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!

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.”

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!

Today we are in Hue (pronounced whey). It’s a much smaller city than Ho Chi Minh and so charming in so many ways, with its brightly colored family “pagodas” and it’s small four-corners markets, and mainly – many less motorbikes.

This is like a miracle, because I hadn’t realized just how nerve jangling it can be hearing a never-ending cacophony of beeping, revving engines, and the zhhhhhz of a moving object going right by your head like a giant hummingbird. The best piece of advice we received about traffic in HCMC (that’s what those of us “in the know” call Ho Chi Minh City) was “don’t stop” when you’re walking across the street. Captain told us “if you stop, you’ll get hit.” It’s the most counterintuitive thing in the world to wade into hordes of moving traffic and not stop, but it actually works. The myriad of bikes and cars really do maneuver around you. By the time we reach Hue, we’re old hands at dealing with traffic.

Also by now, I’ve been acclimated to eating pork and beef at every meal, though I do still balk at whole shell-on shrimp. Our first stop of the morning is a little shop making the best Bun Bo Hue in the entire city. “Bun Bo” is like the Vietnamese Pho soup – but seemingly hardier. A soup of glass noodles, pork dumplings (how could I live without it at this point?), crab dumplings, and braised beef, with Vietnamese greens including Thai basil, all with squeezed lime and sprinkled with crumbled dried shrimp; it’s like the Kellog’s Cornflakes of the culture. The owner, Suan (translated as Spring), was thrilled that Susan had dropped by and sat down to talk, through Captain as the translator. Over our dish of Bun Bo, the soap opera unfolded. Suon, has a daughter, Kim Ngang, in Denver who works in a nail salon owned by her husband’s wealthy family. But Kim Ngang hates the work and hates her in-laws. Her dream is to open her own Bun Bo restaurant right there in Denver. Restaurant permits are very hard to get for a non-citizen, and her husband doesn’t want Kim Ngang to be independent, so neither he nor his wealthy nail-dynasty family will help her. But Suan talks to her from Vietnam and tells her she has to be independent and not under the thumb of her husband. See how infectious this is? What will happen next? By the end of the story we were all crying into our Bun Bo, with Susan promising to try to help Kim Ngang get a permit to open her own restaurant. I swear to god, we were all crying. That’s what Vietnam has done to me.

During Susan’s tale of woe, two little girls were playing with a sleeping dog on the sidewalk. I picked up my camera ‘cause who can resist children and dogs? But as is the way with little girls, the playing and laughing very quickly turned into annoying the dog, and pretty soon it was pulling his ears, lifting his lips, patting his head too hard, and in general reminding me why I hate children.

Next it was on to the rice-cake maker and a restaurant called “Ba Do” for the best Banh in the area. Banh are little different types of banana leaf wrapped tamale–like packages filled with rice milk or sticky rice, and things like shrimp and pork cracklings. When I heard “rice cakes” I thought “Finally. Something I can eat! I love sticky rice.” Sigh.

It seems that Vietnam is constantly challenging me to raise the tolerance level on my “ick factor.” For one thing, do you realize how many flies are constantly on the food in this country? None of the restaurants have any walls or a closed kitchen, so nature is upon you. I like nature. Just not in my food. So on the theme of “things I don’t like,” as I bit into the long-awaited Banh, I suddenly realized that in Vietnam, sticky rice and rice milk are synonymous with tapioca. There’s nothing I hate more in this world than tapioca, even flies on my food. Tapioca says to me “Get this out of your mouth immediately or you will vomit.” And once I was down that road, just for good measure, there was some kind of whole shrimp inside, shell on. Ick. A horrified, inward whimper rose up in me as I looked for somewhere to get rid of the Banh as quickly and quietly as possible. (One might think “a napkin” would be a good place to start, but so far in this country they don’t really have napkins on the tables-they have these tiny squares of tissue paper on which to wipe your fingers then throw on the floor.) And just as I was about to burst into tears, we heard someone in perfect English say: Are you Susan Feniger?! Oh my god, I watched you on Top Chef!” As Susan chatted up her fan from Virginia, it became apparent to me that “the only way out was through” and I swallowed. Ick

Our visit to an orphanage called Thuy Suan Village, was a highlight. There they have a baking program run by a French non-profit that teaches the orphans to be bakers, then helps them find work. There’s even a famous bakery in Hue, where the products baked by the orphans are sold. Susan was immediately surrounded by curious baking-boys who proudly gave her a tour of their kitchen. They all spoke a smattering of English, which was very impressive, and we tasted some of their vanilla custard cake which was delicious, after I got the flies off of it. By the end of our visit, she had exchanged e-mail addresses with one of them and had graciously received their gift of a stuffed Mister Potato Head doll.

We drove out into the country so Susan could have her fortune told by an old Vietnamese medium. It turned out that the toothless, deeply lined, white-haired, tiny lady (who had perfectly painted toenails, we both noticed) had much to say about Susan’s future. I must remember to tell Josh and Mary Sue that eventually Josh will return to Susan, and evidently Mary Sue’s two children are actually Susan’s.

On the way home, we stopped to look at the expansive rice fields, worked mostly by women in iconic triangle hats (called Nong La), and the many grazing buffalo. The serenity is all encompassing in many parts of this country. To get a better view we walked out into the fields and had to jump over some of the water-ways. I now have video of Susan victoriously leaping across the tiny canal…right into a pile of buffalo crap.

I love Hue. Oh, and Banh Chien? It turned out to be fried rice.

A little perspective and a night’s rest has mellowed me somewhat toward Vietnam. In the barrage of motorbikes and horrible frogs, I didn’t mention the more pleasant activities of Day One. (I have no idea what the date or day of the week is, so I have to refer to our trip as Day One and Day Two.) However we did go to a street stand for grilled pork and sat in the alley on teensy tiny plastic chairs at a teensy tiny plastic table, which is what you see on the sidewalks and in the alleys all over the city. Even men in business suits take their lunch or sit and sip a Pepsi at these low little plastic tables and chairs, making it seem as though everyone’s sitting on furniture for children. In the alley next to the stand we ate a dish made up of glass noodles with fish sauce, peanuts, fried onions, grilled pork, diced pork belly, and shredded braised pork. (See at this point, my naturally sarcastic sense of humor wants to say something about the lack of pork in the dish…but I will refrain.)

In general, the people here have either ignored my camera, or have asked Captain Cook, what’s going on. Naturally he tells them that we’re from CNN and they should turn on their televisions tonight and see themselves. (I haven’t mentioned yet that Captain Cook is a real operator). He says everyone will give us permission to shoot when they hear “CNN.” I want to make him my new agent.

But the real reason I fell in love with the little pork grill on the alley lies in the fact that it’s where I was introduced to Ba Ba Ba. “Ba Ba Ba” translates to “3-3-3” and is a major Vietnamese beer. And since we’re not drinking the water, and since it’s over a hundred degrees, and since the humidity is like eighty percent, and since cotton kills, Ba Ba Ba has become the new water.

Now you begin to understand the mellowing.

So along with the pork, pork, pork, and Ba Ba Ba, I watched a family prepare their dinner on an open cook-fire in the alley. The mother squatted in front of the fire, fanning it and cooking in a wok-like pan, a little girl toddled around and eventually was scooped up and kissed by her father, while a mid-size yellow dog sat on the stoop along with the rest of the family and waited for the meal to be finished cooking. They squatted, smoked, laughed, and every once in a while a motorcycle zoomed through, beeping to clear the way. But the star of this family was a wiry middle aged, chain-smoking woman dressed in yellow short pants and matching yellow tee shirt (evidently cotton only kills Americans).

When the Woman in Yellow saw us approach she suddenly became a film director. No ignoring the camera or asking Captain what was happening, she leaped into action and told Susan, me, and the pork griller where we should stand and where to shoot from (none of it in English). And even though it must have been obvious that we had no idea what she was saying, she never stopped talking until she had decided she was satisfied. Then finally she motioned her hands together as if to say “Now. Go ahead.” and stood back and smoked. So while Susan remembers fondly sitting in the alley on the little plastic chairs eating the marvelous Bun Thit Nuong (all pork all the time…but that’s my translation), I remember Ba Ba Ba and the Woman in Yellow.

After the pork, we visited Banh Xeo, a street restaurant known for the best Vietnamese pancake in the city. Banh Xeo actually means “Vietnamese pancake” so that was lucky because since we arrived, Susan has been practicing “thank you” in Vietnamese. “Cam on” with a downward lilt is what it’s supposed to be, but she has never gotten it right, and most times people look at her and have no idea what she’s trying to say. The beauty of Susan Feniger is that she’s undaunted. I tried to tell her that the comparison would be someone trying to say “thank you” in English, but if it came out sounding like “sa-oo,” we’d have no idea what they meant either. It didn’t stop her from trying to say “thank you” to absolutely everyone, at all times, and once again I wanted to get a gun. But I digress…

Banh Xeo was a covered restaurant with no sides, just a couple of counters and the hot cooking area in the front, where three cooks, squatting in front of open wood fires, cooked the Vietnamese pancakes in saute pans. They each operated five fires, so each cook made five pancakes at a time. It was really something to see and once again, I was reminded that there’s no health department here to insist on closed kitchens. What a life!

Rice flour and coconut milk make up the pancake and then they add pork belly (my new best friend), shrimp, and onions and sometimes cook an egg on the top and then load the whole thing with bean sprouts. It gets served with mixed green lettuce, mint and Thai basil… and my Ba Ba Ba. Somewhere in all of the long tables under the eaves, a guitar and tambourine made the rounds and often we heard groups of people clink their beer glasses together and as a group shout “Yo!”

Day Two was where we discovered Vietnamese iced coffee. Crushed ice, sweetened condensed milk and the dark strong coffee that Vietnam is famous for, made me a believer. I noticed that in the sweltering heat, it didn’t bother me one bit that we sat on tiny little plastic chairs at tiny little plastic tables, on the pavement amongst a row of motorcycles, my head nearly touching the rubber tread. You go to war with the army you have.

Also on Day Two we drove outside of the city where Susan cooked with a famous Vietnamese restaurateur and television Chef, Cam Van Dzoan. Mrs. Dzoan is about sixty, soft spoken with grey hair tied up in a bun, and lives on the most beautiful farm property next to a river. Her property is loaded with star fruit, jack fruit, and Vietnamese Cherries. There’s a pool covered with a footbridge where many of her ten dogs nap in the heat of the day. It’s an amazingly calm and serene setting, a Shangrila.

In her spacious covered outdoor kitchen, Mrs. Dzoan cooked with Susan while I filmed, didn’t complain about my heat seeking cotton tee-shirt, and got eaten alive by insects. In the middle of everything a bug the size of Kansas dropped into my hair, so even though I managed to scream inwardly, you’ll be seeing me in a headscarf for the rest of the trip.

On the plane leaving Ho Chi Minh City (still Saigon to many of its residents), now bound for Hue, surrounded by Vietnamese people I felt a slight scratching on the back of my arm. I turned and a little hand was sticking through the opening between our seats from the row behind. A two-year old Vietnamese girl smiled, peeked through and said in her little voice “thank you” in English. I was so surprised to hear a little child speaking English that I laughed and waved at her. She said “thank you” again. I stuck my hand through, shook her hand and said “thank you” back to her like a sing-song. She said “thank you” again and so did I. The little voice saying “thank you” echoed from behind us over and over, clearly the only English words she knew and it suddenly struck me: here’s someone Susan Feniger could have a conversation with.

By the end of our stay in Ho Chi Minh City, Susan had added the word for “good bye” to her huge roster of Vietnamese. “Tam biet!” she shouts to everyone, almost as much as she abuses “Cam on.” Usually it’s when she’s leaning out the window of our van, waving as we drive away from someone we’ve met. Surely people on the street must think she’s some sort of poor idiot…or just an American.

Tam biet, Saigon!

But before we do, I won’t even bore you with the details of my massage in the Singapore Changi airport. Ok, a tiny detail. About to get on a plane for 17 hours straight, I didn’t want to wear my Sunday best, so I wore my undies with holes. Which would have been nobody’s business but my own…until the masseuse told me to take off everything except my underwear. Oh, the horror. But didn’t I say I was rewinding?

Ho Chi Minh City hosts ten million people and seven million motorbikes. So those pictures you always see of streets jammed with motorcycles and bikes are really true. Which is leading me to believe in pictures. I remember thinking the same about Tuscany: it really was as beautiful as its pictures; hanging grape vines, azure-blue skies, mottled black and white cows dotting rolling green pastures, thick women in babushkas picking olives and stuffing their aprons, blazing sunsets in glorious hues… that was a pretty good trip. Why couldn’t I have that trip back?

At first, all of the two wheeled vehicles weaving in front of our van reminded me a little of LA at rush hour- people everywhere – except that there are so many more people, and none of them seem to be bothered by each other, and most of these people have their faces covered in masks or bandanas, reminding me that besides not drinking the water, I probably should be not breathing the air (but too late on that one). Literally thousands of bikes and Solexes (remember those?) and motorcycles crowd the streets and sidewalks, some carrying three people; a woman with a tiny shaggy cream colored dog resting on the handle bars (Augie!) as she weaves her way through the jammed intersection; a two-year old boy in a little face mask, nestled in front of his father-also in a face mask; a boyfriend dialing his cell phone with one hand while maneuvering the motorcycle with the other, his girlfriend behind him on the seat. Young, old, rich, poor, male, female- this is the way you roll when you’re not one of the thousands driving a car. I have driven in Manhattan, I have driven in Florence at rush hour, but this is a different animal entirely. It seems as though every moment there’s going to be a tragic accident, and I have found myself scrunching my shoulders with a sharp intake of breath a bunch of times today…and then, miraculously, there’s no scream, no clatter of mangled aluminum or crunching of bloody bone. Not even any road rage here. But you can see where my mind is heading.

The Ben Thanh market is a huge covered market, cement floors, alleys shooting in every direction full of counters and stands, hanging flags, toys, knick-knacks, bottled fruits, women selling baskets of mangostine off of bicycles, a treasure-trove of local food and flavor, once again harkening me back to the colorful, happy, crowded market “La Boqueria” in Barcelona. I have pictures there of candy counters sporting layers of so many different colors and unimaginable configurations of confections, you just want to dive in and eat your way into Nirvana (or sugar shock, but in my world they’re synonymous). That was a pretty good market. Why can’t I have that market again?

No need to remind myself I’m in a third world country. Very crowded, people of all ages, motorbikes “beep” to let you know you’re about to be run over- something that is just part of life here. I do notice that there doesn’t seem to be any sense of personal space being invaded. In LA, if you step in front of someone, or cut them off while driving, you’re treated to some kind of expletive describing members of your family. Here, it’s somehow just part of being. The loud clattering of an ancient ice-crushing machine operates every few minutes, adding to the jangle of sound in the market. A block of ice about three feet long goes in, and shaved ice comes sliding down the trough into a box on the other side. A little boy in shorts and sleeveless shirt helping his mother batter and wok-fry minced tuna patties is quaint and cute. The language, so unfamiliar, my ear not yet acquainted to it, falls harshly and sounds sudden and staccato to me. I notice a series of bats, wings spread, pinned beneath glass the way I’ve seen butterflies mounted. I was preparing myself to see hanging dogs and cats over the butcher counter (something I have not seen…yet). I was not preparing myself to see a platter of huge live grouper fish stacked in rows, mouths desperately gasping for air, or a burlap sack full of live toads (they eat toads?) climbing over each other looking for an escape, or a bowl of frogs skinned alive and headless…still moving and clambering around the bowl. I did say skinned and headless. Right about the headless, skinned frog time I start to think: “I want to go home!”

Images keep flashing before me…more like waves of feeling enveloping my senses… me at seven years old, away at summer camp, feeling lonely, scared, unprotected, surrounded by strangers and trying to make sense of my little world… or later, alone in a tent in the mountains of Mongolia, constantly unwrapping and counting my vitamins in order to see how many days more I would have to endure, surrounded by strangers and trying to make sense of this strange and beautiful world… or awakening from nightmares on a Turkish sailboat, in an unfamiliar place, the language, the smells all unrecognizable. I think in the est Training they call this having a “stack-attack.” I remind myself that it’s only day one. This is par for the course. Things will get better.

Even so, I breathe a huge sigh of relief when we leave the market, get back into the van and head for District 1, where we will be treated to a meal of fried crab (which I don’t eat, but I’d do anything at this point to get away from those frogs). 94 is a brightly lit, white tiled eight-table joint (I know this because the table numbers are painted in red on the wall over each table) bustling with business. The cooking is all done on counters and a raised station in the front of the place, just off the sidewalk. By this time I’ve grown used to the constant barrage of motorcycles going by in never-ending packs. The owner, a young woman named Mai, is in a stained apron, hair pulled back in a pony-tail, and working a three-sided station all by herself. True to the owner’s mind, she keeps looking toward her employees in the back, checking on them and frowning. No doubt they’re not doing enough.

I’m confronted first with a flat pan of small brown crabs, stacked like rows of cookies. I think it’s sort of cool looking till the claws reach up…yes, of course…they’re all alive. Sigh. Well, I can do this. I’ve been to Crustacean in Beverly Hills, for god sakes! If I can get through the live lobster tank, I can do this. But once again, I’m woefully unprepared. Susan orders what she wants, all they serve is crab, so it’s something to be battered and fried in a wok. The young waiter in a turquoise shirt, who I thought only moments ago was so adorable, picks up a crab and begins cutting him to pieces with a little scissors. Alive. The crab definitely feels it and I won’t go into how I know this… I’m five years old and I’m walking home to my grandma’s house from the library. But I’ve clearly made a wrong turn somewhere. Although the streets look right, they all look the same and none of the houses are my grandma’s house. The sick feeling inside that I try to fight down is the rising tide of fear. It’s welling up into the back of my mouth and I want to throw up. Where am I?
Ahh yes. Ho Chi Minh City.

Pictured above: Liz eating breakfast at Cholon Market.

We’re not even ON the airplane yet. We’re still in the lounge and Susan’s already begun her favorite little “travel game.” It involves lots of numbers, time zones and math. Something to do with ” If it’s 3am here, and we’re going to be on the plane for 17 hours, what time will it be here when we arrive there? Wait. If we want to get at least 6 hours sleep, what time do we have to sleep and wake up? Then what time would we be eating? Is there a time change between Singapore and Vietnam? The ticket says it’s a 2 hour flight, but the time looks wrong. If it’s 7 am when we land in Singapore and we have a 3 hour layover, what time will we get to Vietnam?” Thus the need for the gun. Instead I did what any sane person would do…I ordered a beer. It reduced all of that math to a faraway buzz. Ahhhh.

Now on the plane, Susan is dumbstruck to find out there’s NO INTERNET. No matter how she asks the question, there’s still no internet connection. I can see her looking around for something to do with all of that pent up work energy. It’s like an engine revving up, ready to blow. Then… “If we can stay awake for another couple of hours what time will it be in LA? Then we can sleep and wake up and…wait. What time will it be in Singapore then? Will your mom be up then? Maybe we can email her. Wait. What’s the time difference again from Singapore to Detroit? They just said we’d land an hour early. What time does that mean it is for us?”

Press the call button quickly. Champagne please?

More later…

PS — is this a blog? I have no idea what a blog is.