Front Row Seats to the Saigon Ballet

Entrée

Typical Saigon traffic

On a cool Saigon night, the corps de ballet lines up behind me. Five wide and three deep, they wait for the light to change. To my left, a trendy Vietnamese teen rides her vintage Vespa. To my right, a smartly clad office worker in a business suit sits atop her gleaming new Yamaha Nouvo. These, my lead ballerinas, stand with me at the front of the corps. As the red light counts down, the dancers rev their engines in anticipation. Green light and the dancers all pounce forward in a grand jeté. The wind blows in my face as I savor the beauty of the dance. Ahead, a pedestrian blocks our way - a rock in the stream - but we adjust without the slightest hesitation. I weave right. Vespa girl weaves left. As my alley approaches and I prepare for my coda, I look to my right and give a small nod to Yamaha girl - great performance, see you again at the 7 o'clock show. She looks at me as though I'm crazy. And... she's right. I am completely and hopelessly insane.

A Story of Loss and Redemption

Veronica

I have always had a love of the road. Whether the wide open freeways of the California desert, the winding mountain passes of Lake Tahoe or the scenic byways of the Pacific Coast Highway. People often ask why I name my cars, but for me it is equally confusing how you could not give a name to someone so important in your life. When I decided to leave San Francisco, I was prepared for a lengthy litany of difficult good-byes, but I was surprised at how painful one particular good-bye was. Veronica, I have not forgotten you.

There are nights I can still feel the open wound of not having my trusty car by my side, but when I moved here I decided that my life and well-being were slightly more important than having wheels. Of course, it's natural to come to Vietnam and be in abject fear of the traffic here. Every visitor remembers their first time crossing the street in Vietnam: the sea of headlights, the honking, the exhaust, the utter terror of being caught in the midst of it all, naked as a newborn babe. And yet, life as a pedestrian was an alien thing to me. I was an amputee with a terrible itch where once were limbs.

I had tried scratching the itch before, when my ex-girlfriend taught me to drive a motorbike, but it just wouldn't stick. From the semi-manual transmission that seemed to mock me at every turn, to the broken electric starter that required me to kickstart the bike (with hilarious results), to the old engine that stalled at every intersection, the fates denied me my star-crossed lover.

It was only when I was preparing to move to a new house away from the city center that the gears of destiny began to grind. Faced with the prospect of living in exile in Binh Thanh district without transportation, I knew something had to be done. Something logical. Something practical. Something... magical.

Bippity Boppity Boo

You will always remember your first time. For me, it's hard to talk about in specifics. Rather, I remember it like a Van Gogh - painted with swatches of feeling and emotion rather than oils. I remember excitement. The excitement of... of not dying to be honest; there was the thrill of being enveloped by the chaos of Vietnam of traffic and coming out alive. I remember the coolness. The coolness of the wind in your face, an instant retreat from the heat of Indochina. I remember freedom. The freedom of having the entire city open to me, my proverbial oyster. But most of all, I remember love. The warm loving embrace of a homecoming. For this was my home. The moment I set wheel on the streets of Saigon, I knew I was always meant to be here. That first day, I must have ridden for hours with no destination at all.

My Life As A Bee

The most magical part of life on Saigon's streets is that it actually works. Without rules for the most part, the system still functions. The entire traffic population of Vietnam is in sync with each other, a giant hive mind. Sometimes, you will find Westerners who try to drive here and they just can't get it. Barnacles of the democratic free world, they cling to such antiquated ideas as "right of way", "rules of the road" and "road courtesy". Coming from places where motorists' rights are handed down from the mountain on stone tablets, they get mad when they're cut off, they are offended when they're honked at and they are confused when they see someone driving down the street the wrong way.

There are a few things you must learn to master the ways of the motorbike in Vietnam. Rule #1 - There is no right of way. The right to do something belong solely to the motorist who can do it. If you want to turn left across traffic, simply inch out into traffic. At some point, you will block someone who will slow down, at which point you move forward and start blocking someone else. Wash, rinse and repeat until you cross traffic. Rule #2 - Take a deep breath. In the West, the honk is a vehicular middle finger, with the length of the honk indicating the amount of offense intended. In Vietnam, honking is not an expression of rage but rather the modern day whale song; it acts as both reverse-sonar and communication. Without the anonymity and protection of a car's frame, Vietnamese tend to engage in much less road rage honking. More to the point, take your attention off the road for a few seconds to indulge your road rage and it could be the last thing you ever do. Rule #3 - Eyes front. There is a very simple hierarchy of responsibility on the road in Vietnam: avoid anything in front of you and trust that anyone behind you will do the same for you. To be specific, your primary responsibility is the 90° arc in front of you, with the secondary responsibility being the full 180° when you're making big lateral movements. Waste your time watching for vehicles behind you and you'll find out what a Vietnamese pancake is really fast.

For those able to adjust to life on the streets of Vietnam, the reward is freedom. It's ironic that we must come to a socialist country to find the purest expression of libertarian freedom. Some people can't give up their individualism to become part of the hive mind, but me, I'm a happy little bee.

The Obligatory Noodles and Police Story

Sometimes I just sit and stare. Stare and reminisce. Reminisce about those first few weeks, when you dive into a new country head first and bask in the glory of culture shock. How it sounded to hear a new language spoken, how it smelled to pass a food stall on the street, how it looked to see people wearing different clothes. Every experience feeds the traveler's addiction - to see something new or to feel something fresh - and you grasp frantically at anything that will keep that feeling alive. But as you paddle furiously upstream, you know what's waiting for you downstream. Comfort and rest. Adventure gives way to routine and you find comfort in the things you know - your favorite TV show from back home, a bar that reminds you of your old hangout. Slowly, the feelings of culture shock - once so visceral and green - become stories. Did you ever really feel that way or are is it just a story you make up as you sit and stare? Stare and reminisce?

And then, boom, something happens and you realize that as much as you might slip into routine, this will never be the life that you knew. It starts with something simple. I'm sitting at a street-side noodle shop. No, not shop. Kiosk? Cart. A noodle cart. On the sidewalk. With a few small tables and baby chairs spread around. These noodle carts are Vietnam's kitchen. Dotting the city like a bad acne breakout, they feed half the population of Saigon for dinner. The noodle cart is not something you contemplate, it's just a part of the landscape. If you trip and fall, chances are you land in a noodle cart and order a bowl of noodles for dinner or lunch.

And so I find myself, rubbing my knee from a bad fall, ordering a bowl of noodles. Thinking of work I need to do. Thinking of how long it's been since the last blog post. Thinking of pretty much anything but the nature of the noodle cart. Expecting to hear someone shout "check please" or "another bowl of noodles and meatballs". Expecting to hear anything but "POLICE, POLICE!"

I swing my head around to see where the action's at. Is someone getting arrested? What foul crime is being perpetrated? And so you must forgive me when I realized that I was the criminal, and froze up. Paralyzed not with fear, but with utter confusion at the noodle girl telling me to pick up my bowl of noodles, then deftly sweeping the table out from under me. All around me, people are hustling. Tables are swept away out of sight and customers scramble. The noodle cart disappears under a tarp. And me, looking stupid in the middle of the sidewalk, holding a bowl of hot noodles.

"Look casual!" says the noodle girl. Ok, probably not. She probably didn't say that. But she did blurt out something unintelligible, and given the tone of her voice and the situation, I consider it a pretty fair translation. How to look casual standing in the middle of the street with a bowl of noodles? I lean against a tree and strike my best contrapposto.

And then they pass, in slow motion. An army green truck, or maybe not a real truck at all. Maybe a movie prop, from some World War II movie with the seats in the back and the canvas cover on top and soldiers in the back. And as the back of the truck passes, furtive eyes scan the sidewalk. It's ok, you're just a guy with some noodles. It was hot in the house, you took a walk to cool off the noodles. Look casual.

The whole incident is over before I know it and by the time I peel my eyes off the departing truck of police, the tables and cart are already back. What was I thinking about before? Who knows, but I know what I'm thinking of now - the nature of noodle carts and how something so ubiquitous could possibly be illegal. One thing is for sure. That culture shock was no memory, no made up story of my imagination. And this is definitely not the US of A.

You Try Coming Up With a Title For This One

For the last month, my home has been a small, modest room in Saigon's backpacker district. Dirty walls and a small bathroom. Curtains in a brown that hasn't been fashionable since the 70's. It's not a place you'd want your mother to know you're living, but it's cheap and it's not all bad. It's a room with a view, and then some. From my window, you can watch the Saigon circus pass by every night. Western tourists and the menagerie that follows wherever they go: peddlers and prostitutes. It's certainly not a dull neighborhood. Nor is it a quiet neighborhood. With several bars within one block, I am treated nightly to the sounds of Guns & Roses, Shakira and imported American pop culture.

So it's not much surprise when I'm woken by the sounds of Dixie Jazz. Peddlers play Christmas music from their carts, why not Dixie jazz? Just ignore it, go back to sleep. But someone is turning up the volume and I find myself wishing for the soothing sounds of Nirvana's Smells Like Teen Spirit. But the volume keeps getting louder and I can't sleep. My sense of reality has already gotten up and left the bed. Standing by the window he motions to me to come over.

"Dude, you gotta see this. You're not gonna believe this."

Seriously, man, you have failed me my entire life. Why do you have to drag me out of bed now? But it's no good arguing, might as well see what he wants. I go over to the window to join him but he bolts.

"Sorry dude, I'm outta here. You're on your own with this one."

Great, just great. Exactly the drama I need at 4am. And then I see it. My window has become a TV screen and appears to be showing an episode of America's Weirdest Videos. It's a parade. With a live Dixie band. At 4am. No, wait, that's not it. A parade would still have the slimmest connection to reality. About 40 people, and they're carrying something in the middle. A float? No. A wooden box, two feet by six feet. Flowers. Lots of flowers. What the... is that... No. What? No. Is that a... coffin?? I desperately want my sense of reality back with me but that bastard's always leaving at the worse times.

an eerie procession

The somber look on the mourners' faces sits in stark contrast to the upbeat Dixie tune, and I find my feet tapping to the music uncontrollably. I could almost imagine the exchange. "No, sorry maam, that's the going rate for a funeral band. Yeah, I'm sorry for your loss and I'd love to help out but, we just can't get the price any lower. Hold on... there may be one thing. Yep, looks like we're running a special on our Dixie bands. Half price." The sound of the funeral procession fades as they make their way down the street and I'm left in a state of shock. Is my American culture so different that I would find this so alien? A quiet knock on the door wakes me from my reverie.

"Hey, it's me. Can I come back in now?"

You bastard, you can sleep out in the hallway tonight.

What Goes Up, Must Come Down

Anything can happen on the streets of Saigon. I've been propositioned for sex, drugs and rock & roll among other things. I've seen people playing soccer on the street, women doing aerobics on the street, anything you can think of. But the other day, the most unexpected thing happened to me while walking down the street in Saigon. I changed.

Finding a place to live has been more of a challenge than I expected. Dreams of landlords throwing themselves at my feet to get at my American dollars have largely vanished, swept away by the reality that I'm only the one hundred thousandth Viet Kieu to come up with the brilliant idea of moving home to take over Vietnam. Just as I was ready to give up and settle on a place I wasn't really excited about, I got an unexpected phone call the other day and looked at a great house.

Today, walking back to the building to meet the landlady, my mind was full of doubts. What if I was being scammed? Should I give them the deposit money? A preoccupied mind falls easily into cruise control - that state of mind where your ego abandons your id and your id says "Oh yeah? Is that how it's gonna be? Well fine, I can get by without you. I never really liked you anyway and frankly, you have terrible body odor."

With id behind the wheel, taking care of basic functions, my ego was free to wonder and worry. I was told that they needed a license to rent a house out to foreigners, how could I be sure what they showed me was real? I pull out a stack of money to count the deposit I was due to give her. I read some horror story on the web about how police would come to your house in the middle of the night to check your papers. $200 in Vietnamese money is a whole lot of bills, so I start counting. They want me to sign a 1-year lease, which is more than I wanted to commit to. What if I hated Vietnam and want to break my lease? Một, hai, ba. I only saw the apartment for ten minutes. What if turns out to be a roach-infested rat's nest? Bốn, năm, sáu. They promised to fix the bathtub or buy me a new one. What if they refuse after I move in? Bảy, tám, chín.

Whoah, wait just one second. What the hell is chín? I could swear that's the Vietnamese word for nine, but why the hell is my id counting in Vietnamese? That's not the Boston Tai, who wears green on St. Patrick's Day. That's not the L.A. Tai, who drives two blocks to the supermarket. That's not the San Francisco Tai, who celebrates Earth Day with glow sticks. I think I know this guy, though. That's Saigon Tai, who squats on the sidewalk. Saigon Tai, who only wears flip-flops. Saigon Tai, who counts in Vietnamese. I just met the guy recently - don't really know him too well - but I'm pretty sure that's him.

I was born 100% Vietnamese. Over the last thirty odd years, I have become something like 90% American. Is this finally the turning point, where the rock starts to fall down again? How Vietnamese will I become when I finish this journey? Who knows, the answer could surprise me. Who knows, the answer could be... hai mươi lăm phần trăm.

My Life In a Nutshell

It's a curious thing to be able to wrap your hands around the essence of your life. To be able to feel every bump and know every wrinkle. To have figured it out, completely. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Rewind to Sunday night, in the hot, thick air of Saigon. A mouth waters in such climates. A mouth asks for the smallest of concessions. A mouth wants... beer. And I've known my mouth my whole life. As one of my favorite body parts, how could I possibly deny it? Then beer it is.

Now, one of the wonderful traditions of Vietnam is the drinking of Bia Hoi. Bia Hoi is not fancy beer. Bia Hoi is not bottled beer (served draft only). Bia Hoi is not even very good beer - upon first tasting it, you smack your lips several times in a vain attempt to discern what actually makes it taste... slightly funny. What it is, is local beer. Brewed in some small shop and served the same day (as they don't use preservatives so it won't keep for more than a couple days anyway). What it is, is cheap. We're talking US$.3 per glass. Yeah, that's right. There's a decimal before the three. For the cost of one bus ride in San Francisco, you can have five Bia Hoi. A mouth is extremely grateful at such times.

And so I sit in the hot Saigon night, drinking my 30 cent beer. Actually, in the time that you've been reading this, I'm probably on my third beer already. The observant among you may have come to the conclusion that they can't be making very much profit off a 30 cent beer. And with meager profits, they can't afford a very fancy store. The observant among you would have hit the nail smack on the head. The typical Bia Hoi store is a smallish joint with four or five plastic tables surrounded by what appear to be small plastic children's chairs. A twisted, adult version of a child's tea party. Harsh, naked fluorescent lamps glare...

"Hiss da er toe lit?"

What the heck? With a vicious jerk, someone has yanked me out of my Bia Hoi buzz.

"Is dare a toy lid?" he says again.

There seems to be a tall, lanky white guy in front of me. His head seems to be faced in my general direction. Is there a conversation going on here? Have I become a party to it somehow? I try to shake off the grogginess in my head and my logic circuit kicks in. He can't be talking to me, because what he seems to be saying doesn't make any sense directed to me.

"Is there a toilet?"

Why the hell would he be asking me this? I try to focus and take a closer look at him. Pasty white skin, tacky shorts that are too short, socks pulled up too high, slinging a large backpack. Not just a westerner, but a tourist, 100%. And yes, he is definitely looking right at me.

"Huh? What? I don't know. Maybe. Probably."

I'm saved from further embarrassment by a waitress who directs him towards the back. And then, there it is. A popping in my ear as the air around me is compressed and leaves a vacuum. A pressure on my skin as my entire life seems to be condensing into a small, dull gray ball. Pocket-sized, for easy transportation. When I peer into this ball, the hazy shape that forms is me, as a man forever trapped between two worlds.

You see, to the Vietnamese here, I'm an American. I have American money, I have American clothes, I have an American life. It's pure coincidence that both my parents are Vietnamese, but me, I'm an American. To them, I'll always be "Viet Kieu". Yeah, they even have a term for people like me just to make sure we are never confused with real Viet people.

On the other hand, to Americans and other westerners, I'll never be American. One look at me and they don't even think twice. It doesn't matter that I lived my whole life in America. It doesn't matter that I speak better English than a lot of white trash. It doesn't matter that I watch American TV and Hollywood movies. It doesn't matter that I eat hot dogs and hamburgers. It doesn't matter that I love football and baseball. To Americans, I'll always be a foreigner. To pasty-white-tourist-guy, I am clearly the help. Even if I go clear across the globe, I can never escape this.

My life. In a nutshell. Ah, screw it. Waitress, another Bia Hoi please.

I Visit the Dead, and a Really Old Bed.

May 1, 2008. A national holiday in Vietnam, it marks the day that Saigon fell. For the Communist government, it's Reunification Day. For me, it's the 33rd anniversary of when my family fled the country. For my Vietnamese relatives, it's the 49th day since the death of my aunt. The Vietnamese love wakes so much, they have two. Once right after the death, and again 49 days later. Ironically, Reunification Day is just that, as our family has come from far away to gather for the wake. Relatives from Da Lat drove for six hours to be here. I'm no exception. Thirty three years after fleeing the country, I've finally come home.

And when I say home, I mean this quite literally. People who know my writing know that I tend to wax poetic, spouting metaphors like a widow sheds tears (Aha, gotcha! That wasn't a metaphor, fool, that was a simile). In this case, though, I really have come home. The house I'm standing in is the house my family lived in before we left. It was a surreal feeling, imagining little baby Tai crawling around on these same floors. It was as close as I would ever get to crawling back into the womb.

A monk chanted the prayers for the dead, but I could hardly follow along, he was chanting so quickly. I knew my thoughts should be on my dead aunt, but my mind wandered. All I could think about was the fake money on the altar. Asian custom dictates that the living burn fake money as an offering to the dead. Nothing out of the ordinary there, but I couldn't help but notice that some of the money was paper American hundred dollar bills. Apparently, the dead in Vietnam prefer American currency. The money is meant to bring prosperity in the afterlife, so I suppose a good currency is preferred. If that's true, will my aunt suffer in the afterlife because the dollar is tanking? Do the dead have an interest in the world currency market?

My cousin gave me some stories about the house. The relatives who had lived there since we left. My aunt who came down from Da Lat to take care of me as a baby. The bedroom where my parents used to sleep. Wait, no. Something lost in translation. Not the bedroom, the bed. The mattress, to be specific. The mattress my parents used to sleep on. It's not every day that you meet a mattress that's older than you are. What stories could this mattress tell? Is this where I was conceived? Did my mom change my diapers on this bed? Did I sleep here, between my mom and dad? Welcome home...

You Think You Know Coffee But You Don't Know Jack

Do you remember the smell of coffee in the morning? Its gentle pull easing you into the waking world? The subtle tastes on your palate? Well forget everything you know. Vietnamese coffee is a whole different ballgame. In fact, it's not a game at all. Seriously, these people are not playing around. Coffee was introduced to Vietnam by the French. The Vietnamese took to it instantly, but in typical Vietnamese fashion, they said "Hey guys, I really like what you've got here with this whole coffee thing, but what if we..." And then they proceeded to stomp all over French coffee. They triple distilled it until one ounce equaled an American coffee. They added condensed milk to quintuple the sugar content. They made it better, faster, stronger.

American coffee is your high school varsity soccer coach, giving you that pep talk to get you off the bench and playing your best. Vietnamese coffee is the neighborhood tough guy, punching you in the gut then saying "Hey, biotch, that all you got?! Get up, NOW!!" And so you spend the rest of the day with your limbs constantly twitching. Not so much a race car put into high gear, but more a puppet being yanked around by strings. American coffee drinker, meet Vietnamese coffee. His name is Jack.