Banking Benefits

Managing your banking affairs when you're 14 time zones away can be a real pain. Even though all my meager assets are socked away online, and I can make customer service calls through Skype, not having an actual functioning bank branch here in Hanoi has put many a crick into my neck. Plus, there's the added complication of getting paid in Vietnamese dong (VND), which can only be used in Vietnam. I can't make direct wire transfers to my American accounts without first withdrawing my VND, exchanging that, and then sending it through Western Union, all the while getting nipped in the liver by usurious vultures along the way. It burns my miserly heart.

On the other hand, how many of you have banks that come with your very own personal Kitchen God, huh?!

A Total Invasion of Privacy

As mentioned in the last post (so long ago!), a cat of mine had kittens. Two. A high-pitched mew coming from the top shelf of my closet alerted me to the fact that Boots, the orange cat, had not only been in the family way, but had given birth to a single, scrunchy-faced kitten. Later, at 2 a.m., out dropped the second one. Naturally, in light of such excitement, I was all up my cat's uterus with my camera.

Here she is, Emmy on the left shooting a "Do you mind?!" in my direction.





P.S. Let me clarify that our previous landlady was convinced that Emmy was pregnant, due to her...well, she's definitely a meo beo. No Vietnamese kitty is so spoiled as Emmy, even though we constantly dangle things in front of her, hoping to get her to move. Mostly she just flops over, like it's not even worth the effort to mock us. Anyways, Emmy's been to the vet and back, and for a while we thought Boots was infertile, since the whole "in heat" phase kind of passed under our radar.

P.P.S. Isn't it peculiarly awesome that "fat cat" and "meo beo" both rhyme?

Things of Note

Some things need to be elaborated on:

1. I woke up yesterday and everyone was wearing helmets.
2. I went off on a motorbike trip with Hannah for 3 days to Cao Bang and back.
3. Said trip was very fun and exciting, and full of interaction, although Cao Bang itself was rather disappointingly bland.
4. I am contemplating tentative job offers.
5. My cat gave birth to two kittens in my suitcase. I'm sure they will be very cute.

Well, Haven't You?

Just Call Me Oliver

This week is unusual in that I'm eating a buffet lunch everyday at the swanky Nikko Hotel, for free.

Why? And how? By scamming my way into a television production workshop run by the Reuters Foundation. One of the advantages of being pathetic-looking is that you can play on people's sympathy with an exhibition of courageous pluck, such as when you're begging to be let into a class that only runs in Hanoi every six years (yes, it does help your presentation to be thinking "Please, sir, can I have some more?").


That photo sequence is a story on the theme of "Lost and Found". Our sequence was the best, mostly because a closeup meant to emphasize the loss of a scarf actually turned out to emphasize a group member's generous bust size. That particular photo went missing later.


That's Lloyd Watson. He looks like Daniel Craig, and is very used to working with translators. This means he speaks with a lot of pauses. When I first introduced myself, he thought I was the translator. Unfortunately, I am no where near qualified to be a translator. Lloyd was explaining that a series of photos were actually stills taken from footage, which I identified as screencaps.

Lloyd: "Yes, exactly. Can you say that in Vietnamese for them?"

Vi: *dies on the inside*

There actually was a misunderstanding about translators; the people in my department were given to understand, based on the information handed out to us, that the class was open to people who had enough command of English to make translators unnecessary. Some other people in the class didn't get the memo and consequently a colleague spent her first day of class as an impromptu simultaneous translator, which is ball-breaking work, eye-twisting work for which you normally get paid loads of money.

I gave her some some coma-inducing dessert instead:

50,000 Words

For the past few weeks I've been hanging out in the teachers' room at Nathan's school, mostly because I happened to have a lot of free time. That was spent mostly dinking around with some new programs, or maybe subtitling. What I was really doing, though, was putting off what I always imagined I'd do when I found myself with substantial blocks of free time; obviously, that'd be producing a staggering work of genuis, or napping.

I do think I should take more naps, by the way.

What's about nice about wanting to be continually motivated and inspired is that I'm pretty much surrounded by people who pretty much amaze me everyday. For Friday's Example of Amazingness, my housemate, Hannah, cobbled together a band she insists is "jazz funk" and two months later they played a gig at an annual charity fundraiser, overcoming truly ridiculous obstacles (bassist broke his ankle 48 hours before, and another drummer had to go back Australia on short notice). It didn't matter; at the end people were dancing and generally having a great time and begging for encores until Jess, the lead singer, simply said "We have no more."


It also helped that, in their moment of need, Dan, an unassuming Canadian, mentioned that he was a classically trained guitarist. Those Canadians and their modest ways...

Despite being surrounded, I still yet have written anything like I used to in college. (This, of course, is maybe a good thing.) More accurately, I've not yet sat down and seriously tried to do anything creative. Good thing Hannah has roped us all in to National Novel Writing Month then.

As the name suggests, we're taking on the insane task of producing a novel in a month. The guidelines require that the finished products (ha!) need to be at least 50,000 words long (ha!).

I think that it is likely that I will be napping less.

Jelly Belly

The bloom is off the rose and changes are afoot. Or is that in the air? I can never keep my figures of speech straight.

Speaking of change and figures, one of the kindly techs pinched some of my belly flab the other day and pegged my weight gain to the kilo. She said I'd been looking a little too skinny, which I found confusing, because most Vietnamese girls make beanpoles look like Sophia Loren. However, I could definitely do without the added roundness; luckily, Thu, while rubbing my tummy at a book signing (as one does) noted that it was very soft, which meant it would be easier to get rid of.

She's a yoga instructor. Have you ever seen a fat yoga instructor?

A Rip in the Space-Time Continuum...

must have been where August and September disappeared to, because I blinked in July while on a plane and opened my eyes to find that I'm more than a quarter of the way through October. The other day I caught myself absently wondering when the weather changed, for the rainier, the muggier, the Seattler.

It's kind of nice.

I've taken to liberally drinking coffee mixed with condensed milk. Less you wonder how this is any different from my normal routine, let me explain; it's Vietnamese coffee. I used to steal my father's mug of coffee as he read the newspaper and I read the Sunday comics. In college, on the Ave, I ordered a Vietnamese-style coffee at a specialty tea and coffee cafe because I had never before seen Vietnamese coffee advertised as being Vietnamese, like it was something unusual or hand-roasted by Colombian priestesses. The barista hesitated before warning me that a cup of the Vietnamese coffee was equivalent to six shots of expresso.

I had always wondered why Starbucks coffee never really seemed to induce a caffeine high.

At any rate, despite (or perhaps because of) this longstanding history with strong coffee, I don't remember drinking an awful lot of it in college. Mostly I preferred sports drinks and banana-flavored steamed milk. Unfortunately banana milk isn't packed full of stimulants, and lately I've been leaping before looking and running before walking, so this fall is looking pretty crazy. Crazy dangerous.

I'll have you know that I've become considerably less clumsy.

No standards

Today I had a break between the morning and afternoon shifts, and completely forgot about filling up my tank on the way home. Part of me is worried about making it back to work with my gas gauge firmly on "E", since I only have the vaguest notion of a gas station near the house.

It's very hot and I'm very tired. I made a resolution a few days ago to blog once everyday, regardless of how long the entry was. It could be "I learned I don't like potato sandwiches" or "My roommates eat sesame paste, which looks like chalky death" or whatever; there would be no standards because the point was to kickstart the mind into doing something that wasn't related to work. The standards are out the door.

Our cat was spayed several months ago but chi Yen, our maid/landlady is convinced she's pregnant.

I wish I was a Ninja.

Wow. No sooner do I express contentment than Life hits me with...many things. It's like Life laid out a slick assortment of weaponry and selected "dingy pants", "whining cats", "spoiling lychees", "nothing in the fridge except beer", "suspicious Russian cheese", "rude security guards", "brazen cockroaches" and "unfortunate tanlines".

Okay, so Life hasn't exactly been a Greek tragedy.

What it has been is a lot of work, and work outside of work. One of the times when I do not work is when I'm riding my motorbike. One of my favourite times of day is when I'm pulling onto a particular stretch of road near my house and gun the engine as fast I dare. (Not that fast at all, mom and dad.) I can't even begin to imagine how it would feel if I had a proper motorcycle and say, Montana to tool around in. My brain can only come up with approximations like "Joan Didion called to say good job" or "Bumping in Hugh Laurie in the self-help section".

All I need to do is paint flames on my helmet so it looks like I'm going fast.

I just realized today that I'm pretty content with how things are in my life. Sure, I don't want to live in Vietnam forever, but life right now is really great. I get to speed around Hanoi on my silver motorbike, wear scuffy boots and pretend I'm Indiana Jones, eat lychees all day (at 25 cents a kilo, who wouldn't?) , live with interesting and unpredictable roommates, my Vietnamese is noticeably better and my job is something I look forward to everyday.

It figures that Vietnam is one of the only places where I can get by as a writer without also being a waiter.

Secretly Related to Stephen Fry.

"Hannah! You will NOT believe what I just saw on Pho Hue!"

Hannah is not easily ruffled.

"I was on my bike, and I saw these two guys, and the one sitting behind stood UP, and it looked like he was fighting the other guy on the bike! I was afraid they were drunk and going to splat in front of me and--"

"Vietnamese Fire Drill, right?"

"--huh?"

"When two people on a bike switch places, from passenger to driver. Like a Chinese Fire Drill, where people get out of a car, then crowd back inside so they're sitting in different places when they drive off."

"Um...yeah."

I don't even bother asking how she knows, because Hannah knows everything. If if she really doesn't, her cut-glass English accent makes it seem like she does. The trouble living with smart and worldly people is that most of our conversations go like that.

Details

It was an ordeal, and at times I thought, "Oh, you've jumped in way over your head" but it was worth it.

Details to Follow

I am going to Thai Binh next Thursday, for something that sounds a lot more impressive than it actually is. What I will actually be doing is swabbing the inside of a woman's cheek. A woman who initially was described as "weak-minded" and homeless. I hope that this is not a polite way of saying "schizophrenic" and "possibly violent".

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.