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.
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.
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