Skip to main content

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 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 and I find myself wishing for the soothing sounds of Nirvana's Smells Like Teen Spirit. 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. This is way outta my league. 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 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.

Comments

Unknown said…
Your writing is such an inspiration to read, keep up the awesome work.

Popular posts from this blog

How To Climb a Mountain in Six Easy Steps

This post is dedicated to EC, to whom I promised to tell this story.  Hike Fuji! Step 1: Skip the Planning The beauty of Fuji It's one of the curious dichotomies of life that often, the harder you hold onto something, the more likely it will slip your grasp.  Hearts have been broken by this age-old rule.  Fortunes squandered.  Kingdoms lost.  Sometimes, you need to let go.  Sometimes, you need to say "to Hell with  planning"  and just let things happen. Our story today comes courtesy of yesterday.  Or yesteryear, rather.  August in the late 90's tucked somewhere between the trial of  O.J. Simpson  and the Monica Lewinsky scandal.   I was visiting my college friend John who was stationed at the U.S. Naval Base at Yokosuka, south of Tokyo.   After an interesting visit of Tokyo involving coffin hotels and irritating Yakuza at the onsen , we planned to climb Mt. Fuji on my last weekend before going home. ...

My One-Eyed Uncle

A typical kopitiam As I sit down in a cafe on Penang Island, Malaysia, he saunters over at me. One-eyed, a mouth full of missing teeth and a curious shape to his lips, he seems somehow alien. Despite being in Malaysia, he speaks to me in what I can only assume is Chinese and yet, this is not what makes him seem alien. No, I understand clearly that he wants to take my order and I ordered the one drink that is understood everywhere... beer. This is a cafe, but not in the Starbucks sense that a jaded urbanite might assume. No five dollar espressos will be found here, no patrons will be chatting on their cellphone in line, no fancy laptops will be proudly on display. In fact, one would be hard-pressed to realize that the main point of this establishment is drinking. It's not. This is a kopitiam - more food court than coffee shop and a mainstay of Malaysian and Singaporean food culture. If you want good food at a great price, you come here and being that Penang itself is k...

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 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...