Nothing to See Here

There was a copy of Playboy and a bar of 74% French chocolate on the table at work today. It was like the proverbial elephant in the room, with a Brazilian.

Actually, I was the only one seeing the elephant; the girls flipped through the magazine before dismissing it as boring, considering the notorious reputation. No one was sure exactly why the Playboy is there, except that it came from H, from the French room, who had just returned from a business trip to...well, France.

A risque practical joke? Anthropological evidence about those horndog Westerners? A few hours go by and I find the articles to be well-written. In the afternoon, M comes in and shrieks,"Oh, my Playboy!"

I gathered she had made a special request.

M, explaining: It's a magazine about beauty queens!

Vi: I don't know if they're beauty queens. Um, I think it's actually just... (The word for "strippers" had not yet come up in Vietnamese class) um, women who aren't wearing clothing.

Meanwhile, I can hear my co-workers discussing the magazine: He bought it in France! But it's an American magazine! What's the difference?

So, of course:

Q: Vi, what's the difference between the American and French version of Playboy?

*beat*

Vi: Um...I think maybe they have different pictures?

M, clutching the magazine: I'm going to take it home to my husband for him to see!

First Professional Feedback

''Yeeeek!''

I run downstairs to scream at Nicholas.

''News! News! A very small bit of news!''

Nicholas does his customary wide-eyed expression.

''Remember that article I was writing? Where you suggested I write about the grass-ski resort? Well, it turned into writing about the Vietnamese community in Seattle! Which was mostly about food!''

Nicholas maintains the goggle-eyes.

''The editor called me back! I mean, she texted me! She wants me to pitch more stuff!''

I whip out my phone to quote the text message.

''Er, actually, it's ''liked yr copy. Good writing. Keep a pitching.'' ''

The Uselessness of Rain Ponchos

This was taken on a night where each member of our house straggled in through the door, each progressively wetter and wetter. What you see is the flooded alleyway, one of many on the way to my house.


My xe om driver had kindly offered me the back flap of his rain poncho, but that was proven useless as I simply got splashed from below, since Hanoi's streets have terrible drains and several areas were submerged by at least a foot and a half. When I got home, I was expecting to be the one with the best story, seeing as I'm usually the one who gets home last. Unfortunately, Nathan had driven across a fallen power line hidden underneath the water. The wire snaked up to wrap around the head of his motorbike and whipped him backwards into the flooded street. He made it out with just a scratch and a stiffened wrist. As you can see, the water can make it impossible to see any potholes or other dangerous things lurking underneath. The alleyway looks nothing so much as a small canal. Someone could make a killing selling inflatable dinghys on nights like these.

In Which I Clarify the Former Digs.

I had my misgivings when walking up six flights of unlit stairs down to the very last door at the corner, a door that groaned ominously when I nudged it open. It really looked strange, a door set into the shadowy recesses of a frame of bricks at least a foot deep. It made one imagine a dark Italian dungeon with lots of bats and maroon velvet. But in actuality, the apartment looked incredibly gorgeous when I first opened the door: hardwood floors, windows, the exposed brick, and the crazy lime-green walls; it's like someone was so excited about designing an apartment that they smashed together a European sensibility with the Jetsons. (Actually, this might have some validity to it; the landlord is an architecture professor, and I suspect he designs interiors on the side). The previous places I had looked at were no contest; to top it off, this place was going for 250 USD, at least 50 dollars cheaper than anything I had looked at so far.

But...the water pressure was awful, and most days there wasn't enough water to wash the dishes, let alone take a shower. Through some system I could never understand, the water was mysteriously ''pumped'' by the old people guarding the gate and would take anywhere from days to hours to appear from the faucet. Also, the bathroom, situated in the CENTER of the apartment, was very smelly. Horribly, awfully dank and smelly, even though it had cheery blue tiles. Some days I'd walk in and be hit with an overpowering wave of mildewy fumes. Finally, the gates to the building were locked at 10 p.m. To enter afterwards meant a lot of timid clanging at the gate, only to escalate into full out yelling to wake up the sleeping security guard. Or more accurately, the sleeping old person who you felt horrible for waking at this ungodly hour because they're quite old, and they look like they shouldn't be doing anything but sleeping in their blue and white striped pajamas and you promise them many, many times that this will be the last time you wake them up.

Needless to say, there were many times when I felt guilty about disturbing the sleep of someone who looks like my grandfather, especially when they wear matching pajamas.

Now the house I live in is no where near as nicely appointed; slight grungy and with disturbing surprises in laquered cabinets, and not a single piece of furniture that yields to the touch (besides beds). But there's freely available water and only one smelly bathroom, and it's far away in the tv room and we keep that door closed all the time.

Former Digs

A Jackfruit Tree of My Very Own

This is a jackfruit tree. Prepare yourself for tremendous excitement.

I can't really articulate how excited I am that we have such a tree in our courtyard. Jackfruit are only available canned, as chips or frozen in the U.S., and I've long been curious about the taste of jackfruit without it being steeped in preservative sugar syrup or the yummy but ultimately unsatisfying experience of a jackfruit chip.

I'm only a little obsessed with jackfruit. But I come from a family where we take our tropical fruit seriously. We'd think nothing of driving 3 hours to Canada to buy bags of longans, rambutans, mangosteens and custard apples to eat in Queen Elizabeth park. Whenever relatives were visiting, we'd take them to Canada. There's only so many times before flying salmon loses a certain excitement.

Only a few more weeks...oh, the anticipation.

My introduction to this sesame wafer-bean paste concoction was not thrilling. I came into the office one day to see an unopened white bag, and my coworker invited me to help myself. Upon untying the bag, I saw a stack of sesame crackers, the kind that I knew tasted mostly like nothing. Not wanting to be rude, I took one and retied the bag, and went back to reading with the sensation of dissolving styrofoam on my tongue. Luckily my coworker came back and then laughed at me politely trying to eat cardboard, and showed me the little tub of beanpaste under the crackers and then made me a little cracker sandwich. It was a far more satisfactory experience.

This is the rice cake I was raving about a few posts back. Not that specific one, of course, but this has rapidly become a fixture on the shopping list. Coconut/bean center with sticky young rice paste on the outside. Mmmm.

Cute.

Chivalry

Vietnam, or rather the men of Vietnam, can sometimes be pretty infuriating. I was looking at a secondhand Honda Dream the other day, priced at 9 million VND. The guy selling the bike jerked a finger at the wire basket attached at the front and said,''It's a great bike for girls like you. You can go to the grocery market and back.''
.........................
The other day I was moving out a corner sofa that I had just bought from a friend. I carried one end and an Australian guy was holding the other. We loaded them into the back of a rental truck and I rode alongside the truck until we arrived at my house. I hop off my bike and head around to the back of the truck, but to my confusion the driver hadn't gotten out of the cab, so I walk up and ask if we can start unloading the sofas.

Driver: I'm waiting for the man of the house.

Vi: There is no man of the house. There's just me.

Driver: You? You can't carry this sofa.
..................................

It's a fine line between chivalry and vomit-inducing sexism. My xe om driver asks why I never wear makeup or skirts. Another driver said he'd never want to move to the U.S. because he considered the men to be pussy whipped. Being expected to wash dishes and take care of the children? They're just like women!

One xe om driver, upon learning I was 22 and unmarried, urged me to get married as soon as possible, since I'd find it impossible to find a man willing to marry an old maid of 23. (Two months till my prime childbearing years are forever lost!)

To be fair, it's possible I just ran into a bunch of insecure jerks. Most Vietnamese women I know married around 25-27, which is about par with the U.S. And in some ways, Vietnam could be considered progressive; it celebrates International Women's Day, Vietnamese Women's Day, and Valentine's Day, so that's three times the opportunity for free food.

Post-Laptopocalypse

After the repair shop told me that they couldn't fix my laptop because it simply was too old, I fell into a black depression.

That perhaps is too strong a description. But seriously? When Vietnam is telling you that your machine is outdated and please get up to speed with the rest of the developing countries? I found myself with too much nervous energy and began toting books with me every where. I raided the shelf of abandoned novels at Nathan's work, and begin borrowing from the various pubs and backpacker cafes. J.M. Coetzee's Disgrace, Flowers for Algernon, Pigs in Heaven, the April 2007 issue of Lucky Magazine. Now I'm getting along by commandeering Hannah's plucky Thinkpad. I bribed her with a skirt from the Limited, in an American size 10, from my brilliant friend Christine, who is leaving to pursue a Master's in Public Health at Columbia. I already got Emmy from Christine, so I figured the skirt was undue largesse. Plus I would have had to had the skirt taken in and I can be disgustingly lazy sometimes.

In truth, a few weeks without constant access in the internet was probably good for me. However, I only feel safe admitting this as I am safely typing on a keyboard. Sweet, sweet useless information flowing in my veins!