What I was writing during my first KITTY (5-year-olds) class

I am standing here, writing in my notepad and stealing glances of the material on my desk, as I pretend to look like I'm busy doing something. I have one hour, thirty minutes (one hour, fifteen if you don't count the break) left trapped in a classroom of kindergartners. My communication skills with fledgling students of English is nonexistent, so I sent them to color in their books. Help me. Send help. The TA is sick and I don't know what to do. I'm an impostor! I catch a kid here and there, staring at me, bewildered. Don't worry, tyke. I'm just as confused as you are. Man, I'd love to color right now. Maybe we'd have one thing in common, one thing to talk about. What? You like butterflies? No shit, me too. Pass the pink crayon, will you?

Xe máy dầu

The motorbike is an integral part of Vietnamese transportation. I've deduced that motorbikes are essentially extensions of Vietnamese themselves. I've written before about the insane hive-mind that traffic creates, the near seamless stream of bikes, motorbikes, people and cars that wind through streets and circle massive roundabouts. Motorbikes can squeeze anywhere, go anywhere, ride down stairs and in the tiniest strips on a sidewalk, serve as a cargo vehicle to carry mattresses and huge potted plants; they are crucial to the daily life of a Vietnamese.

This first video is just a brief capture, while riding on my friend Sandy's motorbike. This was on New Year's Eve, where the streets got even more crowded and wild.


This is from the balcony of Sandy's house. This stream went on for at least an hour, maybe two. It was shortly after midnight, and people were going to their homes, but most were going to pagodas and temples.

Red-light massage

Never judge a book by its cover. However, you are fully encouraged to render judgment of a salon in Nha Trang.

Last night, I had a great massage. For the equivalent of $14.40, I was in a classy, sophisticated, brand-new salon that was head-to-toe bliss for an hour. Tuvan throat singing and Philip Glass-inspired tunes lazily played as quiet background music during the massage, which was followed by scented water and fresh watermelon at the end. The establishment was a mid-range spa, easily beating the over-extravagant spa down the road, and being pricier than the questionable place.

But, because I'm cheap, and a few dollars makes a difference on a tight budget, this morning I decided to patronize the questionable spa; a dark, narrow storefront sandwiched between a convenience store and an alleyway. $6 didn't sound bad for an hour-long foot massage, and since I sprained a tendon, that sounded great.

I knew I should have walked out the moment I catch a full glimpse of the spa. The tiny foyer was full of female employees, lounging in chairs and sprawled over sofas. All of them wore the uniform of tiny booty shorts and tank-tops that revealed a couple inches of skin and hip. They all wore metal bangles on their wrists, tinkling their siren song to potential clients whose intentions I'm sure are not all that honorable. I was quickly handed a menu and escorted to a seat, where I pointed out my choice - 1 hour foot massage, $6.

I had to pay upfront, which was odd. I would later realize that they probably had many a client who would try to balk out of payment. How strange, why on earth would that ever happen.. I locked up my bag in a locker, and was pointed to go up a stairway that ended in darkness. Uh. Okay.. I was led past a row of private cubicles that served as individual massage rooms and into a room that was, I guess, for foot massages. This is when I started to realize I may have walked into something a bit deceptive.

The roof was slanted, coming to a dangerous low point near the windows. Six loudly-colored vinyl recliners were lined up against the wall, and the cramped space also contained four massage tables like little sex-room soldiers. A big TV was on the wall, and I pretended to be very engrossed in the programming.

The man left me alone with a towel, and I sat there for a few moments wondering exactly what was going to happen. Finally, one of the booty-short-clad girls came in with a bucket. She grabbed a foot soaking machine from the corner. The water immediately turned a sick, muddy color when she put it in the soaker, which was aged and dirty and probably festering with a whole lot of.. well, I'm not sure I want to think about it.

For an awkward 10-15 minutes, I sat with my feet in this machine, the gross-colored water burping up, its little engine trying its damnedest to muster forth some sort of jacuzzi-like action. For awhile, I was left alone, watching the TV. As I surveyed the room, and imagined what sort of atrocities occur here on a nightly basis, an instrumental version of House of the Rising Sun began to play on the TV over a collage of images of pure, white virginal flowers and fields. I could barely contain my laughter over this irony. To top it off, when the girl returned, she turned off the main bank of lights and the room was cast in a sultry, red glow.

For brevity's sake (a talent of which I do not possess), I'll just say that the massage totally sucked, and I'm coated in a weird, greasy oil from the knees down. It didn't even end up being a full hour, and at the end, she handed me this notepad that was a feedback slip, and asked, "Tip? You tip me now?" I see she had already checked "Good" on the paper. Baffled, I said I had my money in my bag, and made a beeline for the locker. I thought I could escape, but she was already there, waiting, so I handed her a dollar and made way for freedom and fresh air.

Oh, and another bizarro thing. The whole time the TV was on, it was playing nice programs, like traveling in Venice and talking about the Carnival, and all of this nice stuff. Then, it showed some cool information about Akihabara in Tokyo, with lots of footage of technology and computer stores. As I was getting done, another segment with cats started. One boy was snuggling with a big fluffy grey-and-white cat. I thought how nice it was, then the next scene was a shaved, dead cat, hanging from its neck from the ceiling. A woman sliced the skin of its paw and put the limb to her mouth. The camera zoomed in on the skin as it ballooned up.

I should have taken the hints where 1) the windows of the business were tinted, 2) their operating hours are until midnight, 3) a harem of women waited in the foyer by the open door, 4) oh yeah, the place is so totally, obviously, undeniably a brothel, I can't believe I allowed myself to go in there. So excuse me now, I think I have a bottle of industrial-strength cleaner that I'm going to soak my extremities in.

The positive aspect of this? At least I still have all of my organs intact.

Observations

Just some things to note.

* Riding home on the bus one afternoon, I was people-watching through the window. Along my main road where I live, there's a stretch of four or five street barbers who set up shop right on the sidewalk. Mirrors are strung up and tied from branches and fenceposts, with chairs plunked down in front of them.

A fat man, with an indiscernible neck and chin that melted over the top of the cinched cutting cape, was smiling widely and laughing. I saw his squishy face in the reflection, and the porno magazine in his hands. The pages were spread with a cacophony of pneumatic women, all Caucasian, with disproportionately-sized breasts and airbrushed, tanned bodies. He pointed to one, showing the man cutting his hair, who seemed rather nonplussed by the whole situation. Pornography is illegal here, so I wondered how he obtained such a trashy rag.

* Going to my favorite vegetable vendor in an alleyway, I passed by a tiny, crying boy in his school uniform and little backpack. He was bawling, and an angry grandmother was yelling at him. He stood there, unmoving and wailing at the top of his lungs. She screamed something at him, and gave him a hearty whack with the massive, rolled-up bamboo mat she had on her hand, as if she were a batter. This prompted the kid to cry even more, but he didn't move. On my way back, the same kid was in the alleyway, though a little closer to the street, alone and sniffling. I stole a glance inside the house, and I swear I saw another kid lying on a bed with his arms and feet behind him. Maybe he was sleeping. Maybe he was tied up for being disobedient. All I know is that these kids didn't really want to go to school.

* Discovering a Loving Hut near my work was an absolute joy, and after trying to relay my order and enjoying my pho soup, a student of mine and his family came in. I met them, said hello, and after my meal, my student had paid for it. I was really awed and appreciative of his gesture of kindness. I'm still getting used to being this teacher figure.

* People are really receptive and excitable when you try to speak their language. I spent a good 20 minutes at the end of one of my classes learning Vietnamese numbers, various names, and how to say "I love pho!" I was applauded for my attempts, and laughed at for my garbled pronunciation.

Old man

He stood, a wizened, age-old defiance in the face of the elements that threatened to tear him down. A short, fragile body, he was hardly much more than a skeleton stitched together with strips of lean, sinewy muscles under a weather-tanned, leathery skin. He held himself up with a tall branch, steadying himself in the undulating sand. The water swelled and crashed around him, trying to swallow him whole. But he stared steely ahead, only his cottony tuft of a white beard fluttering in the ocean breeze. He was naked, except for a bloated, stained, old cloth wrapping that diapered around his waist. Sometimes, he struggled, bracing himself with both hands on the wood, and catching his step before he could fall into the water and be swept away. For who, or what, he was provoking with the tenacious proof that this old man could still stand, I don't know. But I think he was winning.

Reflections

The heat is on. The sun is bearing down with such tenacity, I've resorted to using the air conditioner a lot more than I would like. The air is thick, sending my body in weeping sweats no matter what time of day. More and more people are clogging the roads in anticipation of the Tet (New Year) holiday. Sweet and savory scents fill the air as the cooking frenzy begins.

I went running last night on the beach, hoping that the nighttime would bring some relief to the heat. I ran until the lightposts on the walkways ended, and further pursued the darkness. The moonlight made the water semi-translucent, sending waves of greens and blues to the sand. I looked up at the sky, and had to stop.

It was black; perfectly, perfectly black, and studded with a handful of white sparkles strewn across its canvas. I was struck frozen in my tracks, in awe at the perfect dichotomy. Never was the sky so void and endless, and the stars so sharp and pure. Venus hung amidst it all, an unblinking speck of orange, and I saw Orion's magnificence in such crystal clarity. He looked different from this side of the world, but I could see his belt, his arms, his poise. Even the city's lights didn't bleed into the sky, and I don't know how long I stood with my gaze fixed on the heavens.

Walking home from school tonight, I soaked in the city and avoided listening to music on the thirty minute journey. I allowed myself to become more aware of my surroundings, and not just to avoid getting mowed down by a motorbike.

There were the young men on the corner, shrouded in a cloud of smoke from the skewered meat they grilled. The teenager who skidded his bike to a stop next to a girl in a slinky, teal green shirt who was waiting alongside the street. I could hear the smile in his voice as he laid his hand gently on her arm. There was the tiny, Catholic service sandwiched in a room between a pharmacy and an alleyway entrance, twenty or thirty voices singing hymns in harmony. The thumping music blaring from speakers outside two trendy cell phone stores, packed with helmet-clad customers with their bikes lined on the sidewalk outside. "Hey, hello!" a xe om driver called at me, with a grin. The old woman walking with bundles of empty plastic bottles slung to her body. The raucous, explosive laughter of students at night school, and the shrieks of little kids who ran across the roads.

Outside my balcony, I see many rooftops and rocket hotels. Even through closed doors, I can hear the horns honking, the people yelling, the screams and laughter. Motorbikes revving and screaming down the street puncture the lapses of quietness. I've learned to sleep through it, the only thing that wakes me up now are the bugles and music from the military base.

Still, it's unfamiliar. It's all strange. Even though I don't get lost walking home anymore, I feel very alone, very much residing on the outside, like an unseen satellite orbiting the great unknown. I'm learning things, here and there, and try to practice the few words of Vietnamese I've picked up. I don't feel properly ingratiated, but who would when they're living in a foreign country and can't even speak the language?

I guess that's what I admire about my students. People who study for hours a day, go to classes many times a week, all to learn a language that rolls off my tongue with such ease. Sure, I've studied languages myself, but never have I seen such dedication. It's admirable, and something I wish American students would strive for and be exposed to. I feel I miss out on so much, because such language-learning opportunities were never made available when I was a kid. I look at the ten-year-olds that create sentences with ease, and only see such great futures ahead of them.

I'm jealous of their fortunate exposure, but happy I can be a part of the process. Perhaps that's why I feel more at ease at the schools, because it's something that's familiar, something I actually know. Even the skies are different here, and so much is different. I hope I find my place. I hope I accomplish something. I hope I make a difference, and learn a lot more about another world, because what would be the point if I don't?

Five..

Five people who pee in the streets. I don't know exactly why I'm so fascinated with it.

This teacher thing is getting weird. I'm getting more questions about who I am, what I'm doing. People usually introduce themselves with a simple inquiry: "Hello, may I ask you some question?" I'll never say "no," and then they rattle off asking who I am, where I'm from, what am I doing here in Nha Trang, how do I like it, how long have I been here, how long I will stay.

"Teacher, teacher!" I'm now learning to respond to that. Booksellers, young folk who have photocopied books strapped to the back of their bikes, have for the most part stopped trying to sell me stuff, but one young boy screamed, "TEACHER! TEACHER! You need books! You buy books, yeah??" And politely, I declined. But a teacher needs books, you see. Even at the restaurant where I ate dinner, the same boy grinned at me and said, "I'll find you later! Promise??"

The instant I'm in a new group of students, I'm immediately called "teacher." "Teacher, will you explain this? Teacher, will you tell me how to pronounce this?" A younger boy gave me his seat on the bus.

I also get curious looks as I wear my ao dai. The semi-formal wear that I see handfuls of Vietnamese women wearing has become a topic for the girls I encounter. The women who work at the hotel I live at oohed and ahhed when I came downstairs. "Beautiful! You look so beautiful!" they cried. My face must have been as red as the crimson doormat, as I blurted out nervous thanks.

I get to the language school, and walk into the teacher's lounge. One of the men stopped, looked me up and down and exclaimed, "You look beautiful! So beautiful!" I'm escorted to a class by a Californian, Mr. Tim, and once I enter, one of the 12-year-old boys yells out, "YOU'RE PRETTY!" After, Sandy, a new friend picks me up from the school to go out for coffee, and throughout the night, she can't stop complimenting me on the dress and how I look.

This is surreal! I know they are being polite, and I don't really believe I look nearly a quarter as nice as everyone is fluffing it up to be, but I think they are pleased I am doing my best to look professional and part of Vietnamese society. Through my attempts to appease them, and to fit in, they are not shy about expressing their approval.

Aside from the insane reception I've gotten from being a professionally-dressed teacher, I think I'm getting more at ease with the students. Yesterday, I did about two hours on my own with the reading class. I went over homework, explained vocabulary, did a slideshow about advertisements and so forth. I even got a few laughs from them, and some horrified cries and giggles when I told them the story about the fat American woman who was grafted to her couch (it was relevant, I swear).

Today, the speaking class wasn't even half-full, as many of the students left for Tet (New Year). We talked about transportation, and Ms. Ha and I showed a slideshow about different vehicles and accidents. Everyone giggled when the photo I got of a moose accident in Alaska came up. Talking about winter bicycling, the Iditarod, and other Alaskan things was nice, but it made me feel awfully homesick..

I'm trying to get a job at a language school, thus the reason for being at one earlier. The class of about 12 young students was full of contagious energy. They all pick English nicknames that they go by, and in the midst of Todd and Lily and Kitty, one entrepreneurial boy named himself "Obama." The kids also picked team names for an adjective game, and aptly called themselves "Team Super Dogs" and "Team: NEVER DIE."

Tomorrow, I'm going to observe a class of eight-year-olds, which I'm a little nervous about, but if they're at all like TEAM NEVER DIE kids, I think it should be pretty entertaining.

Oh, and on the topic of nicknames, apparently I'm now "White Mouse" - Mouse, because being born in the Lunar Year of the Rat, and White because, well.. that's pretty obvious.

Four..

..is the amount of people that I've seen pissing in public. 3 guys, 1 girl.

I went out for a night walk on the beach, and I finally think I've come to partially understand the way of young Vietnamese flirting rituals. It usually involves a combination of: a) zipping around the streets on the motorbike, while the girl sits on the back texts on her cell, b) parking motorbikes and hanging out on a lighted section of smooth concrete by the beach and clustering in bunches like grapes on a vine, and certainly not least c) stumbling around in the sand on the shore, threatening to swing the girl into the water and hearing her shrieks pierce the air.

C happens a lot, just in general. I saw a load of schoolgirls in shirts and shorts yesterday who gathered by the fives at the breaking waves. With every crash, they screamed and screamed, and one's scream just happened to go a little longer as the other girls heartily shoved her into the oncoming wave. Most screaming ensued when she bubbled to the surface.

Boys just wrestle each other in, but boys with girls - they're a little sneakier. They'll walk with their arm around the girl, cleverly and subtly guiding her closer and closer to the water, probably distracting her with some wooing words and a firm grip on her hip. Then, just as she realizes the water is lapping at her toes, she'll scream (see the pattern here?) and try to wiggle out and under from his arm, like a cat that doesn't want to cuddle. The boy will try to drag the screaming girl to the waves, and whisk her away just as she's about to get a total wave smackdown.

Physical attacks are common. Boy does something, girl screams and pummels him. Boy doesn't do something, girl screams and pummels him anyway. And this violence is not unique to the younger generation, oh no. I've witnessed first hand the flurry of a Vietnamese woman's hands, happily slapping away at a male who said too much - or not enough.

Oh, well. Like most men, I'm sure they did something to deserve it. :) They should probably stop playing dunk tank with the ocean if they know what's good for them..

Teachers

I don't think I'll ever stop being awed by the role of teachers in Vietnamese society. Whether it's been a classroom, or the makeshift schoolroom in the back of Crazy Kim's bar, the level of respect that is offered unto a teacher is incredible.

I say “teacher” loosely. I'm not even a real teacher. The extent of my commanding abilities lay in that one year I co-coached junior varsity girls' basketball at my old elementary school when I was 16. My obsessive adherence to English language and grammar has aided my friends when they need assistance with essays, and with foreign-exchange students needing homework checked or a slang word explained. But, regardless of my past “teaching experience,” I am a native English speaker that has come to converse. And apparently, that's enough for them, and credible enough that they rise when I enter a room.

There's still a lot to get used to here. I began this draft while sitting on the green tiled-floor of the balcony of my hotel room, that overlooks clusters of roofs and narrow alleyways. The power has gone out, now about thirty minutes, so I'm sitting with the last of my battery, a pirated copy of 1984, and a glass of Dalat red wine. My dinner that I started is sitting on the desk, hoping that the power returns soon so that the rice cooker can heat the vegetables and tofu I've sliced. Against my willpower that I so strongly had maintained, I've resorted to clawing at a few particular vicious bug bites that I have driven red and raw with my nails. I lick my wounds with copious amounts of White Tiger Balm.

I knew that when I came, I would be experiencing some variation of culture shock. I don't ride the elevators because of the frequency of these rolling brownouts, and I opt to walk up the six flights of stairs to my room. I'm terribly claustrophobic, and the idea of being trapped in a tiny, mirrored box for a half-hour. I boil my drinking water. I have to learn to be firm and painfully ignore the tiny, adorable little fan girls that approach me in the street to try to hock me their wares. I have to understand a new way of life, even if that means seeing people piss in the streets as a common occurrence.

But, I still cannot believe the adoration for teachers.

I've co-taught two classes so far; a level-four reading class, and a second-level speaking class. I've tutored a couple girls already, and this morning, I went to Crazy Kim's bar for the first time. Within moments of being introduced by the volunteer teacher, Frank, students were already barraging me with questions about Alaska and myself, calling me "Teacher," and asking me to write my name in their notebooks, so that they could further commit to memory the name of another pale-skinned foreigner who cloisters in the back to enunciate the difference between "dare" and "there."

It's fascinating and humbling. When I encounter young people in town or at Kim's, their jaws drop, their eyes widen, and punctuate their exclamations of "Wow!" with broad grins and giggles. All of that in response to my simply saying, "Oh, I teach at the university." I don't even have teaching credentials, or ESL certification. I'm younger than some people I tutor. Until recently, I was a bum of a college student, working at a coffee shop and a restaurant, slinging joe and wine for tips, and lazing my way through CLEP tests to finally get my degree. I don't even have a dress or a nice skirt in my wardrobe in Anchorage, and suddenly, I'm something that matters. Someone who has status. Cripes, I still laugh at fart jokes, and I've no shame when it comes to picking my nose. What on earth have I ever done to deserve this??

I am inspired, not by something from within, but the students I'm surrounded by. Their enthusiasm, their desire to learn, their laughter and jovial teasing of each other is enough to make this worth something. I surge with pride when a shy girl can finally roll the uncomfortable pronunciations off of her tongue, and share a laugh when I can clarify something for an eager boy who wants to know meanings of a certain idiom. I'm constantly in awe at the speed of their acquisition and their application, as it's something I've never seen in the States.

Perhaps when this is all said and done, after I've done my stint, and encountered dozens of people that I can help, that maybe I'll have earned that respect. Maybe after hours of teaching and correcting homework and pronunciation, and after endless conversations and candy-filled games, I'll have earned only a fraction of what they think I deserve. Because right now, they grant me with far too much, and I ought to work hard for that. I need to make it worth their while, and live up to the expectations they have laid out for me. They deserve respect and admiration and awe, and I want to make sure they know it.

Hella sweet!

I am currently host to an "all-you-can-suck" buffet for the multitude of various bugs that mysteriously take feast in the middle of the night. It is absolutely tortuous to resist scratching the massive mounds that have appeared everywhere (literally, from face-to-foot) and I'm looking more like a blistery, pale-cheesed pizza everyday. No bug spray can deter them - I might as well surrender to my fate as hosting myself as a meal.

On the other topic of "sucking," my housing situation has become a bit complicated. I've been staying with Michael, and a few days ago, I moved into the faculty dorm that was provided for me. And now, I'm back at Michael's. Let's just say that Teresa + allergies to mold = very bad things. So, now I'm trying to find something more permanent that hopefully isn't going to gouge my wallet. Ugh.

But on more positive aspects, while paperwork hasn't been formalized, I started co-teaching yesterday. I don't know my complete schedule as of yet, but I co-teach an English reading class for two-and-a-half hours on Thursdays, and an hour-and-a-half English speaking class on Friday mornings.

The students are great. I am forcing myself to not use my excessive Californian vernacular (such as "dude," "like," "hella," "sweet," "cool," and "shit!") and to speak a lot slower than I'm used to (that's hard). But they laugh at my dumb jokes, and the enthusiasm is contagious.

This morning was my first speaking class, and my mouth hurt from talking so much and my face from laughing. These kids are utterly hilarious. Their vocabulary is still building, so when the other teacher, Ms. Ha, and I initiated warm-up description exercises, their explanations of fellow classmates were similar. But, as the class went on, they became more expressive and excited, and they were even screaming when they played group board games. I brought coffee-vanilla candy that we used as prizes, and after the first break, the entire room smelled of coffee.

Ms. Ha has got to be my long-lost twin. I think most of our teaching together consisted of laughing, teasing the students for describing each other with "long, black hair" ("EVERYONE has black hair!" Ms. Ha exclaimed), and running around, passing out candy and cracking jokes. She's 25, and half-way to her master's degree. All she wanted for the first day was to make a great impression, and to make the students really excited to be there. So for the entirety of the class, the 26 students were treated to two teachers, pumping them full of sugar and English games.

Students asked me questions at the beginning, usually generic ones like, what's your name, where are you from. One girl shyly stood up and asked, "How old are you, are you married!!" Ms. Ha shrieked with laughter, and said that it was so impolite to ask me such things. I didn't mind, and said, "24, and I'm not!" "No ring!" Ms. Ha cried, waving at my hands. "She has no ring, so that means there are very lucky Vietnamese boys in town!!"

During the break, Ms. Ha linked arms with me and led me to the teachers' lounge, where we gushed about the students, and what to do for future classes. Her excitement got me excited, and all I could think about was how fun this class would be. I finally felt like I was giving something here, really making a purpose of the whole reason why I came.

When the class ended, all of the students stood up to say goodbye as Ms. Ha and I left, countless beaming grins flashing at us. We walked down the stairs, and I couldn't stop rattling on how I already loved the class.

"It was great!" Ms. Ha said. "We're going to be so successful!" She laughed again, and lifted her fist for an American fistpound. I had to contain myself from hysterics, as two nicely-dressed teachers fistpounded to our success in the middle of a busy hallway.

I felt a bit of a spring in my step as I wound my way through the roads of the campus to catch my bus back into town. I felt invigorated and ready to conquer anything.

Well, almost anything.

If I can stop scratching, and perhaps be able to not be in a melted, liquid state the instant I step outdoors, I will have conquered all! But for now, I'll take the happiness of having some great students.

Chicken

With the exception of today (Sunday, my now proclaimed "lazy day" where I eat TimTams and watch Netflix on end), I've gone running every morning on the beach. Nearly every day when I head out down the road, I always see another man walking opposite of me. He's barefoot, not homeless, and dressed right for the beach.

Yesterday, I was feeling ornery and agitated, and what better way to burn off those negative nancies than by plowing through some sand. I put on an angry face, brought out my iPod that was blasting Black Eyed Peas and KMFDM, and strode on the street.

I saw Barefoot Man heading toward the beach, and I was speedily walking and jumping from street to sidewalk. Cars are always in the way, so one has to artfully dodge around them while minding oncoming motorcycles and other people. BM noticed me, and I steely stared ahead, maintaining a good pace. I followed him closely when he crossed a major intersection, as I wasn't particularly feeling up to being made into a road pie.

Both of us, separately, headed toward the shore. I'm sure the scowl on my face made me quite unappealing, so I took off as soon as I reached the firm sand. Water crashed around my ankles as Fergie's beats wailed in my ears. I followed my usual pattern of beach running - run and run and run until my lungs are screaming into my ribs, stop to power walk, and repeat the cycle.

BM must not have noticed I had followed so close, because I passed him up. I heard him call out in surprise, but I was too nervous/embarrassed to turn around and make eye contact. I could practically feel the shift in the air when he turned around to face me, but I pretended I was so engrossed in meeting some invisible man half-way, right at the borderline (ack! Song stuck in my head!), I just ran ahead, my earphones swinging like an erratic pendulum around my face.

By the time I reached the rickety pier, I was pretty pooped. I had already gone for a run early that morning, so I ran out just a bit more before turning around. This time, BM had nearly caught up. He totally noticed me approaching, when I leaped over the gritty, deep mounds of sand and over the wooden planks.

It was then I realized, we were playing a game. We were totally playing chicken. I was running ahead, and he'd match me. He'd catch up. Then, he'd try to outrun me. It didn't dawn on me until I saw him run past me, glancing quickly over his shoulder, as I was jogging back toward the road. Holy crap. He is totally trying to mess with me. Ohhh, I'm onto you. I am so onto you man.

Watch out, BM. I'm getting up bright and early tomorrow morning. I hope you're there waiting for me.

Faith

I was quickly stalking through the streets, hoping that I had properly committed to memory the path to Ms. Lan's house. I was due at 9:30 to take Michael's place and tutor two young women who are preparing for language exams. The city was wide awake by now, and I leaped from street to sidewalk, dodging potholes and people and cars, winding my way through tight spaces and jumping around bicycles.

I must have already acquired an aura of non-tourist. I was hardly hassled as I usually am, to buy knickknacks or motorbike rides. Donning dark sunglasses, I refused eye contact with others and purposefully made my way down the busy road. I wasn't pausing to consult a map, or stupidly staring at signs. I had a place to go, dammit. The city bustled, as if it had never slept - simply perpetuating the endless cycle of honking horns, motorbike engines revving, people yelling and laughing and shouting from their storefronts.

And, had I not faced the possibility of being plowed down by a bike, I almost stopped in my tracks at a sudden sight before me. His orange-brown robes gently swimming around his body, a middle-aged Buddhist monk was slowly, silently trekking barefoot in the street. How calmly and peacefully he set one foot ahead the other, as if time were passing in a world different from the loud and chaotic one around him. Deliberate footfalls, from the tips of his toes to his heel he grasped the earth, felt it, savored it.

I had no idea where he could be going. As far as I knew, there weren't any temples or pagodas in that direction. I would have followed him if I could, but I knew I had only mere minutes to make it to my destination. So, I quickened my pace, passed him with a look, but maybe next time when I'm not playing my little part in this mess, I'll follow.

Motorbikes, etc.

So, it's been a few days; apologies for that. I've been trying to get into a nice, little routine here and adjust accordingly.

Lucky for me, there are actually vegetarian options/restaurants. Michael, his friend Lan and her son, Rum, and I went to dinner at a Buddhist vegetarian restaurant, where everything was safe for a picky person like me. There were monks dining, including a little boy who sat with an elder, the child's head shaved and he wore traditional brown garb. His feet just grazed the floor, and he kept looking over at our table while we ate.

Afterward, Rum invited to take me around on his motorbike. There are probably 1,482,048,381 bikes on the road, with say, 3 cars. Everyone and their mother (literally) drives a motorbike (Vespa, etc.), bicycle, or a hybrid bicycle-Vespa-motor-thingy that has pedals and a little engine.

People drive here as if they are part of some hive mind. The flow of traffic is symbiotic, with the exception of people randomly swerving, and honking. Everyone is honking. Cars, bikes, hell, if people had the ability to honk their mouths loud enough to be heard, the entirety of the roads' drivers would be beeping like angry birds.

I perched myself on the elongated seat, I grabbed onto Rum's shoulder as we took off. My other hand had a death grip on the metal bar behind me. The ill-fitting helmet rattled on my head, the lose strap hitting me against the chin. I felt if I would lean too far to one side or another, I would certainly be kissing the asphalt in a matter of nanoseconds. But, Rum knew it all. Like some choreographed dance, we zipped through the nighttime streets of Nha Trang, riding on the tails of cars and bikes, getting within an eyelash's distance from other bikers, while the drivers honked and the neon lights cast a bright glow over the city. I downgraded my "Death Grip 1.0" to its beta-version and almost felt daring enough to take my hands off and put them on my knees like other passengers. I did not, however.

(A sidenote: have you ever tried doing imaginary brake while on the backseat of an old Honda motorbike, while your knees are threatening to graze the road and you're approaching a stopped car at increasing speeds? No? Alright. But, it was an awesome enough ride that I would totally buy a bike if I had the expendable cash to do so.)

Aside from motorcycle craziness, things have been rather low-key. I haven't started work yet; that's something for another day to write about. For now, I've been meeting with other folks, vainly trying to get some Vietnamese under my belt and learning words for fruits I have no idea what the hell they are, and exploring around the town. I'm trying to keep up a daily routine of running/walking on the beach, and so far, the third day proves successful. I'm getting trained in the arts of dodging street vendors and making myself look fiercely unapproachable, and becoming a pro at crossing busy streets in the midst of early-morning traffic.

Oh, and I got lost the other day. Really, really lost and I luckily ended up finding a taxi in a very rundown part of town where I almost became a melted puddle on the broken roads. But, that's no surprise. That happens to me wherever I travel, so really, wandering 3 or 4 or 5 miles in 80-degree weather with 50% humidity wearing all black (idiot) without water (doubly idiot) and no map (was I dropped on my head as a child?) shouldn't come as a surprise to me anymore.

Hit me up if you want my Skype and MSN. I'm always up to chatting with people back at home. That is, if I don't get lost again and can't find my way home to a computer. Or if I don't get creamed by a family of five on a Vespa built-for-one..

And it begins.

It has taken me many a year to discover the magic that is Benadryl, and its useful application when it comes to flying for many, many, many hours.

Bullet points of MY IDIOTIC FLYING ADVENTURES
* Arrived far too early at LAX for an 11:40am flight.
* Popped 50mg of Benadryl, telling self "this is to fight potential allergens, oh yeah, maybe help me sleep"
* Get sandwiched against the window, and a very large but talkative and friendly guy. Hooray for an exit row
* Fall asleep before reaching cruising altitude; wake up at some point. Discover loads of drool on self and neckpillow
* Continue to slip in and out of consciousness for the remainder of the flight, only reaching some brief levels of cohesion to eat and chit-chat with neighbor before repeating the previous line
* Lose laptop in Japan. Go to Delta Japan and beg. Was told cleaning crew went through already.
* Try to not have a nervous breakdown and cry in the middle of the airport.
* Get to ticket counter for flight to HCMC. Almost time to board; plead with other employees. 10 minutes later, a Japanese woman to whom I owe my life to finds my laptop.
* Get on plane, repeat Benadryl and drooling.
* Arrive in HCMC some six or seven hours later. Get totally ripped off by a cabbie of $15 to drive me across the street. More on that later, if need be.
* Sit in airport terminal, the only person other than a guard who was smoking a cigarette by the darkened door of the building. It's midnight, I'm outside alone, and it's unbearably hot and humid.

I met an awesome Canadian who was going to Nha Trang as well. So, we commiserated and chit-chatted until it was time to push our way through the doors of the terminal.

The boarding/offboarding process is a little odd. You walk through a rather unintimate (at least, compared to the US) security check, sit in a little terminal, walk down some stairs and board a bus. The bus takes you a few hundred feet to the plane, where everyone unloads off the bus and makes a massive beeline and crowd around the stairs. One thing I quickly noticed in Vietnam - shit don't mean a thing if you're there first, nor how long you've been waiting. People just stride right in front of you, cutting you off, using their body as a ramming device to get one spot closer in line on the tarmac.

The airport was eerily foggy, which betrayed the physical sense of this being a particularly hot and sticky day. After what seemed like f-o-r-e-v-e-r, the little plane roared to life and took a powerful rocketing off of the runway. My window seat granted me a fantastic view over the country, soaring over massive, cottony white clouds as I vainly peered down to try to discern nature from man.

The ride was less than an hour, and before I knew it, we were plowing down through the blanket cover and the city broke below us. Clusters of earthy-toned buildings were spread like a fistful of dice tossed over the land, hugging the coast and dotting the hills. Even from the plane, I could see the waves crashing along the beach, massive froths of white foam pounding relentlessly into the sand.

The first attempt at landing did not happen. Even I, a semi-seasoned-but-terrified-of-all-planes-traveler, knew that the first time wasn't going to work. The pilot slowed down too late, and the craft shakily made a half-hearted attempt to skim the runway, but ended up thrusting back up into the air. We circled around, and the second time around, the plane skidded and shuddered and squealed its way onto solid ground.

The airport was oddly desolate. We were the only plane in sight, and as we coasted in, two trucks with portable stairs, and a couple employees were the only other beings on the pavement. As the plane took its excruciating long taxi, I noticed how strange the entire airport was. It was like someone took a paintbrush of cement, swept it into the earth and made it the runway. There was no separation from the environment and man's creation.

The ground was cracked and broken not unlike a desert floor, with brittle-looking little weeds and tiny bushes bursting from its crevices. There's even a huge pond in the midst of it all, surrounded by a ring of bushes and trees, and finally, the gritty, gray runway. The name of the airport, in both Vietnamese text and Roman letters, heralded the sterility and conformity of all Vietnamese government buildings I have already encountered. Plain, large, blocky letters, with no fun, no flavor, no personality. The words certainly match the architecture, and the alert, olive green-wearing government folk that patrolled inside.

After meeting up with Michael, getting into Nha Trang, saying goodbye to Trevor the Canadian, Michael and I, as well as a teacher friend of his, had a Western-style breakfast at a 4-star hotel in the midst of NT's bustling streets. Dodging street vendors with massive boards covered in sunglasses that hung painfully from their necks, and women with buckets draped over their shoulders trying to sell unfamiliar - but delicious-smelling - foods, the three of us took a walk along the beach.

It was startling too see the dichotomy of wealth. I vaguely knew what I would be seeing here, but in one breath, we passed by a woman who carried on her back her disabled brother with his useless, bony limb, and two fat, hairy, mid-50s European men wearing too-tight of tiny swimming shorts a moment later at a beachside bar. Almost all the tourists passed were too red, too round, and too squinty-eyed in the blinding sun. They splayed out in all of their middle-aged glory, roasting under the rays with a "333" beer at their side, and a heavy dusting of greying hair over their guts (that could probably go for some of the women, too).

Everywhere, signs advertised the prices of juices, massages, beachside retreats and rentals of various watersporting goods. With every sign there was rusting barbed wire outside of a decaying water amusement park, a sunglasses salesman, a listless and bored-looking girl sitting at an empty drink stand, and old women wearing face masks and straw hats, carrying too-heavy of loads over their shoulders. All to try to make something off of the Germans and Americans and Russians that cooked on their beaches.

I'm way unable to make much of this at this time; jetlag and sleep disruption have certainly played a part in this midday insanity. But, I'm excited to learn, explore and see what this country is, and to meet its people and learn about them. As I sit in my room, the humid air blowing in a gentle breeze, the sounds of horns honking, Vespas growling, and children shrieking, I can only wait in anticipation at all that I'll get to experience.

And, I've hardly taken any photos, nor edited them, but here's a start.