Liz's Travelogue Central

Well I’ve recovered enough from Murder in the Market to share with you a few more stories of our Shanghai adventure.

A couple of street food stand-outs on Linfen Road: a husband and wife team making crepe sandwiches on what looked to be the lid of a trash can. I know it wasn’t but it did look like it. The wife sat at a metal drum that had charcoals burning underneath (I guess that’s what’s known as a “stove” on the streets). She spread a very thin mixture of quinoa flour, soy flour and wheat flour onto the hot metal lid and then the husband leaned in and cracked an egg in the middle. The wife then spread the egg to cover the whole thin crepe. She added cilantro, scallions, pickled veggies and then quickly scraped back and forth underneath to separate the crepe from the lid. She folded it in half into a half moon and added some kind of chutney and a chile paste, and spread that out too. Then the husband put a large dried wonton cracker in the middle of it. She crunched it up, rolled the crepe up and cut the whole thing in half. He bagged the two halves and took the money. And she started all over.

They had a real machine going there and people were lined up to get these things. People were complaining because the line was too long and some disgruntled customers even left. Susan described it as starch and starch- as if we were to eat a potato bread sandwich but that didn’t stop her from tasting it and loving it! I think that may have been something like her fifth or sixth breakfast out of our promised “ten Shanghai breakfasts” and she was still going strong.

In one of the next stalls Susan got the chance to actually make the Youtiao that we had tasted early that morning. She had a blast, although I don’t think her first attempt was all that successful. The customer refused the one Susan made and wanted one from the owner. Further down there was a man making thin wonton skins over small metal barrels.

At that point, after my horrible market moment, I was wandering around the crowded streets wondering why I had agreed to this godforsaken trip in the first place and being confronted at every turn with some horrible sight that made me whimper “I just want to go home.”

In Mandarin, “hello” is “ni hau” and “thank you” is “shea-shea.”  I had been practicing “zi chien” (goodbye) since I got to Shanghai. The only thing that changed my mind was the Jewish Museum.

During World War II, when the Nazis were murdering millions of Jews all over Eastern and Western Europe, one of the only countries (including, ashamedly, the U.S.) that would accept refugee Jews trying to flee was…you guessed it, China. Almost 30,000 Jews escaped to Shanghai and were forced, by the Japanese occupiers, to live in a ghetto in a poor neighborhood called Hongkou. They worked, played and socialized amongst the people of Shanghai who were amazingly accepting and showed an incredible lack of bigotry. So many Jewish bakeries, delicatessens, dance halls, and cafes were opened in Hongkou that the area, at the time, was nicknamed “Little Vienna.”

I had read about this phenomenon and wanted to see the area for myself.

The old synagogue is now a museum that has collected stories, pictures and interviews of people who were here then. It was incredibly moving to read their stories; people escaping the holocaust and starting all over and raising their children in Shanghai for years. There were a number of interviews of adults who as children were raised amongst the Chinese. Many of them married Chinese people and recently there was a Shanghai reunion of a large number of the people who are still alive and remember those years.

The artist Peter Max was raised in Shanghai from the age of 3 to 14 and credits his Chinese nanny with teaching him to draw.When the Cultural Revolution took place all the Jews left and went to places like America, Israel, some back to Europe, etc.

I was moved by the strength of the Chinese people who were suffering under their own Japanese occupation yet still welcomed these Jewish refugees. I was filled with respect, gratitude and yes, love for these people. So even though they still cook on trashcans and still hang their laundry on the street and kill their food with their bare hands… I love Shanghai.

zi chien, China!

A few parting shots:

sticky rice dim sum

wonton the way they’re SUPPOSED to look

hanging lanterns at Confucius temple

Little Liz…happy at last.

I don’t really know how to address my horrible Peng Pu Xin Cun market experience without traumatizing you, but I’ll try. It ain’t pretty so if you have to plug your ears and close your eyes and go “la-la-la-la” that’s fine by me. I wish I had.

Let me start with the way the day began. At 5 AM Heidi picked us up to eat ten types of breakfast at different Shanghai street stalls. It was 40 degrees and still dark out and Susan was in heaven, all happy and perky. I was …well you read my last reference to paintball.

We drove to a small side street, Zhao Zhou road, where there was a little stall in the middle of the block, the only light on the street. Heidi explained that this area used to be the old West gate of the city and food stands sprang up for people as they entered the city. Many locals still get their breakfasts in the area. The husband and wife who run this stall operate it from 11pm to 7am, which is why we had to get up so early. Most of the places we will visit this morning have no names and will be closed up by 10am. (At that point one of the little breakfast stalls turns into a shoe repair!) But evidently it’s a pretty steady business for all that time.

The husband welcomes us and he and Heidi exchange a few words and laugh about something. I find it so interesting when Heidi switches languages because the two she’s speaking have so little in common. The sound of Mandarin Chinese is guttural with many ups and downs in unexpected places and harsh punctuations, and really does sound angry and intense. So when Heidi shifts from that into her crisp Aussie accent, it’s like an auditory trip over a crack in the pavement.

There are about five rickety tables out on the sidewalk with small wooden benches on either side. Inside the tiny stall is where the batter for the dough and the soymilk are made from scratch, and outside on the sidewalk is where the twisting and deep-frying are happening. The wife cuts the dough and twists it into a long unsweetened donut about 15 inches long. Then her cousin deep-fries it in a wok. The end product is called “youtiao.”

4am at the youtiao stall

twisting the dough

The youtiao gets broken in half and wrapped in sticky rice. If you want it sweet they sprinkle sugar on it before they wrap it in the sticky rice; If you want it salty they first sprinkle chopped pickle into it.

With your youtiao you can get a bowl of warm, homemade soymilk. The soymilk can also be sweet or savory. Sweet has large crystals of sugar at the bottom of the bowl, while the savory has the youtiao broken up into it, chopped cilantro, scallions, and chile oil.

While we’re here watching them make all of this, a line forms made up of Chinese locals stopping to pick up breakfast on their way to work. Then a group of drunk “twenty-somethings” drops by for a bite after partying all night. It’s pretty warming at this early hour and the sweetness does help me wake up. (Actually the cold already did that, but the sweet bowl of soymilk helps me feel less miserable about it!)

We move a few yards down the street to another stall where a man is making rice pancakes over a makeshift metal drum burner. The process by which these people are cooking is pretty amazing. It’s like you’re back in time. They’re still doing traditional cooking with old style tools used for generations. The hot fire inside the metal burner is the heat source underneath the pancakes. A metal tray on top is the cooking surface, which has an indented “bowl” in the middle where he pours water. This water is what will steam the small rice pancakes when covered.
After he pours about 26 small round pancakes onto the surface he covers the whole barrel with a wooden top.

In about 5 minutes he uncovers it and you have rice pancakes that are crisp on the bottom from the direct heat of the burner, and spongy on the top from the steam. He then folds two cakes together making a pancake sandwich, crisp on the outside and spongy on the inside.

Wow. It was excellent. The rice batter has so much more flavor than wheat batter.

And on to the next; a whirlwind of breakfasts. By this time the sun was rising and the cold was beginning to get to me. I hadn’t really thought about double socks so while most of me was warm, my feet were really starting to feel it.

We turned down an alley. A large tarp had been strung up to the back of a window on the bottom floor of an apartment building and the cooking and eating was all set up under the tarp.

This is where Susan learned how to make small little dumplings filled with a pork mixture. 

The Chinese cook who was teaching her kept saying encouraging things like: “you’re very skilled” and “you’re getting the hang of it.” But she may have been being polite. Making these tiny dumplings is a one-handed art with fingers and folding and expert use of the chopsticks and even though Susan jumped right in, it was slow going.

But to her credit, she wouldn’t let it go till she got it right. They made small dumplings, then big dumplings filled with greens and pork, then a wonton skin wrapped around sticky rice with a reduction of soy and sugar and some more ground pork all in a steamer; then a noodle and tofu soup with congealed duck blood cubes… until finally my freezing feet screamed: “Okay, REALLY?” (And the fact that I wasn’t even grossed out by theduck blood just shows you how cold they were.)

I did finally find something to warm my feet.

And now we come back to the market. By this time the sun is up and people are filling the streets. This huge market is in some kind of tangle of alleyways between buildings and when we first enter, the excitement is thrilling.

So much to look at all at once! So many people everywhere!

The sellers mostly sit on the ground or on small overturned crates showing their wares; vegetables, huge heads of lettuce (I mean huge-20 inches long), fruits, all different types of rice and beans- Oh look! Live chickens! Aren’t they adorable? Some are in cages and one is being weighed on a scale, all bundled up. How cute! But then the farmer grabs one of the chickens by the ends of the wings and the chicken actually screams. Suddenly I understand the meaning of that scream and it all goes black for me.

I swear to god it sounds exactly like: “Help! Help!”

And right then and there I hate China. I turn away from our group and wander alone down an alley where only the Chinese strangers can see the Caucasian lady burst into tears. I wander awhile alone through the market and just can’t shake it. Suddenly everything here represents death and killing: duck heads and tongues; the huge 2 foot-long Sea bass, alive then knocked on the head and stunned, and while still in shock, scaled and gutted; the small cute green turtles in a plastic pail that most of us keep as little pets, but here are bound for live boiling…

A question keeps rising up in me having to do with the difference between pets and dinner. Many people in Shanghai have little dogs and I see them carry their dogs through the market. And in many restaurants and stands there are cats that are clearly pets. At this market I even see a yarn seller with brightly colored balls of yarn stacked up and a little calico kitten playing there. I’m SO afraid that kitten is headed toward a boiling pot somewhere, but evidently no. It’s just a pet. As is the Pomeranian a woman holds in her arms while she picks out a live chicken for dinner. But for me the lines are fuzzy and after the chicken incident I can’t seem to quite come back to myself. Even watching the guy put rice through a quick-boil machine and squeeze out instant rice paste on the other end doesn’t do it for me. And that would usually have me clapping my hands in joy. Who doesn’t love cool little machines?

But my heart is broken for the moment. So I’ll show you market pictures “sans” horrible chicken and fish stuff and I’ll try to return to my “happy Liz” for the next entry. There were more breakfast things but they’re kind of a blur.

Kitten NOT Chicken

The only good side note was that for Susan, the rest of day I was pretty quiet.

On the way to the next street food conquest our guide, Heidi, taught us that in Australia they like to add the sound “ee” to the ends of words. So they’re “Aussies,” a tall beer is a “tallie,” a “hungie” is a pit where you bury stuff to cook on coals underground, and a “damper” is a big round breakfast cake (I know, no ee sound). As if Chinese weren’t foreign enough! Here I think we’re all speaking the same language and Heidi spouts a sentence like: “My mum makes dampers in a hungie and then has a tallie while she waits for them to cook.” And I would stop to figure it out but she says this right in the midst of crossing a major intersection under a freeway overpass, where we’re about to be demolished by the mess of honking cars and jingling bikes and motorcycles, all because Heidi doesn’t want to waste time using the bridge for pedestrians. So if you don’t think Australians are nuts then you haven’t met Heidi. Singing her communications to us, and dancing and mugging for the camera all come with the territory.

Heidi & Susan

After our morning with the Communist singers, wind bamboo yoyos, and ballroom dancing and maracas in the park, Susan, in all of her Susan-ish exhuberance announces – she just loves Communism!

That echoes like a lead fart in the middle of the van.

In general, the places Heidi takes us today are on wide unassuming tree-lined streets, surrounded by tall buildings, in the middle of rows and rows of storefronts. Not a huge amount of design on the insides of these places, mostly fluorescent lights, unfinished ceilings, and truly, not very clean. We’d never find these places in a million years. We made our way over to Xinmei Ju where the owner treated us to lamb and beef cooked in a water boiling “hot pot” right at the table. Spinach, fresh greens, fish balls, scallions, tofu, spices, three different types of mushrooms, wanton wrapped pork, all went into the water to be picked out with chopsticks and dipped into a peanut and soy sauce, which was delicious. Heidi explained to us that this was a very traditional way to eat in Northern China.

Ingredients for the hot pot

I’m Excited!

The lamb delivery came in the middle of our meal and I watched the delivery guy bring in huge three-foot long canvass bags of lamb and dump them on the floor in a heap. Some of the lamb hindquarters spilled out and just lay there on the dirty linoleum until they were ready for butchering. Sigh.

Whatever. You just have to go with it.

My experience of traveling with Susan Feniger reminds me of my first game of paint ball. Just keep running and dodging till you can figure out how to get the hell outta there. But Susan wants to get as close to the original culture as possible to understand the roots of where their cooking comes from. See everything. Feel everything.

I’m not a big fan of feeling everything.

As an aside, when we were going to New York with my mother, Susan wanted to see the Broadway play “Next to Normal.” I read the critic’s review to my mother. It said: “it’s not a feel-good musical, it’s a feel-everything musical.” Silence. Then my mother answered: “I don’t want to feel everything.” So at least I know where my reticence comes from. But back to the subject at hand, traveling with Susan is a lesson in pushing my boundaries. So here we are in Shanghai. I don’t eat animals. And I don’t drink tea.

But pushing boundaries is usually how one discovers something wonderful. And that one wonderful thing I discovered has made this entire trip worthwhile. In Saigon it was Ba Ba Ba beer and Vietnamese coffee with condensed milk; here in Shanghai it’s boiled Coke with ginger. No need to re-read it. Yes, I said boiled Coca-cola with slices of raw ginger. My head almost exploded (in a good way) when I tasted it.

Evidently it’s a very traditional drink in Hong Kong and we had it at Fu’s Hong Kong restaurant. I really didn’t care what came to the table after I sipped this hot “medicine” in a coffee cup. I’d met my new little friend.

By the way, because she never listens to anything I say, Susan ended up secretly getting the tickets to the play “Next to Normal.” Pushing those boundaries once again. It was THE best theater experience I’ve ever had.

Welcome to China.

Tofu Skin & Gingko

Dried Laver. Seaweed!

Radish Cake

There’s nothing like seeing a group of older Chinese Communists singing Jingle Bells to Susan Feniger in the middle of Fuxing Park. HOW, you might ask, did this happen?? You know…. it’s just one of those things… those special, rare moments in life that you can’t explain, but you experienced, so you know happened.

Fuxing Park is huge, at least two miles square, much of it open space surrounded by trees, walkways, beautiful planted gardens, tables where the Chinese men play mahjong and cards by the pond and where many groups do Tai Chi in the mornings. There are also a lot of people in groups singing and doing ballroom dancing together. It’s absolutely stunning to see that many people actually USE a park at one time.

 There were people playing Wind Bamboo-a form of Chinese yoyo, which is almost a mish-mash between yoyo, ballet, and Frisbee. The closest I can come to describing it-is like a string between two handles, wound around a large top. You pull the strings back and forth, keeping the tension between them, and the top twirls on the rope, making a long hollow “bottle whistle” sound. All through the park are people playing Wind Bamboo and making that interesting sound. Some of them toss the top high up in the air and lasso it again, or toss it to each other back and forth. It’s great looking and actually mesmerizing to watch… Except when Susan and I tried it. Then it was like a child trying to walk for the first time. Lots of people gather to watch and laugh.

In the crisp fall weather there were also a big group of people dancing and shaking maracas to music and a leader at the front with a wireless microphone wrapped around his head like Madonna. He conducted or announced the next number and everyone fell in singing and dancing. We stood in the middle of them, just loving being surrounded by this much life, and an older Chinese woman suddenly gave Susan her maracas and mimed with her how to shake them to the rhythm. It’s just Susan’s energy that makes stuff like this happen. I was watching her stand amidst a group of Chinese people, shaking her maracas while they danced and sang. Surreal.

And that brings us back to the Communist singers. Heidi told us that they gather every morning here to sing old Communist songs, to remind themselves of “the good old days.” There were about 50 people being conducted by a woman who was standing at the top of a few steps of a small pavilion. Behind her, on three large parchments, hung the Chinese lyrics. In front of her at the bottom of the steps was the “band”- three people playing keyboard, violin and accordion. Susan waded in to get a better look and stood next to a tall Chinese man. He looked down at her, broke into a grin, and suddenly hummed “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” She laughed.

Then he made his way through the crowd and made some kind of announcement to the conductor. Everyone turned to look at Susan. He came back, grabbed her hand, and dragged her up to the top of the steps. Then suddenly the band launched into Jingle Bells, and then everyone was singing Jingle Bells in Chinese to Susan Feniger. We all sang along three times through the song and everyone applauded each other.

Then we were on our way, waving goodbye to our new best friends. And I still have no idea how it happened.

Things I Do Not Eat.
Things I do not eat: Snake. Starfish. Hairy Crab. Turtle. Snail. And while we’re on the subject, I’m not a big fan of seeing my food alive before I eat it. Big part of becoming a vegetarian. It’s like the old Disney adage, which I discovered while working in their animation department – anything that has a face can’t be eaten. Yes it’s true. They censored a scene because after the cartoon flowers sang, the cartoon character suddenly plucked them and ate them. It was hilarious, but Standards and Practices came back and nixed it. Can’t eat anything with a face. And if it’s good enough for Disney, it’s good enough for me.
But let me back up. We spent the day eating street food with our guide Heidi. Heidi is Australian, fluent in Chinese, with a very popular cooking show on TV here in Shanghai. She’s been unintentionally entertaining us with words like “barbie” (barbecue), “lolly” (candy) and “crikey” (the closest I can figure, it means Geez!). And she’s had a life that boils down to “I just did that and didn’t know where it was going to lead, but it worked out brilliantly.” (I hate her.) Anyway, she’s hilarious, singing, dancing, and suddenly blasting someone in guttural Mandarin when necessary.
Let me say this about Shanghai- beautiful city, especially at night. First impressions: very modern, lots of high-rises, colored lights, neon signs, Starbucks, 23 million people, and regular talking sounds like everyone’s yelling at each other. It’s an interesting blend of modern and not-so modern. Heidi drives us only 20 minutes from our hotel and we’re walking into an alley where 2 sisters own 2 different restaurants. The alley IS the restaurant of the first sister. People sit at small tables slurping broth and eating bone soup. (Yes, you guessed it-something I do not eat.) Susan digs right in and actually loves it. The food is finished right there on a table in the alley. Then you walk through the shared kitchen (I guess it’s a kitchen. More like a tiny room with a burner and a huge pot of noodles), past the cat and the litter box, and into a little room with a counter and some stools. That’s the domain of the other sister and the best damn toasted sesame noodles ever.
But I realize it’s the MSG in things that are making them taste good, so between the 14 hour flight, jet lag, the 3 coffees at the hotel – apparently with no caffeine whatsoever – and the large amounts of cheese I stocked up on for breakfast just in case, you can expect me to come home really really bloated.
After the noodles and bone soup, it’s on to the seafood restaurant. That’s where I encounter the cute turtles and the hairy crabs. They really do have hair on their legs! Susan cooks with the chef there and they make some kind of teensy tiny clams the size of your fingernail. Something else I do not eat (you’re beginning to understand the cheese for breakfast), and there’s lots of laughter when Susan can’t lift the huge wok.
I have to say, after Vietnam, I’m used to the kitchens being filthy dirty. There’s grease and grime on everything, dirty water on the broken cement floors, nothing really ever gets cleaned, but I figure- nobody died at this restaurant. Probably I’ve got it all wrong and I should be saying nobody Chinese died here. (The jury’s still out on ME.) It goes to show you what you can get used to though. What did unnerve me was the exterminators spraying our hall and around our door at the hotel room. I watched them spray poison on the walls, along the carpet, and in front of our door as I was waiting for the elevator this morning. Ew.
Heidi takes us to a Muslim Chinese family restaurant and the owner teaches Susan how to make stretch noodles. Well, he tries to teach her. It’s pretty funny because every time he says the Chinese word for “lightly” she thinks he’s saying “push harder.” Their 4 year-old son thought this was hilarious. But this stretching noodles is truly an art. These guys stretch the dough at least four feet wide between their hands, twirl them up in the air like pizzas, stretch pull, pound, tie, and magically, you’ve suddenly got amazing long noodles, which then go into a broth with, in my case, baby bok choy. Delicious!
Nighttime, we walk Xhouning Road, a long market street, in the rain and I watch sellers sitting on the street on stools in front of containers full of hairy crabs. These crabs are huge. They pick up the crabs, fold their legs in and wrap them up with string like little bundles. They use their mouths to hold the string while they tie the knot. Then they toss the “crab package” into a dirty round white plastic container, and on to the next crab. Over and over.
The glass full of live snakes is a set back. I’m not a snake lover but honestly, I don’t enjoy watching them slither up looking for an escape from being dinner. Instead I go into my little “Liz Space” where I concentrate on the pretty colors from the neon signs reflecting on the wet street at night. Beautiful. But pretty much this entire market street is full of sea creature death. Charcoals cooking huge mussels the size of a large hand, served with garlic puree on top; some kind of crustacean prawn-like boiled alive in chile oil and beef stock; starfish…well they’re just starfish… it’s a very long street full of what most people call yummy food.
But I’m cold, wet, tired, bloated, and I just really want to go home. To my cheese and my poison little room at the hotel.

Shanghai is really far away …unless you’re talking about Shanghai, Illinois.  (Yes, there is one.)  I don’t do “really far away” very well, which you would know if you read my blog from Vietnam. So I tend not to think about this trip until I’m actually packing for it. And I tend not to pack until the very last minute to try to save myself all of the angst that comes with thinking about it.  When I do start packing, my mind once again turns in on itself.  All the things that could go wrong are rearing their ugly heads. Breathe.

I admit it-I really am a terrible traveler.   Poor Susan Feniger!

But I’m going to do everything I can to head off any possible problems at home, so I don’t even have to worry about anything while I’m gone.  The door lock that broke got fixed; I made my pre-check of all my vitamins. Yep. Got em; the cat had her nails clipped; all is well…or not.

We’re going to Shanghai because Susan Feniger is an amazing Californian!  (well everybody knows that…) The California Tourism Board chose 12 “amazing Californians” to follow around with a camera last year. The resulting film is being shown in Shanghai and Susan has been invited to appear at the premiere in Shanghai and do a live cooking demo for the party.  While we’re there we’ll do some street food tasting and look into the nooks and crannies of Shanghai. What could possibly go wrong?

A few days ago Susan started coughing.  Gee, that will come in handy on a 14 hour flight. The next day she lost her voice.  Gee, that will be great for the live demo.  That night she was cutting kale and almost cut her finger off.  If you know Susan at all, you know she loves to fake scary stuff like cutting herself, burning herself, losing your car keys. It’s really really fun if you’re NOT ME.  Anyway, I thought she was faking the finger cut- except that she completely turned away and went dead silent. When I saw the cut and the blood gushing, being a good helper in an emergency, my first reaction was to almost vomit. Then I felt, as they say in Jewish, my “kishkas” fall out.  A few band-aids and hydrogen peroxide later we were almost back on track. I wasn’t going to make more out of this than it was. It was NOT a sign. But every time she tried to show me the horrible cut through her fingernail I would dry heave. And I wasn’t eating that kale, either.

Breathe. With all that behind us I figured the worst had happened, and I should now just finally relax and finish getting ready for the trip.  So when Susan called me and said: ”Liz, I’ve got all the animals in the car, there’s a fire in the hills really close to our house.”  I figured she must be kidding.  She wasn’t. Many fire engines, a burned down neighbor’s house, and an “all clear” later, my nerves were raw. Even then, I refused to see this as any kind of “sign” that things were going badly.

Breathe. We have a fountain outside our bathroom window that we’ve had for about 2 years. This fountain has broken maybe 18 times. It was working just fine yesterday. This morning I looked at it, not spouting water again, and I thought: “Of course.  This is the final sign.”

I’m now over the edge. No more breathing. The thought that we will get kidnapped by Chinese terrorists, looms dark in my thoughts while I shower.  I don’t know why they take us, but how will I react? I can’t even look at a bloody finger, how could I withstand being kidnapped?  Would I try to escape? Get help? Where? We’re probably being held in the middle of nowhere. Will I attack them when they aren’t looking-go all “Strike Back” on them? It’s a good thing I started working out again. What would I do to get us out of there if—

Oh. The fountain’s working again.

Never mind.

Why You Need a Guide in Vietnam: Back in Ho Chi Minh City, Susan and I were wandering the streets on our own for an afternoon and we came across a sweet little brown sign with pink letters that said in English: “Café and Lounge.”  Since the buildings in HCMC are tall, many of the little shops are up a few levels, giving them a very expansive feeling as you shop and look out over the city.  We imagined having our coffee in a quaint cafe, in a foreign land, seeing as far as the eye could see.  The cute winding staircase called to us like the Pied Piper to a village child. On the pink walls, there were even pictures painted of women doing beauty parlor stuff; holding a blow dryer; in garters straddling a chair.  Every wall of the tight winding staircase brought another cute painting of women at various stages of undress… Yes, you know where this is going, but for some unknown reason we didn’t.  We got all the way to the top of the ninety-nine steps (my homage to Nancy Drew)  before we finally realized that it was a brothel.  So much for the meaning of the word “lounge. ” We practically raced back into the protective arms of Captain.

So here a few final thoughts and pictures:

My two loves!

And don’t think I left the States without a food security blanket… unfortunately mine ran out somewhere in Hue.

Eat. The. PORK. Resistance is futile (that last part is for my Star Trek pals!)

A gentle reminder-everywhere we went

I realize now that coffee has probably been ruined forever for me.  Once we got to Singapore andwere in something that resembled “shopping” again, I noticed a Starbucks and practically wrinkled my nose up.  Maybe it was the heat, or the surroundings, or the circumstances, but I don’t think anything will ever beat sitting on the crowded sidewalk in the horrible heat, sipping Café Suh Da, that strong thick, sweet bit of heaven on ice.

The least heavenly of these moments was sweating under a tree in the outskirts of Hue, watching Susan Feniger get her fortune told, surrounded by baby chicks scratching in the hard dirt.  I could see Susan’s face as the old Vietnamese woman (who’d obviously had a hard life), told her she had two husbands and children somewhere, and I knew that Susan was not happy. She had been expecting a truly spiritual experience and this was falling far short.   After all these years I can tell when Susan is hiding her displeasure, and I could see the stubbornness setting in.  She wasn’t going to give the woman an inch.  “You have two children, and you had another husband before.” Susan’s jaw barely tightened but I saw it.  “No.” It was a battle of wills.  The woman wasn’t giving up on the husband idea though. “You will soon meet someone to be your husband.”  Susan started to shake her head “no.” Was she actually going to argue? Inwardly I screamed “For gods sakes, just say “yes” to everything so we can get the hell back in the air-conditioned van!”  When Susan finally gave in and we were back in the van heading to town and the hotel, I helped her shake it off by re-telling her fortune the way she wanted it told.

On the plane, as we flew out of Vietnam for Singapore, I noticed something odd. There were a few American men in cotton tee shirts. They seemed to be comfortable enough.  This led me to my NEW and final theory on heat and clothing in Southeast Asia: Cotton doesn’t kill Americans. Cotton kills American WOMEN.  Wow. Had the salesman at REI only told me that in the first place, I could have saved myself an awful lot of trouble and stayed home.

At this point I’m ready to consider cotton my mortal enemy and shred everything I own made of the dreaded stuff.  I’m also ready to come home.

By the way, I have to remember to be thankful for global warming.  I’ll never complain about the cold temperatures in LA again!

Tam biet Vietnam!

Lunch today was Pepsi.  Not for Susan of course.  For Susan Feniger, lunch was a delicious treat consisting of thousands of tiny fresh river snails chopped up and mixed with garlic, parsley, and bunches of other herbs on a sesame rice paper cake, folded, crunched up, and all dipped in some kind of dried shrimp and fish sauce.  We ate (I drank) lunch by a very peaceful river, under a gorgeous bamboo-roofed open sided restaurant.  You could actually look down and see the eel lazing around under the water on the rocks just below you.  But no matter how many things you add to it or dip it in, the concoction in front of me is still snails.  Ick.  Let’s add that to the list of things I don’t eat, shall we?

We’re in Hoi An, a charming little tourist town where many Vietnamese and some Caucasians come on vacation. And you can see why; small “walk only” brick streets lined with lovely shops; on the sidewalks women and children, sitting under umbrellas to shield them from the sun,  sell little clay whistles in the shape of all sorts of animals. (You can hear the hollow bottle-like whistles wherever you go on the streets.)  On the larger corners wait rows of the single-seat, three-wheeled bicycle taxis, their drivers napping in them while waiting for a fare.

Tailor shop after tailor shop lines the main drag in Hoi An. They’re all in rich dark wood with high ceilings, large fans whirling, filled with tropical ferns, sewing machines, and mannequins showing off their handiwork;  silk saris in every rich color, sparkling gowns, tuxes, dress shirts, leather jackets. They make it all, and quickly.  Go in for a fitting in the morning and by nightfall they’ll have it finished.   Gorgeous fabrics create multi-colored shelves from floor to ceiling, and women with names like “Flower” wait to help you choose material, standing by with their little powder blue measure tapes. That last part fills me with trepidation.

Before we came to Vietnam, Susan had already decided to get some chef’s jackets and pants made here at Yali (one of the better known shops in Hoi An), and because everything Susan does sounds like so much fun, I thought I’d bring a suit to get copied too.  So of course now I can hear her over there in one of the many rows of fabric shelves, chatting it up with two or three Vietnamese women, all laughing at how droll she is, while I’m here sweating in the horrible heat as Flower struggles to fit the blue measure tape around the circumference of one of my massive thighs.

The people here are generally tiny and slender, so nothing screams “American” more than our bigness. As a matter of fact, when I got up after drinking that Pepsi at lunch, the tiny red plastic chair (plenty big enough for the Vietnamese) came with me, wrapped around my hips. That was nice.  So now that Flower has pulled out the dreaded blue measure tape I’m having a bit of a conniption…inwardly, of course.  But if Susan Feniger can laugh and gaily chat away while undressing in front of a perfect stranger, showing all of her fat parts, then so can I.   I’ve undressed in front of a cute masseuse in Spain. I can do this.

Only a tiny little whimper escapes my lips as Flower surrounds my right thigh with the tape.   I look down at the horrible little blue numbers and …wonder of wonders…it’s in meters!  I can’t understand any of it!  Ahhhh.  Now I can live on in happy ignorance and, other than Flower, no one has to know…except all of the other people working in the shop.  I’m sure as soon as we leave they’ll all get an earful. I imagine them giggling about the “fat American.”  As a matter of fact, Flower is probably talking to them right now in front of me, all about my big thighs. I would never know as my trusty interpreter, Captain, sits at the front door of the shop with the security guard, speaking of “man” things.  After all, he is not “goomahn.”

After the horror of the Hoi An tailor, I need a distraction and Captain, true to his word, has rented motorbikes for us.  Since cars aren’t allowed in much of Hoi An, we now get to experience being real Vietnamese and drive our little motor bikes all over the city, through the markets, out to the beach, past the never-ending rice fields, green rice swaying in the wind, grazing long-horned buffalo (Susan keeps calling them Water Buffalo, and maybe they are); it’s all quite beautiful.

But first things first: over to the Banh Mi street stand, which Captain assures us is absolutely the best Banh Mi in the city, owned by Phuong Trang.  Phuong and her sisters and niece are all working the stand and are delighted when Susan wants to get back there and see what’s going on.  And I’m determined (after our river snail lunch) to finally eat something. Banh Mi is a sandwich of crusty French baguette, buttered and toasted on the wood burning grill, filled with (what else?) ham, pork liver pate, braised pork butt, chili sauce, cucumber, Thai basil, chives, sliced tomatoes, and the juice of the pork, all topped with a scrambled egg.  It actually is quite delicious!  We sit with Phuong and laugh together about – I truly have no idea what – while I furtively look around once again for the all–elusive napkin.

After the Banh Mi we motor over to a family owned rice paper factory.  What they refer to as rice “paper” is actually a thin round rice cake made of rice milk over an open fire.  There are about five fire pits going, each at which a man sits wearing a face mask and nong la (triangle hat), cooking the rice paper. First they spread the liquid mixture thinly over a stretched fabric to cook, then peel it up with a stick and either dry it in the sun on large screens in batches of twenty at a time, or send it to another fire where women sit with flat sticks that look like the ones you get to mix paint. These women continually turn the rice paper over the fire while flattening it with the sticks.  It makes a delicious flat sesame rice cracker and is a staple all over the country; you see them in stacks in the markets or you can buy the uncooked rice flour with which to make the paper.

When we get back to the hotel it’s over to the gazebo for a quick Café Suh Da and my moment of heaven.  There is a big television there and I get immediately immersed in the hugely popular Chinese series from the eighties called “Journey to the West,” which features the adventures of a Buddhist monk and his trials traveling to India to bring back Buddhist scriptures for enlightenment. On the way the Monkey King, the Sand Priest, a white horse, and a pig accompany him and help fight off demons and monsters. Humans play all of these characters and I get an immense kick out of the flashy costumes and terrible make-up. (Planet of the Apes, anyone?) But “Journey to the West” may be my newest passion, after Ba Ba Ba and Cafe Suh Da.  I’m deeply engrossed in the story (even though I have no idea what they’re saying) when I’m interrupted by Captain – running over to help a bunch of men roll a giant tree stump onto a hand-drawn cart.  He immediately takes control, barking orders (Captain just has that way about him, and they all listen), after which he returns, flexing his muscles and posing for us.  Captain has us in stitches reduced to tears through much of this trip.

On the way to our room, walking up three flights of stairs in ninety-five degree (I’m guessing) heat, Susan and I are amazed at how this city has so many modern developments yet the hotel can’t seem to provide an elevator or air conditioning in the hallways. Of course nothing says “modern day” faster than hearing yet another person say: “Are you Susan Feniger?  You were SO great on Top Chef!”

For our last night in Vietnam Captain Cook surprises us with a special poolside dinner at his hotel.  We don’t have the heart to say anything about how the heat is nearly unbearable outside, so we graciously sit.  He has gone out of his way to provide us with the things he has noticed we’ve liked best on our trip. There are vegetables, rice, and a whole fish (with head, eyes and all) for me, and everything else under the sun for Susan.  I just sweat and dig into the cold container of Ba Ba Ba at my side while Susan tries not to throw up at all the rats scuttling in and out of the plants along side of us.   A bunch of toasts later, followed by clinking cans and “Yo!” (“cheers” in Vietnamese), and  I don’t really care about the furry creatures sharing our meal.  Susan, on the other hand, eats with her feet crossed under her on her chair. I’m guessing she has her own list of “unacceptables.”

I’m learning so much in Vietnam. Evidently cotton DOES only kill Americans. The Vietnamese seem not to be bothered wearing cotton in the heat, and I’ve talked to some Malaysians who also are perfectly comfortable. Susan and I are just sticky all of the time, and of course I’m more vocal about my misery. Yesterday in the van, I took to putting a shirt over my head to block the sun because I just couldn’t take one more minute of it. (And what was the shirt made of? Say it with me now…cotton) Of course that prompted our guide, Captain, to start referring to me as an “Arab Goomahn.”

Captain’s English is excellent, in general, and he’s a real comedian, which comes in handy as a distraction. But his pronunciation can sometimes be unintentionally hilarious. “Goomahn,” we finally figured out, is how he says “woman.” I tripped upon this bit of information when he was describing the difference in dress for the sexes and he said “I am not goomahn, I am man.” Even better was when he described what we would do when we got to the hotel and chicken. That one stumped us. Chicken? I finally realized he was saying “check in.”

With all his wacky behavior; his propensity for singing love songs in answer to questions; proudly flexing his bicep muscles for everyone to see, Captain Cook is the one who has introduced me to my second love in Vietnam (after Ba Ba Ba), Café Suh Da. Coffee, milk, ice. Sounds simple enough and it probably is, but at thirty-nine degrees Celsius (trust me) and what feels like one hundred percent humidity, café suh da has saved my life several times a day here in this country.

It’s served in a short glass of ice cubes with a miniature spoon. The first layer is sweetened condensed milk with a layer of heavy dark-roasted Vietnamese coffee floated as a next layer, creating a two-tone drink. Mix it up with the tiny spoon and you have my latest passion. So at least twice a day, there we’d be in the middle some sidewalk, taking a break from the heat under strung up sheets, with all of the other Vietnamese folk. In our teensy tiny red plastic chairs at our teensy tiny red plastic table, sipping café suh da at that moment was a little bit of daily heaven (which shows you how far Heaven has slid). It was a moment that always provided me with a needed psychological break, which brings me to the market.

The Dong Ba Market in Hue is not that dissimilar than the other markets we’ve visited in each city; boisterous, loud, trafficked by people on foot and motorbikes, full of bright colors, smells (some not so wonderful), and so many things to buy! Captain stops to tell us that the fake money and little cardboard houses are for burning at a funeral so your loved one will always have a roof over their head and riches in the after-life. He shows us beautiful sandalwood fans, huge green and pink dragon fruit, sesame seed rice paper and I think to myself “I’ve done this. I’ve got the Vietnam thing down. I’ve eaten foods I don’t eat; pork, beef, shell fish (albeit unintentionally), the dreaded tapioca; I’ve been overheated, dirty, surrounded by strange sights, sounds and unfamiliar customs; I look at the ceiling and walls of practically every restaurant or hotel and see five inch-long albino lizards scuttling about without batting an eye. I’ve been to markets where they sell exotic foods (live baby eel anyone?); I’ve come a long way, baby. I’ve got this!” And just as I’m patting myself on the back, all sassy and arrogant, I pass a woman plucking live chickens. Yes, you heard me correctly. Live chickens. Holding them upside down by the feet and plucking them.

I want to go home. I want to pet my dogs. I want to speak English. I want to wear cotton. I want to- what is that?? A pig’s heart? Gaaah!

But the town of Hue is very beautiful. Colored lights on columns dot the main thoroughfares and string lights in star patterns span the streets, reminding me of Beverly Hills at Christmas time. Of course I now realize that, far from symbolizing the Baby Jesus, the star is on the Vietnamese flag and represents the communist government.

At dinner on our final night in Hue, we sit outside by the Huong River, the evening a little cooler than any time before. The Trang Tien Bridge in the background, is lit by colors that keep changing, providing us with a light show that could be of any sophisticated bridge in any modern city.

I’ve definitely been wrong about some of my descriptions of Vietnam as a “third world country.” On one hand, you’ve got big city centers with tall business buildings with constant growth and construction happening, on the other hand the construction workers building the tall buildings take their lunch break by napping in a long row on the sidewalk. Just lying there right on the sidewalk. It’s a conundrum. But right now I let it all fall away as we sit by the river in Hue, Ba Ba Ba in hand, the evening peaceful and lantern lit. I breathe it in and think to myself “I could almost be anywhere.” And it truly is lovely. Until the rats show up.

In truth, they were really cute, scurrying everywhere chasing each other. Susan says there were three but as usual she’s just being dramatic. I counted only two, which promoted the next discussion of which would you rather have, rats around your feet or lizards falling into your food? After the rats came around I looked up to see the usual three or four lizards scurrying above us on the ceiling. It didn’t take much imagination to realize that one missed little lizard footing, and…

At any rate, back to our aforementioned question: I choose rats and Susan chooses lizards. Vietnam has such a range of possibilities!