Mopeds & Miracles

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