I'm Rounding A Bend.

Here is a series of videos in which I rehearse the lines I've just said. THANKS MOM AND DAD for the Iphone. the me-tele. the efficientandstreamlinedandnon-excessiveyetlavish fone. ifone. if one. if one were to... oh dear!


AND having said this, I eat my words. Apparently, the Iphone 4 is not compatible with my old mac. I will solve it I will solve it. Until then, may the suspense smolder!

I will instead leave you with an image. And that is the lock store across the busy street from my alley. Early every morning, perhaps be around 6 or even a darker hour, some unusually muscled Viet storekeeping-loyals must turn a key to a lock or a few locks and with a hard upward shove collapse the metal fence of the lock box establishment. In this brave motion, the physical vigor of which they no doubt enjoy, these folks unveil a rubic of heavy metal cubes intending to house your most attractive and universally valuable owns. Then,one by one, they must escort each throwned royal of an inanimate onto the skirt of sidewalk in front for a formidable presentation of potential service to the casual walker or focused lock-box seeker. This is where I come in (casual walker). At the earliest around 7, which these days isn't as likely, so usually after 9, I can be spotted tracing the length of the red (gray) carpet of my uneven concrete alley to the coffee lady, where I catch a view at the end of my nose of the faces of these fearful promisers, the lock boxes. The round black dials can't help but remind me of the snobby doorknob of Alice's wonderland. And I suppose it is a classy number to possess, a lock box, as, of course, who would own a thing of such weight and domineering stance, without exquisite importance to uphold. I would love to get one and keep my baby teeth and birthday cards in there, along with some seriously confessional journal entries. And then temptingly drop the key at a neighbor's door with convenient directions. Of course, upon further thought, I realize this may be too involved as I'd have to hire labor to translate said entries and directions into Vietnamese for any true understanding in the trespasser.

Sat - is - fac - shun

Fair followers three and other undocumented glancers, at last I turn my eye to the computery glare and my fingers to the silvery dance floor of this senile and sage former addict of a machine, the Powerbook G4. Hello! It has been quite the journey since last I typed. And, along the way, all the pressure of uploading winning pictures vanished in the night, along with the camera itself, my iphone, my passport and a very convenient across-the-shoulder travel bag. Alas. And yet, my person is intact, my mind's had time to heal, and I have moved myself and remaining belongings to much finer, tighter-windowed accommodations. My new street, right in the heart of the downtown district, is called Vo Van Tan. Of course, accents omitted, this name bears no resemblance to any Saigon street in the ears of the Vietnamese.

While I have not come so very far in my Vietnamese language skill, I can feel the effect of my exposure to it. The rhythm of the language, the notes one should strike for high, middle and low soundings, the accompanying facial expressions -- all lay upon me like the gift of a plastic rain drape before downpour. It also has helped to have a partner-in-crime for the past couple of months who speaks Vietnamese and loves to travel map-less. "Sin loi, anh. Anh biet ho boi (swimming pool) cho nao?"... "Sin loi, chi. Chi biet ho boi cho nao?" ..."Sin loi, ba. ho boi o dao?"... Anyhow, while formal Vietnamese classes have not yet begun, I can pronounce simple things correctly - and can utter my own street name, praise a bat.

A moot point, however, the days of dealing directions to drivers long behind me. I'm now a pro, of course, on the motorbike, careening up and down and (one way, again!?) down and up and (sin loi, chi!) to the side of streets, back to middle, and over the many bridges of the sweet, now sweetly weepy (rainy season), city of Saigon. And, mentioning the rain, I should give it thanks for my attendance here and for the new focus I find - the rain, perhaps, and the disappearance of most of my work hours (students off for a summer break) and of my aforementioned sweetheart (back to Europe).

The new place is dreamy. The top floor, which I inhabit while my dear riot of a friend Holly visits home in the states, is checkered like a chess board, black & white, sparkling bright (maid comes weekly). The tidy spot has walls of pure white, an anomaly in Vietnam, anyone who sees this will tell you. The house contains precisely what one needs to be comfortable. Clean open space, plenty of light, a bathroom per floor, a cozy kitchen, a desk and a bed in each of two bedrooms and a good lot of fans (myself included!) --> Cheesy, I know. But the thing is: cheese is hard to find in Vietnam. And the milk is terrible, waxy, you know. So I've got to make my own cheese-i-ness and milk it for all its worth.

More on food: Over the few months or so, I've turned vegetarian (again) and have discovered a whole new world of eats in Saigon. Here, the non-meaters ascribe to the Buddhist definition of vegetarian cuisine (com chay), which excludes egg but includes milk. Viet veggie chefs use a lot of seitan and tofu, and they flavor richly with mushrooms. I appreciate, for one, the community feel when one eats in vegetarian domain, which often shares turf with a colorful incense-emitting pagoda. There's a certain brotherhood (sisterhood? sibling-hood? ze-hood?) one feels, being all high-minded and "green" (or maybe just unusual), amid a carnival of strong beefy odor and a parade of nude cooked chickens proudly flanking every road. (I will not deny the number of salty, savory tid bits I enjoyed in a hundred bowls of pho the months prior.) I also appreciate the interest vegetarian cooks take in, you know, VEGETABLES. You can find good variety here: dark green whosiewhatsits, cabbage, bok choy, cauliflower, tomato, things very underrepresented on the plates and in the bowls of most Vietnamese diners.

And on this middle rising pitch, I hope I do not leave you so unsatisfied as The Rolling Stones, whose lyric, after tonight's class, rings in the ears of fourteen Saigonese teens, about whom I'll tell you all next time. Adieu for now.

Hmm...

Fruits of the Day

A pocket full of sticky notes (handwritten addresses for various computer stores) and four moto rides later, I have solved the problem of my charger pooping out and am back in action. I sit, at last, in my clever room, appreciating the breeze as the fan conducts its neck exercises (ri ight aand le ft)on the far wall. In fact, that feels great. (I pause for a few neck twists and a down dog.)

In addition to a functioning computer, I was blessed today with the opportunity to meet the very warm and friendly directors of an English program at a HCMC public school. Not knowing quite what to expect, I followed this lead at Hien's suggestion. Turns out that it's this beautiful open-air school with a tree filled courtyard and tables stacked with watermelon for the kids' midday snack. There are bright paintings on the walls and hallways - of Snow White and her Seven Dwarves and of elephants and other cute kiddy business. The job is, essentially, to lead a massive group of primary school children in a series of games for English review. The Vietnamese English teachers I observed did this quite masterfully with a striking hold of the students' attention. One coy teacher enticed her students into a guessing game in which she describes one of their classmates and the first astute guesser receives a lollipop. "This is a girl who is very pretty, has short curly hair, and studies English very well, but she is sometimes shy in my class." Or (haha): "This is a boy who I like a lot because no fighting, no interrupting in class. He studies okay, not good, but not bad, and he is, I think, a little fat." "Phuong! Phuong!" And that everlasting memory of childhood humiliation makes its debut. All said, I'm sure those kids loved the class. Another teacher put forth a game of tic tac toe, which totally absorbed the knee-highs. They were very sweet to me, as well, one boy in glasses following me out of the room to offer a humble little flower made from graph and purple origami paper.
The directors of the English language program, who greeted me and escorted me to the classrooms, were likewise, nothing short of heartwarming. Hung and his wife spoke English quite well, he, the main speaker, she, the precise interpreter, and seemed to offer me a job on the spot well as a home-cooked meal at their house this Sunday! We'll see how it goes. I'm headed there Sunday morning to try it out!

On the night time side of things, I've found the live music here! Yoko Bar, which I found one of the first nights out in Saigon, is the place to be, with a different band every night of the week. Lots of covers and some original material. Prettay fresh. Apparently, La Fenetre, a spot I'm peeping tonight, is comparably cool.

I plan, in my teaching, to evoke the great, avuncular Ho.

Condolences to the Colorblind

I should admit that, after very little contact with T.V., I've seen two cheesy movies in the past few days and nearly cried. Okay, I cried once. Anyone else find that traveling sort of packages what would probably be very average conversations / movies / meals / concerts as "E-PI-FUN-Y!" (a la "Surge")? It's like all we need for profundity to fizzle is that extra little shot of adrenaline that comes with the perpetual slight discomfort of displacement. Cheaper options include wearing close-hangers on your nostrils or wearing your belt too tight.

I won't tell you which movies (or what thoughts). One show involved a lingering ghost. And was not a classy new remake of Hamlet.

I realize I refer to myself as "traveler" rather than an "expat". This is to say, I am not working yet and so am not a stable resident, per se. It is also to say that Viet Nam still, reasonably, feels very novel to me.

One thing I notice here - and it seems to be a trend in warm climates - is the amount of color that's allowed here. It's beautiful, and it's energizing. Businesses and homes come in bright teal and celeste with gates in navy blue and lazy fuchsia flowers hanging off yellow balconies. People wear silly, pajama-worthy patterns and orange helmets and, yes, toe and finger nails won't go unpainted by any sister or cousin bored in the midday sun. It's fair to credit the fruit around here, the chum chums (little prickly pink balls with grape-like fruit within), mangos, jack fruit, dragon's eyes (these are actually brown and clear within, but cool and apt name) and all the other flamboyant eats I can't name.

But, just so you don't think I've gone soft for Asia or vice versa -- What you've heard is true: They eat dogs over here. Nora recently confirmed this suspicion when she was offered a live chiwawa "with rice and vegetables". Now, all of a sudden, like when you learn a new word and realize how just how common and important it is, there are dogs everywhere! Big dogs, little dogs; unhappy dogs, indifferent dogs; white dogs, spotty dogs; dogs that look too furry for this climate, dogs that have human-looking (pleading?) faces; dogs with red, just-been-crying eyes, dogs looking up at their (supposedly!) loving owners, dogs, letting their eyes rest from the day, in certain trust of their human parents. Every pup evokes my suspicion. And it's well-founded: a woman grills a spit of kabobs a yard away. They call it "thit cho". Pronounced tit chaw.

I would only eat a dog in self-defense. Or if it told everyone I had halitosis.

But have been eating meat. Where do we draw the lines, oh lord. where do we draw the lines. a lion a tiger a bear oh my a lion a tiger a bear.

Home Sweet Ho

I have just landed an apartment in a small building full of teachers of English, one of them, my friend, Nora, from Language Corps and one, Jerome, a Parisian who's been teaching in Saigon for nearly a year.

After a little dusting, rearranging and flower purchasing, I'm quite happy with my new room, which is sunny by day and which offers several lighting options by night (an unexpected and much appreciated feature!). It comes equipped with A.C., a fine dresser & bed, cable T.V., fridge and wireless int, while a thin door in the corner offers a petite balcony (one more suggestion that I give in to a smoking habit), which looks into a backyard of neighbors' balconies, branching from an array of colorful apartment buildings (peach, blue, yellow) much like my own. There's also a communal balcony / hang out a floor up, where Nora and I shared an apartment-christening drink.

Before that, we had the opportunity to dine with two lovely Vietnamese ladies, Van and Lai, whom Nora had met in the countryside. Van, whose English was limited and adorable, took us out for Banh trang (essentially, do-it-yourself spring rolls) and pointed out the names of all table items as we used them. The word for sprouts sounds like "yeah";"cucumber" was "you-uh". Progress.

Job interview next week. Hope to have them saying "yeah, you-uh". heh.

Well, this is hopeful, indeed.

Just to keep up the habit, I blog again, after a mere 15 hour hiatus. I just received my first email of interest from Clever Learn Language School and have confirmed an interview this Tuesday. Looks are everything, so we're told, here in Asia, so I'll try to look very nerdy, serious and mature. Maybe I'll get a pair of faux glasses.
In fact, I think glasses serve the purpose, in addition to convincing others of one's high intelligence, of making the wearer her/himself feel smarter. This could mean, by way of the psychological support glasses provide, people with glasses really are smarter. This coupled with the fact that (and this is a long held theory of mine) glasses-wearers are formerly child readers, who squinted and strained in those formative years while their eyes were not yet ready for such heavy use. Meanwhile, their young brains feasted and fathomed and, hence, made quicker adult minds, despite the eyes' suffering.
But does reading make us the smarter? And, more importantly, does the smarter make the better? I'll tell you what: we all feel pretty far from smart in our Vietnamese class, in which we have a test. I'll try the glasses.
Tonight, MSTRKRFT plays at a bar called Lush. I'm curious to check it out, especially with a cover of what would be $5 in the states. Another post for that.