). On Friday I met with my friend Minh Nhu, Minh Thu’s daughter, who told me with such cheer that her mother, upon arriving home from our shared dinner, raved to her about how much she had enjoyed my company and talking with me at dinner. So it is just to say that despite my unhappiness during those days, I am only glad that it was not an imposition on anyone here, as it remained mostly internal, emoted through my writing (as is the purpose of my habit and hobby of writing) on which you happen to be on the receiving end. So empathize no more, I’m back in good spirits. I write as I feel, as I have done for the better part of my 28 years, and forget that now I have an audience.

On to finish my book.

****I wrote this last Thursday, but blogger was down.****
April 12, 2001 Sai Gon.
Alright, everybody. I’m fine. I’m okay. I’m over it. I had about six consecutive good meals, enough caffeine to put me in withdrawal for weeks, self-contained personal space, and now I’m okay.

I will never ever get used to the way adults talk down to youth. It will always seem disrespectful to me (and I cannot tolerate disrespect). But it’s the way things are - it is a literal impossibilty for an adult to disrespect anyone younger as it is also implausible for an adult to be rude to anyone younger. By literally, I mean that this is apparent in their culture, but most evidently in their LANGUAGE.

For example: a junior person can not “teach” a senior person ANYTHING. That is to say, I can NEVER say “I taught Kiki to do so-and-so” as Kiki is my older sister. I also can not teach my parents anything, nor my aunts and uncles, or anyone who has higher rank. I can only “tell” them. The word “dai” (sp.?) which means “to teach” is GRAMMATICALLY INCORRECT if used to describe the action of a younger person teaching an older person anything. It can only be used to describe the opposite.

I am not allowed to tell an adult that they are impolite. The word for “rude” can only be used for children towards adults. It does not apply to adults. Again, it is grammatically incorrect. Being rude to a child does not exist. Of course, all of this disrespect for youth is ingrained in the Vietnamese language much the way I described (several weeks ago) how extensively respect for elders is integrated into the language. Vietnamese people think I’m imagining things when I tell them I have several close friends who are in their 40s, 50s, and 60s (this relationship can not exist here because I could never be equal to someone older).

I’m not allowed to say that my aunt is inconsiderate for being incessantly late. It’s disrespectful on my part and just absolutely not permitted (she’s allowed to be as late as she wants). In fact, I have no manners for saying so. Adults have every right to interrupt anyone younger while in mid-sentence. They also have every right to ignore you when you ask a question. They have the right to push you out of their way. They have the right to take and use your things without requesting or even acknowledging so. Adults even have the right to talk about you with their friends as if you are not sitting next to them. It’s the rudest experience I’ve been subjected to here, yet somehow, there is absolutely nothing extraordinary about this boorish behavior.

I tried to describe my frustration of this behavior with Thanh. He explained that this is how things are. That no matter what, an adult is ALWAYS right. That adults are allowed to treat children this way. That children are given few allowances, if any. I must remember to come back to Vietnam when I’m 95 so I can tell everyone what to do.

What really kicked all of this off, I think, is the invasion and violation I felt last week when two police officers came into our home at MIDNIGHT to investigate the paperwork for all those staying under this roof. When entering VN, you MUST indicate your place of stay. Once in the country, you have to go to several offices and get paperwork filled out explaining who you are, where you are staying, what your relation is to the person with whom you are staying, etc. If investigators come by and you lack the paperwork, you’re fined. And well, they can come any day they want, any time they want, as many times as they want. So they came into my room after midnight, checked all of my paperwork and that of all of the people who work for my aunt 10 (all the aunts happened to be out of town), and they even went into my grandmother’s room where the old lady was sleeping. Never fear, this would NOT happen if one is at a hotel or other sort of tourism gig. It’s reserved for nationals and expatriates.

So anyway. I can live here. I can let it go. Easiest of all is to just ignore the annoyances, move away from them, and move on. Of course, none of this indecorous behavior applies if you’re not asian. Westerners are fanatically loved and respected regardless of their age (I think this has something to do with height differences). Adults only feel entitled towards younger asians (my problem is that I forget that I’m asian, and a short one at that).

The end of the month is a holiday – April 30 and May 1. The first of May is Labor Day. The 30th of April… Well, all my life, I’ve only known it to be called “mat nuoc” or literally, “to lose-country.” Here in Vietnam it’s called “Liberation Day.”
I say “Get me to Bangkok.”
I’m hoping to go during the 4 day weekend.

This weekend will be a busy one since we will commemorate the one year anniversary of my Ong Ngoai’s (maternal grandfather) death. Though it fell on April 25 of last year, we commemorate based on the “am lich,” or lunar calendar. I think it falls on Sunday, so we’ll be having another large banquet in a couple of days. This year, there are two Aprils on the lunar calendar. I don’t know what this means in terms of commemorations.

Having been well fed by then, I shall send a brighter report. Till then, stop worrying, I’m totally okay. I eat ice cream almost every single day, sometimes twice.

P.S. Whoever keeps trying to MSN Messenger me, I can't respond. Messenger doesn't work in VN.

Sai Gon. April 8, 2001.
The problem with Vietnamese people is that for as much as they respect elders, they lack respect for youth. It drives me insane.

Perhaps I didn’t drink enough coffee this morning, but I’ve been unusually irritable today and am wishing I was back home. Homesick? I don’t really think so. What I’d really like is to get in my car and take a nice drive somewhere away from the noise and annoyance that current company brings.

At least some solace comes in the form of the only music I brought over on Minidisc – Italy’s Lucio Battisti or New York’s Redtime. As for the few CDs I actually brought with me, I leave those to maintain sanity in the office. It’s a trade-off – the people who work for me can’t stand my U2 and on the other hand, how much George Michael, Kenny G, and Vietnamese Pop can one tolerate? (My patience is running low.)

I am beginning to consider living alone, buying myself a Honda, and reclaiming my independence. I would rather die driving a motorbike in Sai Gon than live in fear of an accident, which is what my aunts and mother (and perhaps Eileen if you only knew) have decided would happen to me if I drive here. Good motorbikes only cost about $500. Li? Yes. What does that mean? Well, in Vietnamese, “li” has several meanings – audacious, insolent, courageous and intrepid (often paired as gan li). It can sometimes carry a negative connotation here (when meant as audacious or insolent). I happen to be accused of it quite often and PROUD OF IT. I am SICK, SICK, SICK of not being mobile.

Another generalization in cultural character: for the most part, ordinary people here lack education and educated people lack intellect. So maybe they don’t. Maybe it’s the language barrier I have that impedes any sort of intellectual conversation. Maybe it’s my foul mood that chooses this occasion to write about it. Maybe it’s really because I can’t speak Vietnamese worth a dime to have an intelligent conversation. Or maybe it’s the people who have besieged my existence here in VN. If I hear “do you have family” one more time, or “guess how old she is,” I might hither onto someone’s shoes. Or I might say “mind your own goddamn business.”

Then, of course, I’d get accused of being li again.

So instead, I listen to Italian lessons on Minidisc, read the Vietnamese dictionary, Jack Kerouac’s letters, my anti-communist travel guide by Fodor’s, and Roget’s thesaurus. Please send consolation letters to hanihong@hotmail.com.

As I’ve been telling just about anyone I’ve been writing, I’m mad for a steak and cheese sandwich from 2 Chefs! Beef is not very good here – I miss hamburgers and hot dogs, too, but chicken is organic and free range. I suppose it’s a positive flip side to being a poor country – agriculture hasn’t quite caught up with technology and chemicals.

I’m taking a cab home from work today. I’m getting sick of being dependent on others to get around town. I spend endless hours waiting around sometimes, it’s an incredible inconvenience, and not being able to do and go as I please drives me crazy.

Work is good. I got paid some USD and some VND. My VND wad is about 3 inches thick. It’s easy to feel rich here, even when I’m making less now than I did at age 13, fifteen years ago. Of course, I made less than I did at age 13 when I lived in NY, and considering the cost of living difference between NYC and Sai Gon, I’m in a pretty good place.

At work, I have 2 superiors who are flexible and great, I’m in a relatively autonomous position, and I have 2 people who help me get my work done. Soon we’re going to make greeting cards – design, write, and draw – which will be fun. Greeting Card Creator is one of the jobs I have on my “List of Jobs to have in my Lifetime” list. I have for years kept a list of jobs I’d like to have one day. Of course, these cards will be written in Vietnamese, so I won’t be of much help in the copywriting department. Maybe one day I’ll fulfill my “Toy Engineer” job wish.

Homeward bound. I’m starving.

Tuesday, April 3, 2001. Sai Gon VN
A bit of history to preface my journal entry from Hue:
From 1802 to 1945, 13 emperors of the Nguyen Dynasty ruled from within the citadel of the Imperial City which stretch over 1200 acres. Inside the citadel lies the Forbidden Purple City, 22 acres, and surrounded by another square of walls with four entrances. The Imperial City was built between 1802 and 1833 following the rules of geomancy; its back faced the mountains and its front faced the sea. It is bordered by a moat, and its destruction began in 1947 by fire and razed further in 1968 during the Tet offensive.

The outer city of Hue has a population of around 300,000 (about the size of Arlington); its denizens dine on imperial cuisine and represent Hue as a center for learning. I never made it to the Museum of Royal Fine Arts, nor did I get to the Dong Ba Market in the outer city. I didn’t even get to take a dragon boat ride. With 3 days to spend in Hue, of which a day would be dedicated to Chuong’s paternal side of the family (we are related through my father and his mother, who is my first cousin), my time was limited.

Friday, March 30, 2001. Hue, Vietnam. 10:35 p.m.
I can’t even begin to describe how I feel being in Hue. The sensation I felt stepping off the plane when I first arrived in Vietnam in February is only magnified with my arrival in Hue, much the way a camera would zoom in to magnify its subject – the detail and vividness of color, the magnification of feeling and sensation.

Vietnam is my homeland. Sai Gon is where I was born. But Hue. Hue runs through my veins. Hue was where dad was born. Phan Thiet, which I just visited a few weeks ago, is where mom is from. The difference? Aside from being two completely different cities in terms of demographics, geography, language, and geology, Hue makes me feel as if I am meeting myself for the first time. I consider myself to be a relatively self aware and introspective person. But all my life – and that of my siblings – we have been exposed to the Nam way of life – the South Vietnamese way of life. By this, I mean that we have grown up immersed in my mother’s life and family – I know all her 9 siblings, my 21 maternal first cousins, second cousins, raised nearby my maternal grandparents, and grew up speaking tien Nam, the southern dialect. Going to Phan Thiet was a wonderful experience – seeing mom’s elementary school, her home, her town. Going to Phan Thiet was an extension of the Vietnamese culture I already knew. In fact, it was so familiar that I felt completely at home in Phan Thiet.

I am an American. A Vietnamese American. By American, I need not explain. By Vietnamese, I defined myself as the world I knew of my Vietnamese culture – my South Vietnamese half. My Phan Thiet half.

Arriving in Hue, I have now just discovered my other half. I have just opened my eyes to a part of me that I have never seen before. Simultaneously foreign yet intimate. I feel a connection so deep with Hue – a deep love for Hue. It’s as if I have just met my father – I have just envisioned his life for the very first time. I have just met my other half. And goddamn, I like it.

Hue is the last Imperial City. Much of it irrevocably destroyed by war. It lies in central Vietnam, the Demarcation Zone nearby. It is peppered with my relatives, some of whom I met today. Hong Du Duc, my father’s third cousin, and the youngest of the Du/Giu generation, stopped in while I was paying a visit to my cousin, Chi Hy (whose late husband is Hong Khac Thieu). Chi Hy brought out a booklet to share with me – it is the Hope Diamond in my geographic and genealogic treasure chest – a record of the Hong family line in relation to the Nguyen dynasty of Vietnam. It’s in Vietnamese, but Chu (uncle) Duc tried to explain as much of it as he could with me. Unfortunately, the natives of Hue speak with a thick accent and my Vietnamese is far from good enough to understand everything – I sat wishing I had my MD recorder.

Long, Chi Hy’s youngest of 3 sons, will make a copy for me to bring home where I will have dad translate. Dad’s brother (my uncle) who shares the same name as Long’s father (my first cousin), Hong Du Thieu (my uncle), was part of the South Vietnamese airborne troops. On his day off duty, he happened upon his unit, preparing for a mission. He made a fatal decision to join them that day. My cousin, Hong Khac Thieu, was involved in the war as well. Incarcerated while Chi Hy was 2 months pregnant with Long, Long never really got to know his father. Anh Thieu was released when Long was 14. When he was 15, his father died. These are only a few tidbits I have collected from being here. In time, I hope to discover more. I am so incredibly moved to be here, I can not describe how I feel.

Saturday, 1 April 2001. Hue, VN
Early this morning, Chuong and I walked around the Forbidden Purple city – I photographed all of the gates into the city. Tomorrow morning we’ll go inside.

We then went over to Chi Hy’s to meet up with relatives (Long, and his brother Phat and Chu Duc) and went to the Hong nha tho (shrine) nearby, cared for by a distant cousin of my father’s, Co Phu. Again moved beyond words, I surveyed each of the red and gold wooden shrines within the nha tho structure, one for each branch of the Hong family lines. I examined further the embellished gold tablets with Hoa lettering (Chinese characters), that hung overhead – gifts from the Emperor to my grandfather. From the Hong nha tho, we all piled in the car and headed for the mountains, the burial grounds of my ancestors. It is protocol to visit the burial grounds regularly in remembrance of our ancestors, for whom we pray, and for which these prayers are symbolized by the incense we light & leave for them. At least that’s what I think the incense is for. I went to see my great-great grandfather’s grave (the first of the Hongs who came to Vietnam from China) and in front of which lay multiple other graves of ancestors remains that were moved from another site in the 1980’s. Next to this, was another set of graves. My grandfather, Hong Quang Dich, 1888-1949. His first wife, 1888-1930 (her first name does not appear on the headstone, but instead it reads “Mrs. Hong Quang Dich). My grandmother, Nguyen Thi Tu Anh, d.1933 (though that is what is carved into stone, I think it might be wrong). Northerners have a way of putting the name of the eldest son of the dead upon their tombstones. Therefore, on my grandfather’s was etched Hong Du Chau, my dad’s eldest brother (first son of the first wife). The shock was in seeing dad’s name (spelled differently, Hong Du Chuong) engraved upon my grandmother’s stone. I got over this, paid my respects to each of my grandparents, took photographs both for dad and for chronicling purposes, and then we all got back in the car to go back to town.

The rest of the day was, gratefully, much lighter. Long, Phat, Chi Hy, Chuong, and I went to a local eatery for banh beo, banh nam, banh loc, and banh khoai, all foods that are original to Hue. Five of us ate plenty for 62,000 VND (four dollars and change), and headed for Lang Co, a resort town and beach that face the Marble Mountains. We spent a few hours by the beach relaxing (just what I needed to help restore my mind), then back to the city by evening for a brilliant imperial dinner, to a special island whose soil is exceptional for corn crops, and had che bap (a sweetened corn gelee) for dessert. We went by the river to finish our evening with coffee, which ended sooner than expected because of my loud complaints of mosquito bites. Chuong and I drove around the citadel for just a little bit before going back to the hotel (he rented a motorbike for $5/day). The weather was perfect (for once it was cool in Vietnam), and the Ngo Mon Gate (Noon Gate, the main entrance to the Forbidden Purple City) was lit up beautifully.

Tuesday, April 3, 2001. Sai Gon VN.
Since I didn’t have the chance to finish writing about my trip to Hue from Hue, I’ll finish it off here. I spent Sunday morning inside the Forbidden Purple City alone. Entering the grandiose Ngo Mon Gate, I faced the Thai Hoa Palace (Palace of Supreme Harmony) beyond the two lotus ponds. Lined up along both sides of the path leading to the Thai Hoa Palace are two rows of stelae, each marked in Chinese/Hoa lettering, at which the Military Mandarins and Civilian Mandarins would stand. The emperor received delegations and presided over major ceremonies from his throne inside the Thai Hoa Palace. Since the emperor faces the audience, per se, the Military Mandarins would stand stage right, and Civilian Mandarins stage left, in order of rank. My grandfather stood at the second stela along the line of Civilian Mandarins. I stood there and touched the stone where he once stood, where he faced the Emperor, where he worked, where he lived. For the umpteenth time in Hue, I swallowed the lump in my throat. How strange that it is only two generations ago that this place was graced with landscaping divine and resplendent architectural beauties. This is where my father’s father lived. I can’t believe it sometimes. Of the 300 edifices that once stood in Hue, only about 80 remain, of which many are in desperate need of renovations.

I further explored the city within the city, passed through pavilions and temples, and the Cuu Dinh (the Nine Dynastic urns), bronze masterpieces weighing 3500-5700 pounds each, set in relief, cast in 1835-1837, and dedicated to different emperors.

After two and a half hours of wandering, I met up with Phat who took me to Chuong’s relatives, where we all met so that six of us could go see the Long An vs. Hue soccer game. Like in every other country in the world, except America, soccer is second to none. Long An ranks first in the country, Hue last. Always a fan for the underdog (and after all, my bloodland), we all rooted for Hue. Long An has the country’s star – the Michael Jordan of Vietnam – and we were in for a tough game. Within just the first few minutes, Hue scores! Several minutes later, another goal for Hue! I thought (hey, which team is in red? Us or them?). In the second half, though, Long An came back and scored 3 in a row. We were doomed. In the final minutes, an unlikely goal for Hue! Tied, we were thrilled. Then just five minutes later, another fortuitous goal for Hue! All we needed was for the clock to run down… it did, and 20,000 spectators (crammed in a space meant for thousands less) hooted and hollered. I love live sports.

After dinner back at Chuong’s great uncle’s house (who happened to be the engineer behind the Ho Chi Minh Trail and whose son was a decorated Communist General), we went back inside the Forbidden Purple City where there was a special evening of song and dance. I sat in my chair, propped my legs up, and fell asleep by the second number.

By the next morning, we flew back to Sai Gon, where I napped from noon to night, and then slept through to Tuesday. My first trip to Hue was complete, and thanks to Chuong, I was able to experience and understand so much of where I come from, and what I’m made of. For that, I am incredibly grateful, for I could not have gained so much in so little time without him.

Just got off the phone with both Chu Ngoc and Linh, his daughter. I had called him earlier in the evening to say hello, and he said he was sitting at the very table where I had a drink with him last week. I said that I'll have to go out and buy a bottle of gin so that when I call him, I can pour myself a drink and he can sit at his bar, and we can have a drink together.

Chu Ngoc asked if I had called his house yet (he gave me his home number last Friday so I could contact his family) but I didn't have the chance. After getting off the phone with him, I tried, but the line was busy. Then he called me a couple of hours later on my phone to see if I'd called. I told him I had tried, I just called again, and spoke to his daughter Linh. Very sweet. Chu Ngoc is really enthusiastic about me meeting his family. I suppose our affinity for each other is mutual. I told Linh that her dad will probably call her one more time this evening to check that I had called, and she laughed and told me he said good things about me, but one word caught me. She said he said I was "deu dang" (I have no idea how to spell it), but I think it means gentle. And the funny thing is, all I could remember is telling him how when Vietnamese people say "fax" it sounds like "fuck" (which I also translated for him in Vietnamese). Not very gentlewomanly. Hey, I'm whatyousee is whatyouget.

I think I’ve reached my threshold for consuming Vietnamese food. Who would’ve thought it? It’s a good thing for me that Dong Du Cafe has Italian fare – fresh homemade pasta, and really great pizza. The only problem is that I don’t get there often enough. I’m beginning to think in terms of VND – is that good or bad? Somehow, the $24,000VND roundtrip cabfare to Dong Du at lunchtime doesn’t seem worth it ($1.70USD). And the people at work think I’m extravagant because I eat there fairly often – a few times a week. Daily specials (main course, salad, iced tea) cost about $38000VND ($2.50). The people I work with eat for about 50 cents a day at lunchtime. One meal at Dong Du is a week’s worth of lunch.

Is this perspective enough for poverty? It’s actually not poverty – one can eat relatively well for a dollar a day. If you consider that medical doctors make $100USD a month, then working at Nike for $2.50 a day does not seem so bad, does it? If you figure the wages of a regularly salaried employee (in a restaurant) of $50-60 USD/month, 7 days a week with 2 days off, that person makes about $1.70 a day. The people who work in offices make about $200-300/month (they make so much more because they are college educated and not employed by the State like doctors are). They work 6 days a week, just over $11 a DAY on the high end of the scale. Puts exploitation of labor in a different light, I guess. We should be thanking foreign companies for the employment they bring.

Tomorrow Thanh comes back to the city. I’m going to ask him to take me riding on the Honda after work – it’s what people do here. Rainy season has just begun, though. For the last 3 days it has thunderstormed in the afternoons, even if only briefly. Soon we’ll be getting rain ‘round the clock.

Day after tomorrow I leave for Hue early in the morning with Chuong. I won’t be able to write again until early next week, but I’m sure I’ll have much to tell, especially about my Hong origins. Chuong told me that he walked into a temple in Hue many years ago. The keeper took one look at him, asked if he was the grandchild of Hong Giu Chau (dad’s brother), and pretty soon, the whole town came out to greet him.

Have you gone to see the pictures I sent Souris for her saigon soldier site? I sent more yesterday.

Souris just posted some pictures to saigon soldier, her site if you want a quick view. I'll be sending her more pictures today as I'm able.

Sai Gon. March 26, 2001. I just wrote an entire page and a half long single-spaced typed letter to mom in Vietnamese. How cool is that, huh? I had no idea I knew how, nor did I know that I could read so well when I received mom’s email today (I thought, oh, man, she wrote a LOT). But then I read it and understood 99% of it, and was able to write back (hoping she can understand my writing). I suppose that is the benefit of a phonetic language – the ease of reading and writing. The problem is that I pronounce everything incorrectly and thus spell the way I pronounce.

I have just discovered from Mom’s letter that the people I met at Vung Tau, Mr. Bang, is the uncle of Mai Lien, the woman whose home I stayed in both times I visited Paris. Very unexpected connection!

Today Chu Mung, who works for my aunt, drove me to work & picked me up. He takes me when Thanh is off duty (2x/month). I realized suddenly, this afternoon, that my ride home would be a wet one, since it was raining out side and we didn’t have anything but the shirt on our backs to shelter us from the rain. Luckily, it was ony a light rain (huge drops, but few of them). I don’t think drizzling actually occurs here. There are two seasons – sunny season and rainy season. I think we’re beginning to enter rainy season.

FYI, family, Di 10 is in town and Cau Nhan (they both went up to Ohio to visit CauMo Tu). If you want to send anything to me, ask Cau Nhan (they return on April 5). Ciao.

Sai Gon, March 25, 2001.
Last Friday night, I got in touch with Chuong and I went to meet him at his tennis courts with his friends. There, I met two sons of one of my cousins who just passed away two weeks ago. I suppose children of first cousins are called first cousins once removed? Does anybody really know (if you do, please tell me)? My cousin, Hong Khac Dao, was a renowned film producer here in Vietnam, and someone who was immensly caring and altruistic, and I am so sorry that I never got the chance to meet him. Chuong was very close to him and reminisced with me for a short while. Said he’s not like any Hong I’ll ever meet. I don’t know if Chuong remembers Souris very well.

Spur of the moment, I went to Vung Tau on Saturday morning for an overnight trip to the beach with Chuong and his friend Khanh. To get there, we went by high speed boat – a sort of capsule that can carry around 100 – 120 passengers. Vung Tau is a nice little peninsula that is accessible by boat or road. It costs $130,000VND round trip (less than $10USD).

When we got there, I met Bac Bang, his wife, their four children (Hung, Chi, Thuy, & Do), grammy, and other friends of theirs in their hundred-year-old house. Hung was an old school friend of Chuong’s, and as it turns out, the father (Bac Bang) used to play cards with my dad. Dad used to fly them into Sai Gon from Bien Thuy (or something like that; it lies between Phan Thiet and Sai Gon) to play cards. Flying was safer than the relatively short ride because the roads were far too dangerous to travel back then. Mrs. Bang showed me a metal swivel office chair that dad had given them – four of them, she said. They still have 2 and the 3rd and 4th were given to Dr. Vien (someone who also knew dad, I think) and someone else (both of which were now lost, she explained). She mentioned something about Tableaux Noire – perhaps the place they used to go play? Very very very nice people, so hospitable, and kept us well fed. And they send their regards to dad.

We spent some time at their home, went to the beach, and I took a walk with Khanh to Bach Dinh (aka Villa Blanche or White Palace) where the old king used as a holiday home for his family. Standing up on the hill upon which it lay, I could look down at the Su trees (whose yellow flowers have a sweet aroma), onto the beach highway (reminiscent of Nice), and watched the sun set on the Pacific. Khanh and I then headed to a small beachfront cafe where we ordered ice cream. “What flavors have you got?” we asked. “Fruit, cacao, and coffee.” I ordered coffee ice cream and Khanh ordered chocolate. Out came two servings of coconut ice cream. Coconut? Yes. One topped with chocolate and the other topped with coffee.

We headed back to the tennis courts where Hung and Chuong and others were playing. A man we met briefly before our walk, Mr. Chi, a youthful 60-year-old who played tennis with Chuong, offered to let us stay in his home instead of at the hotel. We accepted, and went to drop our things off in his home. (Is this safe in America?) Chu (Mr.) Chi, the boys, and I all headed to a sports bar to watch the Czech vs. Ireland soccer game commentated in Vietnamese. The guy kept saying ICEland instead of IREland. A quarter of the way through, Thuy asked me if I understood the game – I thought, “I’m not exercising my eyeballs,” but I said “not the commentary, but I’m following.” (I am only amused by this and mean it not as a put down in any way whatsoever. This disclaimer is placed here for the future possibility that some Vietnamese person might one day read this and may not catch the Americanism of the tone). At halftime, we went to another cafe/sports bar owned by friends of Hung’s and watched the rest of the game – no commentary, just karaoke in the background. Imagine watching a soccer game with Power of Love (by Celine Dion) sung by a Vietnamese in lieu of commentary. Mr. Chi and I went home and the boys went out late enough to then catch the Romania – Italy game at 2:30 a.m. I got up at 5:30, cabbed to Mrs. Bang’s at 6:00, went bicycling with her to the beach, swam a few laps, biked all over Vung Tau with Khanh, ate and then ate again, and then caught our boat back to the city. So here I am.
Good night and good morning… H.

Sai Gon. March 22, 2001.

I finally have a moment to sit and write in peace. Last Friday morning at about 5 a.m., mom, di (aunt) 5, di 9, and I all piled into di 10's car and headed to Phan Thiet, their hometown. At our stop off the Pacific Coast Highway -- Highway 1 (and an adventurous trip) -- we pulled up to mom's old house (her first home) that was built and designed by ong ngoai (grampa). She and di 9 kept saying, "it's sooooo small! I remember it being so large!
And "Here's the window where we'd watch the neighbors argue."
"Here's the wall where I used to wipe my face and hands."
"Here's the spot where aunt 5 electrically shocked herself."
"This is the railing we used to slide down. It's sooooo short! I remember it being soooo long!" etc.
Then we went to Mui Ne resort, the really beautiful and great spot on the beach where we would stay for the weekend.

Friday afternoon we went to a restaurant down the street and ate freshly caught everything (nothing twitched this time). There is a special delicacy -- fresh cuttlefish half sun-dried and half grilled, torn into strips and dipped in tuong ot (Vietnamese tobasco). It's delicious. Afterwards, we went to visit the Cham temple. The Cham are the aborigines of Vietnam whose culture and people were virtually annihilated centuries ago by the Vietnamese. Legend says that the queen of the Cham people committed suicide by jumping off the cliff where the temple stands, by the ocean.

Departing the Cham temple, we encountered three children and their herd of very large pigs, so Thanh stopped the car, mom, di 9 and I hopped out, and borrowed the herders' staffs to pose for some silly pictures. No one knows how to use my Nikon, as it is a manual, so every picture of me that is not pre-focused by me (or a self-timered portrait) comes out looking like the way I see without my contacts on. From the pigs, we went to visit various friends and relatives of mom and di 5's. Every time I saw a cattle powered cart, I'd ask Thanh if they were oxen. He kept saying they're cows but I said they didn't have black and white spots. He said those are milking cows and these are cattle. But finally we saw two oxen on the side of the road so we pulled over and the cute old thing posed twice for me. Bovinity divinity. Off to Mr. Hai's house, friend of aunt 5's, who owns a field of thanh long cacti -- the plants I mentioned with the gorgeous pink pod fruit. I got a few pictures of those, too.

Finally, back to the resort where I took a walk with mom on the beach, then over to the pool to get di 5 & 9 to go to dinner. While waiting for them, I proofread the pool rules in English. Off again to dinner at another restaurant in town, and then had a most fantastic ice cream bar -- dau xanh -- which is a sweet green bean ice cream with a coconut ice cream outer shell (much like a creamsicle). Then back to the hotel where mom and I ran into the resort manager (and I informed him of the pool rule typos).

Next day, Saturday, up at 5:30 to get to the Phan Thiet sand dunes early. There are these huge red sand dunes in Phan Thiet that go on and on with the beach on one side, and more sand on the other (I did not venture far enough to see where it ended). Tens of children who are too poor to afford school follow tourists to help them up the dunes. At one particular spot, the sand formed a crater. At the top from which we stood, they would take plastic grocery bags and slide down the sand -- the same way we slide down trash can lids and sleds on snow, which these kids will never see in their lifetimes. Di 5 and 9 both took a ride, and the little kids ran down into the craters to help the old aunties up. Mom bought them breakfast and lunch and di 5 gave them extra cash.

Quick break back at the resort; the executive assistant whom I'd briefly met the previous day dashed up to me to tell me one by one, each of the errors on the pool rules and regulations he had discovered to have fixed.

Onward to Hai Dan, ke ga, the century old lighthouse, one of four remaining lighthouses in the world still hand lit by gas every evening. A harrowing mess it was to get there on dirt roads through salt fields (very cool to see), rice fields, and small villages, having to unload the car twice to push the minivan out of trouble. Two hours later, arriving at the beach spot from which we could view the lighthouse, Thanh, the most relieved of us all, discovered that a brand new paved road had just been finished ten days before that we could take on the way out. From the beach, we hired a small boat with a powered engine to get to the lighthouse, which sat on an island. To get on the boat, we were paddled over on six-foot wide baskets called thung, woven and then tarred for waterproofing. Up to seven people can surprisingly sit in one little thung. The trees around the island are beautiful and have a sweet scented white and yellow flower that mom says is renowned in Hue. Back on the mainland, our ride out on the new road was only 40 minutes and absolutely stunning, running alongside the beach.

Finally, back to the beach where I read one letter by Jack Kerouac to his dear friend Sebastian Sampas before losing the light and encountering Mr. Ngoc again, the resort manager. Mom went off to find her sisters, and I headed to the bar for a gin and tonic. I find Mr. Ngoc very endearing. Soft spoken and cheerful, he's a gentleman whose company I really enjoy. He discovered that I'm the same age as his son and that we are all three oxen, only I was born around 2 p.m., a time of rest for ox, and Mr. Ngoc was born at 5 a.m., a time of arduous work for the ox (which is supposedly reflective of our lives -- mine full of rest and his of much labor). He told me how his mother apologized to him for bearing him at that hour.

Sunday morning we went to Ong 10's (great uncle's) for brunch, then headed home and pit stopped at Thanh's house which lies about halfway between Phan Thiet and Sai Gon. I met his four darling children and his sweet wife who sent us home with mit (jackfruit) the size of watermelons, cashew fruit (from which the nut lies on the outside) and avocados grown in the neighbor's yard.

Sunday evening, we had dinner at Chu Minh's (uncle Minh, dad's younger brother) where I met four of my first cousins for the first time, and was reunited after 18 years with my first cousin once removed (? - my cousin's son) named Chuong, same as my dad. Chuong not only shares dad's name, he shares his looks. He has a son who I'm told by mom, is also dad's mirror image. The resemblance is uncanny, especially because Chuong's son and dad only mathematically share about 6% of the same genes (Chuong's grandfather, my uncle Chau, is only dad's half-brother). So this lineage of men all look like my grandfather. Next Friday, the 30th, I go to Hue with Chuong for a few days. He's fortunately done mass amounts of genealogy homework and has discovered much about where my grandfather worked, who we are, and where dad was born. It'll be an enlightening and edifying trip that I'm looking forward to. Chuong talks about dad so vividly, having been born in '55, he remembers dad's glory years, about how dad was his idol, how dad used to take him along to bring flowers over to a girlfriend's house, and all sorts of anecdotal memories. It fills so many holes in my personal and familial history.

That was my weekend, and luckily there is nothing to tell of my week, except that mom went back to the USA on Wednesday so I'm officially on my own.

Keep writing. H.

Thursday night; 8:55PM March 15, 2001.
Sai Gon. Tonight a Vietnamese painter (from Stockholm) came by to paint Co Vy’s picture – Co Vy is my youngest uncle’s wife. It’s really fascinating to watch portraiture painting. The aunts and artist are all downstairs eating banh xeo, one of my favorite Vietnamese dishes. Xeo means “sizzle” and it’s a mung bean pancake that is filled with bean sprouts, mung beans, shrimp, onions and lots of other good veggies. I already ate my fill, and went off to pack for tomorrow – I get to go to Phan Thiet with mom and two aunts, to their hometown. It’s by the beach and there are red sand dunes out there. I’m hoping I’ll be able to wake up at 5 a.m. to get some good pictures. We’ll be there for three days (until Sunday afternoon), and I’ll try to scan in a few good shots to share.

Work has been incredibly busy, but we went to print and the books came out tonight. The printers did a lousy job, there are a million errors, but that is what happens when 50% of the book is rearranged two days after deadline, and the printers are only given 4 days to produce an 80 page book. Is there really enough time for the ink to dry?

There is a knocking outside the window. It’s the sound of mi go – knocking noodles. There are kids who walk around neighborhoods knocking a wooden stick to a bowl of some sort – with a very distinct tone – and they go on until someone pulls them aside or hollers at them to fetch a bowl of noodles. They take off in the direction they came and come back with a hot bowl for the buyer. I think it costs around $2000VND (12 cents) for a bowl of mi go.

I’m all right; everything is good, I’ve got cash in my pocket and food in my tummy. I leave for the beach tomorrow. Is there anything else a girl really needs?