Mopeds & Miracles

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 alien it sounded to hear a new language spoken, how tantalizing the smell of new and unknown foods, how curious you were to see people wearing strange 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 pale memories. Did you ever really feel that way or is it just a dream you make up as you sit and stare? Stare and reminisce? And th

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 parade by every night. The streets are full of 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 at 4am 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 the volume keeps getting louder a

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 deposi

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

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. 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 coul

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 "

For more than half a year, the idea of moving to Vietnam has hung over my head. Dark and heavy, it was my cartoon rain cloud. I came to know my constant companion; not as you know an intimate friend, but as you know the mole on the back of your neck. Never having seen it in your life, you know the shape, the size, the hardness. And so the question inevitably became, just how big is this thing anyway? It's eight months big. I first gave birth to the idea when I said it out loud in August of 2007. "I think I could live here." Six words. It wasn't much of a birth - a sad little preemie on life support. I never thought my little newborn would survive, but little by little the idea took root. It overcame so many growing pains. What would I do with all my stuff? What would I do with my car - my beloved Veronica? How would I earn a living? And now it's all grown up (for those who don't know this bit of common knowledge, one month in idea years is equal t