motorbike diaries

The Hum

2011-12-10T07:44:00.000-08:00

In the calmness of the airplane, my mind begins to evaluate the entirety of my life. It starts to bring together all the things I desire and all that I’ve learned; it conjures up a million images of things relevant or irrelevant—I can’t tell the difference. The hum of the engines and the motion of the plane in flight put me into a trance, taking control of my breathing and other functions. There’s a strange subtle taste in my mouth that seems to spread to my nasal cavities; the taste reminds me of my dad’s deodorant, cabinets in our old home, and alleyways in Saigon. My mind starts prodding me to reflect. For an hour I choose to draw my state of thinking, but whatever ability I have to express myself with this medium peaked years ago. I see the product in my head but I know I lack the technical skill to make it work. So I decide to write instead. I don’t have an incredible vocabulary or notable writing style, but at least I can feel some satisfaction seeing my feelings appear before me in words. Each word can be a dab of paint; each sentence a stroke; and their arrangement in this Word document in front of me is completely mine and not anyone else’s. It is its own work of art; it exists alone; because I wrote it and there is only one me. I stop to think about this, and my focus breaks away to listen to the world again. I am in the window seat of an airplane. The laptop sits snugly in my lap, pushing somewhat towards my stomach. There is cool air from the circular vent above me blowing onto my typing fingers, cooling the layer of perspiration that genetics has made present on my palm and fingers almost constantly. My elbows take up both armrests. My breathing is short and dry and the muscles in my face feel tired and heavy. I feel like I weigh more than I do. Vietnamese men with high-pitched Northern accents converse behind me. Next to me is a middle-aged woman dressed in mismatched denim. Her nails are burgundy color, and there are white flowers painted on them. For a moment, it feels like we aren’t moving at all. Just sitting here, a bunch of strangers, listening to this overwhelming hum.

LA Reaquainted

2011-10-20T20:49:00.000-07:00

In the days before my departure to the States, I sat around wondering how wild it would be to step foot on Los Angeles again. I imagined the airport, hearing Spanish, seeing police officers wearing uniforms that actually fit them, and driving down wide streets with only minimal unnecessary honking. when I actually arrived, however, I felt absolutely nothing. It seems like living in this city for more than twenty-five years means that I'd have to be away for a hell of a long time to experience any reverse culture shock.

Not that I didn't enjoy stepping back into my "hood" again. First of all, I returned to clear blue skies, and there's no better welcome home than the warm California sun. In terms of scenery, nothing's really changed on me in the last eleven months other than a few new billboards. And that felt good. No matter how many years I might spend in the fast-moving, constantly-shifting world of developing countries, I prefer home to be exactly how I left it.

I got picked up from the airport an hour and a half late. My dad blamed it on LA traffic (another appropriate LA experience). I gave him updates about the motherland, which usually turns into a rant about everything from the government to restaurant service (all carried out with a fine touch of my dad's characteristic humor). I wasn't jet-lagged, but I found myself zoning out a lot, my eyes fixed on the long stretches of concrete that made up Los Angeles bridges and freeways. There are so many simple straight lines compared to the Saigon landscape, which teems with a hundred thousand details in every turn.

For my first meals I had a Red Robin burger and a New York Steak at Maggiano's near the mall. My dad made sure I got appropriately re-immersed in American cuisine, even though I don't think he knows how cosmopolitan the food scene's gotten in Saigon. The next day was my sister's turn, and the three of us made our way to Venice where my she introduced us to some of her new haunts. We were surrounded by the fashion-savvy, scarf-wearing, Macbook cradling, latte sipping edge of the California social scene. I guess billboards aren't the only things that try to stay up-to-date after all.

Here, There, and Everywhere

2011-10-16T19:11:00.000-07:00

As I was staring out the taxi window, I felt surprisingly emotional about leaving Saigon for a mere three week visit home. Even as I was packing up my things at work and saying a few goodbyes, it almost felt as though I was leaving for good. I think, after weeks and weeks of routine, my mind finally got a chance to step back a bit and recognize Saigon for what it is: a city that just wants to have fun. That's why the streets are packed every evening with people eating, drinking, socializing, screaming, yelling, laughing, gossiping, showing off, etc. It's a city that definitely has a past, seems like it has some plans for the future, but clearly prioritizes the here and now.

I'm in Tokyo Narita Airport enduring my 7-hour layover to Los Angeles. Countless numbers of Japanese travelers walk by me and I can't help but compare them to the masses of Vietnamese folks I was driving past (and living amongst) just hours ago. The Japanese are well-groomed, well-dressed, and very orderly. You can always pick out a Vietnamese traveler from among the group: his clothes are a bit over-sized and of cheap quality, his hair neat but a bit goofy and out-of-style, and his awkward physique shows signs of a little too many nights drinking with his buddies.

But he is a product of a culture that considers these things less important than bonding with your drinking buddies and just making the most of what he's got. Perhaps he doesn't even see the contrast between himself and the suited up Japanese businessman walking briskly beside him.

Or maybe the reality is that he does, but he doesn't have the means to be that Japanese man...yet. Just like his income is probably hugely disproportional to his Japanese counterpart, Vietnam's economy hasn't even come close to world leader Japan. Maybe one day, if Vietnam looks more like Japan does now, Vietnamese people won't be eating and drinking and yelling and raising glasses every night of the week anymore.

They definitely won't be zipping around on motorbikes.

How I Got Some Carl's Jr. Coupons

2011-10-05T00:31:00.001-07:00

I'm back again where it all started--Hanoi. Again, the city charms me instantly. The small cafes squeezed together side by side, the green of the streets, the intricate mix of colors and shapes like a living collage.

It seems like Hanoi is my destination of choice for a retreat of the heart and mind. I bring my thoughts and somehow a bit of staring out cafe windows and listening to water drip from a tarp veranda sort it all out. I brought a ton of work I can get started on, but I'd rather just sit and zone out to some music I haven't listened to in a long time.

The flight was particularly interesting. Again, I was stuck flying with Jetstar Pacific budget airline due to its more convenient times. This airline is notorious for delays and detestable customer service, but since it's cheap it's the airline of choice for the majority of Vietnamese people who can't afford the more prestigious Vietnam Airlines. There is no doubt that the people boarding the plane aren't hailing from Vietnam's middle or upper classes. They are people more used to jamming into vans for long distance trips, where you're likely to be doing nine hours in fetal position. Perhaps it's this fact that makes customer service very alien to them. Well, Jetstar staff seem to revel in this. They scream, push, point, and say the most degrading things that other airline staff couldn't even imagine getting away with. "OK folks, seats upright now!" They sounded like prison guards.

Well, a lady in the aisle seat in my row wasn't having it. She pulled a screaming girl in uniform aside and gave her a 5-minute piece of her mind. I was watching the whole thing, applauding silently in my head. The lady even showed class as she was lecturing this girl on decent, civilized, common sense treatment of other human beings; she kept calm and firm like a proper schoolteacher.

After the apologetic girl returned to her duties, I leaned over to the lady and said: "I really agree with what you just did." She immediately went on to justify her action and for the rest of the flight our conversation evolved from complaining about Jetstar to Vietnam's business techniques in general. Seemed like we were both sighing with relief to find someone who shared the same passion on this subject.

Well, turns out she wasn't a frequent Jetstar customer anyway. She missed her Vietnam Airlines flight in the morning and had no other option. After she revealed this, she gave a me slight nod, smiled, and asked where I was headed. I told her the Old Quarter, same place I always head to. She responded with, "You can ride with me." So I got a free lift to the Old Quarter in the private car of one of the most powerful woman CEO's in Vietnam.

She gave me coupons for Carl's Jr., which she owns.

Over the Peak

2011-09-22T09:49:00.000-07:00

I arrived in Saigon on the 17th of January and began my one month certification program for English teaching. Not too long after I got certified, I accepted a teaching position at the same center I did my training. Not long after that, I signed up for a one year contract. That was back in April.

It's now September. I'm just about over the hump--the peak of the mountain. That means that my time in Vietnam will start to speed up and before I know it, my contract is finished and my apartment lease is done. The time to reflect and plan my next move is coming up.

So far, very few things have turned out the way I expected. I'm not as close to people who I expected to see every day, I'm not living the lifestyle I envisioned, and I'm not as inspired by every little thing about Vietnam anymore. But these things aren't necessarily bad.

My circles here have broken apart and people have gone down different roads. All are happy with their lives, and the beautiful memories we shared will always be there. We don't see each other every day anymore, and sadly there are some who I won't be seeing again anytime soon, but it reminds me of some wisdom I once heard about friends: they show up in your lives when they're meant to, and when that time is done your paths diverge. Nothing is lost because what was meant to happen has happened.

Before I came here, I imagined I'd be sitting around in cafes every day planning for lessons and reading up on the latest theories in the world of English teaching. My friends would be there and we'd chat, but I'd mostly be working and paying off debt and saving up. Well, not surprisingly I couldn't stick to that routine. With Brian here, I get to have a big part of home here with me. I guess he indirectly pushes me to find new things to do all the time. Right now it's mostly for places to eat. It's nice to see Saigon opening up to new cuisines all the time, and we're always hearing about new spots to check out.

And in terms of being inspired, I'm in a moment of my life where little things are more important to me. I'm working on just being happy and being grateful for the things I love and the people who love me. That way home is never far away.

good eating

2011-09-08T10:49:00.000-07:00

Sometimes it's OK to indulge a little bit.

So far this trip has been so unpredictable for me. For one, I didn't think I would make so little money at first. It took me many months to achieve the amount I was aiming for. But now that I'm getting some decent cash flow I have to say the comfortable life is quite nice here.

I still remember standing on our apartment balcony with Brian complaining miserably about our lifestyles. We were budgeting to the penny. Every pay check came just in time to save me from a financial catastrophe. It might sound weird but when I decided to move to Vietnam I never planned on giving up my American tastes. Of course there's always this romantic idea of giving up materialism and getting in touch with the spiritual and intangible. But seriously, I sacrificed too much to earn a quality education to give it all up for that kind of thinking. And if expensive American education isn't a big deal, the sacrifices my parents made for me definitely are. So long as I put up enough cash to appease the debt monster from back home, I have enough left over to eat, shop, and live with little worry.

And in terms of comfort, Saigon has it all now, from amazing Japanese food to Brazilian BBQ. Not that I eat this stuff every day (Vietnam is still the center of the cheap but delicious foods universe). But if I'm craving a juicy steak for dinner, at least now it's available and I've got the means for it.

A Welcome Distraction

2011-08-09T00:15:00.000-07:00

There are some people you just can't help but love

Carl's Jr.

2011-07-18T11:22:00.000-07:00

I can remember my first trip back to Vietnam in 2003, when there was only one KFC in all of Saigon. Now perched on every third block is the Colonel smiling contently over his capitalist triumph. But he's got contenders now. Pizza Hut is starting to spread and now Carl's Jr. has joined the fast food phenomenon here. Although, there is something very odd about fast food being here in Vietnam: it isn't cheap. When I heard Carl's Jr. was opening shop in district 7 my nostalgia for American comfort food could not be contained. Carl's was the setting for a lot of my high school memories. Unfortunately, I have to say that it was pretty anti-climatic. Carl's Jr. Vietnam was almost a perfect replica of Carl's Jr. America, with everything being the same including the price and the poor quality food. I guess I've been away from home so long I forgot how disappointing fast food really is.

Total price for a Western Bacon Cheeseburger combo = 140,000 dong ($7)

There was one awesome pro, however. Free refills on drinks! Finally!!!

2011-07-07T16:28:00.001-07:00

There's something on my mind lately. I don't know if it's a good thing or a bad thing, but it's been keeping me stuck in bed for an extra ten to fifteen minutes for the last few days. Something is weighing heavily on my normally carefree psyche. Maybe my subconscious is taking my current life situation more seriously than I am and took on the difficult task of sorting things out for me. I do get spontaneous moments of introspection, where not-so-fun thoughts appear, reminding me about how little money I make here, the Godzilla-sized debt I have, my failed attempts at finding the right girl, bla bla bla. I'm usually pretty good at staying positive.

Am I reaching my breaking point?

I hope not. I'm sticking to my motto: "don't stop." I'm just going to add a few new words: "don't stop looking forward." What's the point of bitching? I'm blazing ahead toward what I really want and nothing is stopping me.

Growing Up

2011-06-29T09:23:00.000-07:00

I know that deep down inside I must be the same kid from decades ago--that something inside my core is essentially the same since my childhood--forever ingrained in my DNA--but I can't help feeling like there are huge paradigm shifts happening all the time with me. On average, it has to be annually.

Right now I'm in some in-between stage in my life. I feel like I'm headed towards building some permanence in my life and working towards owning something other than a laptop, a car (that I'm paying for back in the States), and a motorbike here in Vietnam. I used to be inspired by the free-spirited and individualistic, but now I'm looking more towards people with plans and ambitions. I don't ever want to be a slave to plans, deadlines, and self-imposed ultimatums for living my life, but I do feel like it's time to lay down some kind of foundation now.

How do I plan on doing this?

I think it starts with building up whatever experience I have at the moment. I'm not exactly thrilled about English teaching, but I don't think I mind sticking to education in general. It's not just that I have experience now, which makes it easier for me to land teaching jobs. I honestly enjoy the image of myself as a teacher. It surrounds me with what I never stop loving in life--learning.

My current goals are just to become more skilled at teaching, although at this point I'm teaching more to finish my lesson plans rather than really gauging the comprehension of my 12-18 students (per class). I'm also working on my Japanese for no particular reason other than I learned it and forgot so I don't want to make it a total waste.

My mindset shifts like tides. There's good in it and bad in it. Without something solid, I'll keep on going where the wind blows. I just hope I'll be happy with whatever I plan on building for myself later on.

Wet

2011-06-27T02:36:00.001-07:00

Thanks Kevin for the encouragement to blog again.

A huge storm hit today. I was outside hanging my clothes up to dry--a new inconvenient chore--on our little balcony when I heard an odd sound. I stuck my head out a bit past the rail to have a listen and just as I realized it was a downpour starting up the wind switched directions and hit me like Tidal Wave at Magic Mountain. The gust was so strong it actually shifted our glass slide door out of its groove. My laundry got a second rinse.

Brian mopping up water that entered our apartment.

That's been almost every day here this month. We're usually lucky enough to have the wind point in a direction other than our balcony, but even with this storm the rain usually lets up in about an hour. It's always nice to peer at it from our apartment window nine stories up--not so nice when riding through it on a motorbike next to gigantic buses and toxic puddles.

Do people actually get used to this?

I think they most likely do. Vietnamese people are pretty resilient to most things it seems. It is definitely a "go with the flow" culture. If the rain blew your store sign down, you just get up there and fix it. If some guy cut in front of you in line at the supermarket, you just accept it.

Just like the rainy season is just something people accept as routine. But damn, they can at least do something about the flooding, the psycho taxi drivers who drive worst in the wet weather, leaking ceilings, etc.

impressions of the Vietnamese heart

2011-05-18T18:21:00.000-07:00

Strewn with a deep purpose that is exquisitely masked by a thousand tender smiles

To see it is to catch a glimpse of eternity

And to lose it is to plunge into the most penetrating sadness--

a true sadness that echoes emotions from lives past

time to put it in words

2011-05-17T12:55:00.000-07:00

Lately Brian and I have been entering deeper and deeper into the bass-thumping universe of electronic music. It might have started when I was a little teenager with one foot in the progressive trance scene back in the early 2000s, but music during those days was just an add-on to other things we were into. Now with genius artists like Boys Noize, Deadmau5, and Benny Benassi you just can't get enough.

If I could go weaving through the street of Saigon on my motorbike with headphones just molesting my ears with these orgasmic sounds I would, but I've decided after a few go's that it just isn't worth running over an old lady for.

So I've decided to instead donate these little blessings to the gym where I work out. Of course, as of now, they only play it when I enter and then while I'm gone the speakers are contaminated with a freak show of sad techno songs from God knows where. I'd really like to convert a country of serious dance music lovers to some real shit, but Vietnamese people seem to love their MIDI file/European 90's trance/inaudible Russian chick singing monstrosities.

Of course with an adoration for electronic comes an urge to "cut the rug" as we say. Herein lies another sad situation---no decent night clubs, at least so far. Our only haunts thus far are Lush and Apocalypse. The former is a long-time favorite of mine since one of my best friends was the manager of the joint and my whole Saigon family would crash the place regularly--good times. Well, she stopped working there a whiles ago and we've got new familiar faces to hit the dance floor with. Unfortunately, there are a few serious cons to Lush: (1) absolutely no dance floor (people get down along walkways and next to tables, and by "get down" I mean hopping up and down and shrugging your shoulders), (2) outrageous prices for drinks, and (3) lots of d-bag's (but they're everywhere). Apocalypse is Brian's preferred spot, but the crowd is even worst, with half the guys over their 40's looking for prostitutes. But even worst then that is the music--an entire DJ set of the most God-awful Vietnamese techno that makes me want to crawl into a coffin and die. That, I can't have.

So that's a little update on a little of what we've been doing over here across the ocean. Ho Chi Minh City baby!

And the world keeps on turning...

2011-05-06T10:36:00.000-07:00

I'm in one place, and at the same time I'm not.

My thirst to travel has guided my decisions for the last few years of my life. I gave up financial security, a decent job, long-term relationships, and a chance to be a normal, nine-to-five, weekend barbecuing Californian suburbanite for a thrilling high thousands of miles away.

But it's not easy for me to be just some tumbleweed blowing through the desert. I have roots still attached to the soil where I grew up, where my loved ones are still living within the walls I knew since childhood. I think about them every day.

And when it pains them to see me drifting along without some conventional plan for a conventional future, I can't help but feel a little tug thousands of miles across the ocean--like everything I do causes ripples half way across the world.

But of course it does. Like the cliche "no man is an island" reminds us; there are no oceans, vast deserts, mountains, and no empty spaces between people who love each other. The way I choose to live, the decisions I make, and the amount of love I put out there touch people who care about me back home. There are people out there living for me, so I can't help but do the same...

...in my own way.

Teaching English in Ho Chi Minh City

2011-04-24T16:51:00.000-07:00

I've been teaching English now for almost two months, which means I've got lots to learn about this field. I began training in late January through the one-month intensive CELTA course and got hired as a teacher at the very same center not long after (exactly what I hoped would happen).

I work for ILA, an English education behemoth here in Ho Chi Minh City, with centers in multiple districts all throughout this massive city. I had my doubts about the genuine investment in education by an institution so ginormous and so corporate-looking, but perks abound as an ILA teacher, not just employment-wise but also in terms of resources for teaching. The job package follows a western model and includes paid vacation, medical insurance, and bonuses. Educational resources are plentiful, and ILA puts its money where its mouth is with teacher development, including ongoing teacher workshops every week.

So so far so good. Beside the very small amount of money I take home after paying all my ridiculous loans and bills, I have more good days than bad. What keeps me going is the fact that this field has so much more to discover, so much more to learn and improve on. On the surface it looks like silly games with little kids all day, but there's a universe of methodology, technique, and philosophy to it. And better still, it is a very rewarding experience. The smiles that I get are worth every bit of it.

Sitting in a Cafe on a Rainy Day in Hanoi

2011-03-16T00:22:00.000-07:00

I sense that the man sitting across from me is much like myself. Like me, he entered this cafe because there are a lot of windows. I know because he's staring out the windows more than drinking his coffee, as am I. Occasionally he glances down at his newspapers; whether he's actually reading or taking a moment to finally contemplate some thought that has been floating around in his head I can't tell. Like him, I have an article of the Times open on my laptop, news of the earthquake in Japan.

My coffee is going cold, but I'm not here for the coffee.

I feel a part of this place. The rain falling from the sky feel like raindrops that I've known before; they greet me like an acquaintance from some distant past. The man sips his coffee, and the slight bang of his tiny ceramic mug on the table also welcomes me. I am in this place, as it is all in me.

Saturday Madness

2011-02-26T20:16:00.000-08:00

Today was long, exciting, and unusual. I shot out of bed early to begin training for my new job that's attracted much attention for me around town: English teacher at ILA, which is one of Saigon's largest institutions. People either don't know what it is or their eyes light up and they assume I'm making loads of money. My salary is relatively high compared to the average Vietnamese, but it's hardly enough to sustain me without being supplemented by private tutoring or another gig. They just think ILA is a huge deal because of it's incessant marketing efforts and huge tuition that it charges students; to many it's the school they can never attend.

After getting the rundown for what I'm supposed to be doing and the small amount of hours I'm getting this coming week, I headed home to grab Brian to join me for dinner. We decided to drop by Thi's cafe, our usual haunt. Thi's has a bar and live music downstairs and a relaxing lounge atmosphere upstairs that is my oasis in the backpacker district. Other than overpriced Highlands coffee, it's the only other place where I can relax while still being in this godforsaken corner of the city, where we live at the moment. Thi's also has a two-for-one beer deal during happy hour and some pretty impressive Mexican dishes on their menu.

After the dinner I jetted home to spiff up my outfit for my cousin's engagement party across town. I was 45 minutes late, which I figured was not too bad for Vietnamese time. Little did I know, these things only last two hours and are one of the few Vietnamese events where people are supposed to arrive on time. The taxi cab drive wasn't making me feel any better with his comments, so I was starting to get a bit worried. To top that off, I had two happy hour beers and was glowing red. Since I've been in Vietnam, drinking beer has been so routine that my "Asian glow" has almost completely stopped, but tonight it made an unusual comeback. It was bad enough to be late, even worse that I couldn't have any other excuse besides I was caught up having some drinks.

So I arrived and greeted my cousin and his beautiful fiance. They were all smile, at least on the outside, and I still had a seat on a table with some unknown family friend. Again, the usual questions were asked and the ILA thing came up again. One lady was particularly impressed and seemed to want me to meet her daughter (more on that later). The engagement party was a success.

Coming home from the wedding, I decided to stop by Thi's again to meet up with Brian and Monica. Bo, our Filipino cover song extraordinaire, was playing his usual sets of Jason Mraz and Jack Johnson. I decided to have another beer. The unusual was my Asian glow did not subside, which it tends to do after I've been drinking for more than two hours. This time it just became more red.

When I got back to the hotel to check what was going on with my body, this is what I discovered:

The red dots on my skin have been appearing in small numbers for the last few days. I had no idea what it was. The drinking seemed to trigger some kind of reaction that made things worst. This has never happened to me before. It looks suspiciously like the rash people get when they are hit with dengue fever. The only thing is, I don't have any fever. I have three of the symptoms: pain behind the eyes, joint and muscle ache, and rash (that spreads only with drinking), but no fever.

I'm giving it a day to see what happens, and then I guess it's an adventure to Vietnamese medical care.

Settling Down in Saigon

2011-02-25T09:03:00.000-08:00

After countless efforts throughout the city to look for a suitable habitat for six very cool people from around the globe, the mission has ended in failure. Perhaps it was a bad idea to look for a place to live before finding a job, which was why one of our delightful roommates-to-be was forced to bail on a one-year contract for a very sweet abode just hours away from signing the paper. We would've been living it up in district 4 (only ten minutes from my recently acquired job) in a humongous five-bedroom home, but it just wasn't meant to be.

CELTA

2011-02-13T04:11:00.000-08:00

A much needed calm is approaching. Tomorrow I will begin my fourth and final week of the CELTA course, which promises to make me a more marketable English teacher in Saigon (and the world apparently). The last three weeks have been overwhelming to say the least, with early mornings and late nights dedicated to lesson planning, input sessions, and phonology. I meant to maintain this blog during the course in order to process the mountains of information they throw at me but when my mind wasn't on the CELTA, I was simply too exhausted to even try "reflecting." Now that it's all winding down, I can take a breather and put down a few thoughts about the experience.

For those who ever plan to be an English teacher and wish to pursue the CELTA, here are a few of my impressions of the whole experience:

The bad:
1) Expensive. $1500 for the course not including bank transfer fees and all that. Take advantage of any promotions and discounts.

2) Abstract concepts. This definitely depends on how well you can grasp relatively vague ideas like deductive/inductive learning and discourse analysis. There is clearly a vast academic universe of grammarians, linguistic theories, and battling schools of thought behind the CELTA course. Whether we were supposed to really understand these things is not really clear; I can't think of when it will come in handy when teaching a class.

3) Time consuming. There's no way to avoid spending hours searching for images on Google, cutting strips of words for games, or constructing a 5-7 page lesson plan that touches every point demanded by the CELTA

The good:
1) If you've never taught, it leaves you with a structure for how to construct a lesson. If you have taught, like I have, you learn new techniques that make you go: "ahhh, why didn't I think of that?"

2) Teaching practice begins immediately and with good advisers expect to get effective guidance that you can feel right away (if you're able to apply it that is).

3) If you really impress your advisers, which you should definitely try to do, their recommendation should prove pretty damn useful for landing a job.

On Traveling

2010-12-16T16:34:00.000-08:00

There is an activity that I love to do when traveling in Southeast Asia: I close my eyes and think about home; I think about driving to work, passing billboards, getting fast food, gated communities, fitness gyms, etc.; then I open my eyes and feel this slight shock when I realize that I'm on a wooden boat slicing through a river flanked by dense jungle and limestone karsts.

I look over to my travel companion and he is lost in thought. My whole life I've never been satisfied to just love things; I always needed to get others to join in. Every time he says, "Wow," I feel this place become more special. Not that I have to do much; there is no resisting the charm of this corner of the world.

For a traveler who loves beauty, there is no shortage here. Although terribly overrun by tourism, Ha Long Bay is still something everyone must see in their lifetime. Sure steep limestone formations are a common thing throughout Asia, but never in the thousands. And there is something about seeing them fade into view in the distant haze while leaning against the rail of a slow-moving boat that can make anyone suddenly stop thinking and gaze in silence. The jungles of Laos do the same, as they spread out in all directions, seemingly untouched. You feel like not only an outsider from another country, but one from civilization itself, as you become transported into what can truly be called wilderness.

For a traveler in search of action, Southeast Asia never really rests. Its cities live to a high-speed rhythm that no one can really catch up with. Even though I'm used to the scene, a few nights in Saigon or the bustling Old Quarter of Hanoi make me desperate for a quiet oasis somewhere in the mountains. The colors, the noise, the smells, the movement of millions of people in a not-so-synchronized mass makes my suburban neighborhood look more like the boonies.

And then there's my favorite: the people. Of course they don't realize it as they go about their days, but there is a beautiful resilience to the people here. Every time they smile I am inspired. It's not right to say that they shouldn't have the materialism that America has attained, but their lack of it somehow makes them treasure more human things that many of us Westerners have forgotten. I treasure especially the moments they reach out to total strangers; lifelong friends are made in a night when a traveler is invited in for some rice whiskey.

I love the feeling of learning something from this place, which we regard as backward or developing. With all our advancements, are we better than them? In their hearts they possess a brand of human goodness that we have somehow lost. I am a long way from attaining it, but having felt its touch, I can honestly say it's why I travel.

Emotions

2010-12-02T13:49:00.000-08:00

The highlight of our second day was getting reacquainted with the legendary EAP Vietnam program. I rented a motorbike, feeling pretty nervous about it at first (what if I forgot how to ride?), but it hit me: "I'm EAP 2006!" There is no way I could face my EAP 06 buddies back home and tell them that I was in Hanoi and never rode a motorbike. Of course I got lost though and luckily had Brian in the back as a decent navigator.

Anyways, we met up with three wonderful EAP alumni: Thai, Mai, and Nancy. Several generations of EAPers at one table, converging right where it all started, having greasy, sizzling "bit tek." My vegetarian thing that I've been doing for about three months now is currently on hold.

Later that night we met again at a bia hoi spot not far from where we were staying. Bia hoi is pretty light homemade beer that's served in what are usually grimy glasses. But since the price of each round is well below one dollar, I usually just pick the bugs out and enjoy. As light as it is, Vietnamese folks are intent on filling it with big chunks of ice, but after more than ten of these suckers you're wobbling down the Old Quarter mumbling belligerently for some late night noodles.

So the highly awaited guest that night at the bia hoi spot was my EAP director (and that of many generations of other transformed EAPers), Gerard. We waited for hours for this man, as he showed up late after having to drag himself away from some gala, but he arrived pulling up on his motorbike, sporting a very professor-like blazer and his famous big smile. There's probably nothing that makes the EAP memories flood back like a meeting with Gerard. We spent a few more hours telling stories, rekindling forgotten memories, and even diverging into light discussions about politics and the future of this fast-changing country. It was a great meeting that stretched long into the night, until the smiling waitresses stacking up all the plastic kindergarten furniture gave the signal to call it a night.

The next day Brian and I made for my old campus, the University of Hanoi. Not much has changed. The copy stores, sandwich joints, and motorbike parking lots are all where they used to be. Gerard invited me to attend a session for the current EAP class to talk about preparing to get reacquainted with home again. But before I did that, I stopped by D8 to talk to the wonderful staff who apparently still work there. Sadly, my favorite security guard/door man/repairman, Anh Bang, was off that day. I did see one of the female caretakers, chi Thu Anh.

After speaking for Gerard's little discussion along with Nancy, we appropriately headed for some bia hoi again. The large number of students who showed up at the joint proved to me that EAP 2010 could really give EAP 2006 a run for it's money (I hate to admit it my 06ers!) These are some energetic, fun, and really intelligent kids.

Oh, the bittersweet feeling of being a visiting alumnus...

Hanoi Happenings

2010-12-01T17:18:00.000-08:00

Our first night was a bit bizarre. Not because of any particular external factors; we were simply too jet-lagged to think straight. My good friend, Huyen Anh, a Hanoi native and tour agent by trade invited us to have a bite after her choir practice at the big cathedral. We should have joined afterward, but decided to go there early since we had no other plans. It was too early. We spent more than two hours sipping on coffee, tea, and beer at nearby vendors waiting for her. I must have used the restroom at least five times--a restroom half the size of a Porta Potti. Brian even had his first failed attempt at crossing the street. A rogue motorbike going the wrong way smacked into him when he failed to look both sides. He was OK and it was even fun seeing the motorbike taxi drivers get up to defend him, throwing a few "dich me" bombs at the traffic violator who hit him. When Huyen Anh finished she was joined by too very tired, zombie-like creatures that didn't make for very exciting conversationists. Nevertheless, she was cheerful and friendly as always; there's always jokes and laughter when you combine the amazing Huyen Anh with some street vendor snacks. We were supposed to seek her wisdom for our upcoming overland expedition through Laos, but without the energy, we decided to postpone that for another night of late-night munchies on kindergarten chairs.

Setting Off

2010-11-30T17:36:00.000-08:00

After a badly planned weekend of hectic packing, I managed to assemble everything I needed--hopefully. I spent the last few hours with my dad, sister, and good friends Nguyen, Thanh, and Vivian. I've made this journey many times, but never have I felt this nervous. Perhaps it's because this is the longest I will be away from home, without the safety and comfort of a university program watching out for me. I think I felt it most when I gave my dad a hug goodbye--a strange and rare moment of affection between the two of us. I know he's worried, confused, and apprehensive about my decision. His boy, born in the States--the so-called Land of Opportunity--journeying back to the very country he left to seek out a chance to make a living. The thing is, I feel that way too. After all, nothing is set for me; it's all one big shot in the dark.

The flight was dreadful. Like always I couldn't sleep, but this time I desperately tried and failed. Even watching three movies back-to-back couldn't make the flight feel any faster. Our first flight was delayed and we landed for our stopover in Hong Kong late. Cathay was nice enough to send one of their employees to run us over to our connecting flight, but it's expected since it was their fault we were late anyways. So save for the 15 minutes of running, we didn't get a chance to stretch our legs much on our entire 20-hour trip.

Landing in Hanoi was refreshingly easy. We did our visas online and picked it up when we got there, went through immigration with no problems, and customs didn't even look at our forms. I tried to get us a ride with one of the bigger vans outside the airport to save us some money, but couldn't get one to let us join their tour group. We ended up getting our own taxi for a whopping 280,000 dong (about $15); Chi Hoa would have been disappointed with my bargaining skills. Like always, I love talking to taxi drivers. Ours was named Can, and somehow they always manage to be from my dad's hometown of Nam Dinh. But we didn't talk much. Once the car came closer to the heart of the city, I was too overwhelmed by old memories. All the tall, matchbox-shaped homes stained and weathered; Hanoian folks on motorbikes covered with face masks; and schoolchildren in their school jackets conjured up forgotten events that all came flooding back to me. My mind drifted to thoughts of Chi Hoa. I miss her.

OC, Heinekens, and Some Good Company

2010-11-14T01:34:00.000-08:00

Few days end with such warm satisfaction. I had a great time meeting two great guys today, Tristen and Dominic. Tristen is a fellow traveling buddy of my good friend Kevin, come to visit from Philadelphia. Dominic is a mutual friend of Chi Hoa, passing through to spend a day out in OC where I met them up. I don't remember laughing that hard with total strangers in a long time. It was like we all knew each other from some other lifetime; we just clicked.

I left feeling a great bond and also respect for these two good-natured and intelligent fellas. The same feeling I always get after having a long conversation with Kevin, a friend who I can always relate to on many levels.

My Mother and Her Story

2010-08-17T20:36:00.000-07:00

I'm not speaking for everyone, but I have to say that many of us live privileged lives here in America. I was born in Northridge Hospital, California, and just that fact-- being brought into this world by the best doctors and nurses in a facility with all the latest medical technology--already set me a world apart from my mother. In just one generation, Vietnamese people have gone from unimaginable hardship to a life of relative comfort. I wish I can live every second of my life knowing the challenges that my mother overcame to make it here, but I honestly forget all the time. I'm guilty of giving in to the pleasures that this affluent society has offered me--the materialism, the meaningless diversions, and the opportunity to become numb and apathetic. For that reason, I've decided to record my mother's story, not only to remind myself of the pulsating human drama that I am still a part of, but because it is a good story.

As I am writing this my mom is set for an MRI tomorrow morning. She's had numbness in her left arm for years now, which she's been dismissing as simple aching from her work in electronic assembly (she sits for eight hours a day soldering parts to circuit boards)--same job she's been doing for more than twenty years. Within the last few months, the numbness turned into stinging pain. Now it is excruciating, especially when she lifts things. She was also diagnosed with an underactive thyroid a few months ago, but the doctors aren't sure if the issue with the arm is related, hence the MRI.

Of course her first concern when she heard about the suggestion was--how much? She's provided with irritatingly limited health care and every co-payment hurts, since both her income and my little brother's dad's don't offer much of a surplus of savings after all the bills.

But you'll hardly hear her complain about it; that's just how she is.

To understand her you have to understand the circumstances under which she was born--a damn amazing story. It starts of course, in Vietnam.

She was born in Saigon. Her mother--my grandmother, today a healthy 70 year-old--was an outsider from far-off Quang Tri province who made the journey south along with fellow Catholic families escaping Communism. My mom's father--now 71 and still vibrant as ever--was a respected captain in the South Vietnamese army. His was a wealthy, elite family with a spectacular past. Way before the American presence in the South, they owned factories throughout the region. All the boys, my grandpa included, were educated in France--a feat that very few Vietnamese families could afford at the time (he still speaks fluent French today). My grandma's family, on the other hand, was as poor as poor could get; simple farmers. However, when my grandparents first met, my grandpa's glorious family had fallen hard--their wealth disappeared when a brother, entrusted with overseeing the factories while the rest were overseas, gambled it all away. My grandpa's mother had to sell her own jewelry to afford a trip back to Vietnam, and so his childhood in France ended abruptly.

I don't know the circumstances of their meeting and I don't know if my mom does either, but I heard my grandpa fell madly in love with my grandma. He charmed her with his intense personality and quick wit, teasing her constantly for her peculiar country accent. Needless to say, they became very fond of each other. But their relationship was forbidden. Even if his family did lose almost all their wealth, they continued to regard themselves as elite; my grandma was just a simple country girl. His mother would not hear of it. But knowing my grandpa's personality today, it doesn't surprise me that he won in the end--they were married and were soon blessed with my first aunt.

Unfortunately, those were crazy times. The war that split the nation in two was getting more intense by the day. My grandpa was called on to lead his company--part of the ARVN 18th Division--far from home, leaving my grandma and my infant aunt with the mother-in-law. According to the story, my grandpa's mother never learned to be more fond of her uneducated, country bumpkin of a daughter-in-law. It didn't help that they were both intensely devout Catholics; she was treated like dirt. After a painfully long period of time without any word from my grandpa, she packed up and left with her little sister and child. Who could blame her; she was not allowed to eat with the rest of the family and even forced to sleep with animals in the barn with her baby!

There were a lot of Americans in Vietnam at this point. My grandma made do selling cigarettes and other little things outside of American bases. There she met a man who, over time, fell in love with her. At this point in the story, I can only guess at what was going through my grandma's head. Of course, this is not a memory she happily retells the family when we get together for Christmas--it all comes from her little sister--my mom's aunt still in Vietnam--who accompanied her during those times. Maybe she felt like there was no turning back after what she did or perhaps she couldn't bear the horrible treatment. She welcomed this new man into her life.

To this day, no one really knows what the man's ethnicity, or even nationality, really was. My grandma has never spoken about it, and with her limited education, even she could only speculate. The obvious guess would be that he was an American G.I., but some say he was a foreigner working in Vietnam at the time of the American presence. I've heard everything from Mexican to Argentinean. This man was my mom's real father.

My mom never knew this man. She has not even a picture of him. The only thing he left her was a name, "Hargraves", which for some strange reason isn't even his. Apparently, he was not around when my mom was born and so a friend of his had to step in to offer his name to my mom. I've never figured out the reason for this strange gesture.

On one of my own recent trips back to Vietnam, I heard from from my great-aunt herself that this man was deeply in love with my grandma. He offered to take her away from Vietnam several times. But for reasons unknown, my grandma turned him down and suggested, "take your daughter instead." He refused and replied that he could produce many daughters, but he would not meet another woman like my grandma. How different would my mom's life have been if her father agreed to take her then?

Meanwhile, the proud captain of the 18th Division returned home, engulfed in a fit of rage upon discovering that his beloved wife left with his daughter. He interrogated everyone in the neighborhood, some even at gunpoint, to find out what happened and where she went. She was, of course, the love of his life. He eventually found her, still with this new man.

I don't mean to make this anticlimactic, but I don't know what happened between my two grandpas--no one does--except my grandpas themselves. I heard that there was some kind of confrontation, but was there some sort of duel? I just don't know. All I know is my grandma returned to her loving husband, and they had seven more children afterward. No one saw the other man ever again.

So what about my mom? Anyone could tell that she was not fully Vietnamese. But this was not an issue for the family; my grandpa loved (still loves) my mom as much, often times more, than his own flesh and blood. Never--not once--was my mom's true origins ever discussed. If ever a guest inquired about her obvious mixed appearance, he offered some story about meeting a French woman on some drunken foray; he never let anyone suspect anything of his dear wife. And so, in gratitude to his love, my mom never gave too much thought to finding her real father.

But it was not easy being of mixed parentage after the war. Although only eleven when the war ended in 1975, she had already experienced taking cover from artillery fire and the sight of bullet-ridden corpses. Now she had to deal with a postwar wave of hatred for anything remotely American. In a way she was fortunate to be in Saigon, where treatment of Amerasian children was less harsh compared to the countryside. But still, it was the least of the family's worries.

My grandpa suffered a horrible spine injury a few years before the war ended. This, coupled with the fact that he was discharged from service before the Communists arrived, saved him from harsh re-education camp--but left the family without a breadwinner. The care of eight children (the youngest died shortly after childbirth), fell to my grandma. This situation is, of course, not particularly unique in those times. Most Vietnamese families endured something similar after the war ended. But that fact doesn't make it any less heartbreaking. At 25, I get annoyed when they forget to put grilled onions in my Double Double; at 11, my mom and her family teetered on the brink of starvation.

South Vietnamese currency was to be exchanged for that of the new regime, and it was worth little. Families were allowed to use the new money to purchase a fixed amount of rice, sugar, salt, fish sauce, and other basic necessities. Those who couldn't, sold much of what they had. Countless items--from refrigerators to television sets--went to the government in exchange for worthless money. Even when my grandparents were able to afford the monthly allowance of rice, it wasn't usually available. They were instead given bundles of cassava root--the staple of the guerrilla diet. The amount of food was never enough to fully feed a family of ten. Out of desperation, they even ate the cassava rind, sending the entire family into the hospital (if not prepared properly, the stuff contains a deadly amount of cyanide). Luckily that incident didn't claim any lives.

Their greatest fear was being sent to the New Economic Zone--a wasteland near the Laotian border where families were given a plot of land and told to fend for themselves (a fate that many Vietnamese families endured). For a family with eight children way below working age, this was akin to a death sentence. It is said that in preparation for this my grandma was to poison a big pot of soup--preferring to give the entire family a swifter death rather than submitting them to the slow agony of starvation. Lucky for me--and my countless cousins--this never occurred.

My grandpa gradually lost his renowned wit and confidence. The French-educated, proud ex-captain who courageously led his men through several major battles, became depressed on account of his physical condition. He succumbed to alcoholism and was so ashamed of being unable to provide for his family that he made several attempts to commit suicide--the memory of the blood squirting from his wrist still vivid in my mom's mind.

The family's plight caught the attention of a local businesswoman--a Chinese-Vietnamese. I say "businesswoman" because she and her household were well-to-do and they owned a watch factory--but she wasn't an entrepreneur in the capitalist sense. Her operation was of course carried out under the watchful eyes of the state--with a generous cut taken. She also earned this entrepreneurial privilege having given her share of blood and sacrifice to the cause; she was a die-hard Communist. Seeing this debilitated man with his wife and eight children must have tugged at her heart strings. She decided to employ my mom in her factory to generate more income for the family. The Party also allowed certain individuals who "paid their dues" to the revolution a cheaper price on state-distributed food, the kind lady was on this list--she was able to add my mom on it too.

And so my mom dropped out of school at twelve and began working in a watch factory at fourteen, polishing metal and cranking heavy machines. School was a waste of time for her, she recalls, since she didn't learn anything useful and was always teased for her shabby-looking clothes (she had only two shirts she could wear to school). Most of her siblings also had only two outfits, and out of necessity had to wear them wet sometimes right out of the laundry, sometimes leaving them with skin fungus. She describes the watch factory as totally hazardous. She got her older sister a position there too, but the latter quit after splitting a finger in one of the presses. Another man in my mom's group lost three of his.

She did plenty of other things too. There was a forced labor requirement all throughout the South during those years. Anyone over eighteen was required to go. Even though she wasn't yet eighteen, my mom offered to go in place of her parents--so, she was given double the required hours.

She was also given another peculiar job by a friend who loved and trusted her. An older girlfriend had married into a fairly well-off family that decided to pool their money together in order to build boats--not for fishing, but for escape. Since they trusted my mom, they gave her the job of running all over town collecting money from families who were interested in the dangerous venture. The money was never paid in the worthless currency of the Communist economy, but in gold ingots. So my mom was required to sneak past authorities--her body stuffed with gold--hoping that her young age would turn away any suspicion. The couple was very successful. Not only did they safely transport all their family and relatives, they brought countless other families out of misery and into a better life. The only time they were ever caught, sadly, was on their own trip--meant to be the last. If there's such a thing as fate, it can be so cruel to good people. My mom never saw her friend again.

My mom also attempted to escape--twice. My grandma urged her to save herself and find a way to help the family once she was safely in another country. Along with dozens of other hopeful individuals, she spent days quietly hiding out in a shack, waiting for the moment to board her boat. Twice she did this, and twice the boat never arrived because it was not safe enough.

My mom's day arrived when the circumstances of her birth, which had been nothing but a burden, suddenly came crashing back into her life as a giant beacon of hope. The United States had begun its Amerasian Immigration Act (later followed by the even more effective Amerasian Homecoming Act) after hearing appalling reports of children fathered by Americans being discriminated and ostracized. Finding out about the program through word of mouth, my grandma and my mom biked every day out to the program office in Saigon. This was the answer to all their problems; if my mom got accepted, it meant a better life for the entire family. She was finally granted an interview, an accomplishment that my mom says was so rare nobody would even believe them. It wasn't just receiving the interview that amazed people, but the fact that my grandparents didn't pay a single penny to anyone (the authorities stood at every step taking bribes). My grandparents began the process with little hope since they had literally nothing. It was thanks to a few more bighearted Communists officers that she was allowed to make it through--some kind of reoccurring theme in my mom's struggles.

The last obstacle, however, was a big one. My mom was born Cathy Hargraves. Her father--the one that raised her--burned her papers and paid big money to get her a Vietnamese identity (for good reason). Throughout her short period in school and for every encounter with the authorities, she was known by another name. Now the family had no proof that she was who she said she was! Luckily, my grandpa remembered the ID number on her original papers and they dug up a file to match. The family sat anxiously as the Americans tried to figure out if these two names actually did belong to the same person.

Being granted safe passage through the Amerasian Immigration Act was a big deal all throughout Vietnam. My mom recalls from her own experiences all the people who looked to this as their greatest hope. Not only did people pay big money to the authorities just to come close to having a chance, many others attempted to lie and buy the needed paperwork. Sometimes a mother who had two Amerasian children would sell the second child to a family so that they could claim eligibility. Some with a lighter, or sometimes unusually darker, complexion tried to dye their hair for the needed effect.

My mom also recalled the story of a woman who helped an Amerasian girl from way out in the countryside. The girl acquired so many of her father's genes--freckles, light eyes, and a head of curly blondish hair--that she didn't even look remotely Vietnamese. She was, however, an orphan who was taken in by an abusive family that beat her. The kind woman--herself the mother of a mixed child--felt pity for this girl and paid the authorities a fortune to bring her along to get an interview. It was during my mom's own interview that an American officer burst into the room and said a few words to the my mom's interviewer, apparently about this girl. The girl was given an immediate interview and put on a plane within a week; my mom suspects it was because of the abuse she endured.

After my mom's interview, the family waited for several agonizing weeks. Twice a day my grandpa rode his bike out to the office and checked a list of names that they posted out in front. When my mom's name family appeared the entire family burst into tears and cried with joy. The next few days were spent saying goodbye to friends and relatives; they left behind many. After a stop in Thailand, my mom and the entire family was sponsored by a church out in Alabama, and there most of them remain to this day.

My mom met my dad, who was working on a shrimping boat in Mississippi, not long after (his remarkable story is a whole 'nother post) and they moved to California, where I was born. She spent years working hard and continuing to sacrifice all that she could for her parents, siblings, and children--a habit she picked up from her childhood I suppose. Now those long years are showing up in her health, but we're staying positive. After all that she's been through, it's second nature to be positive.

My mother's story is precious to me. It reminds me that my family--a loud and happy bunch--faced pain, heartbreak, and death more than once during their previous lives far away and long ago. For me, the story needs to be heard and never forgotten. Every Vietnamese-American family has these stories--some endured (and survived) much, much worse. There is also the heart-wrenching ordeal of the re-education camps and the perilous journey by boat--two things that my family was fortunate enough to avoid. The pain is also not unique to the fallen regime of the South. Vietnamese in the North suffered horribly from devastating B-52 bombing and famine. This story is not meant to be political. It is a "human" story--one that continues every time we turn on the news. It is a story that connects me to my family and my family to all those who have ever suffered in any country, religion, or race.

A crossroad

2010-08-10T20:56:00.000-07:00

Navigating through life with a clear plan has never been easy for me. Beginning way back when I was a teen and on through my college years at UCLA, I've always been driven by the next exciting thing that floats its way into my head. They were always things that not many people participated in. Back in high school I was deep into the rave scene--and I mean deep. Thinking back to it--to all the beads, visors, and glow sticks--it all seems pretty ridiculous. But at the time, I was infatuated. Like all things I become obsessed with, it ran through my head night and day.

Fortunately, I grew out of the rave thing by senior year. Then, I got really into social issues for a quick minute--an unplanned move that might have got me into college. While at college I had a strange love affair with the band, Red Hot Chili Peppers. I was more than a devoted fan; I practically worshiped these half-naked gods of alternative rock. It sounds crazy, but it felt like their music fit into my life somehow; it got right down to my very core. Now I'm happy to say a lot of different types of music do that for me.

Then near the end of my journey as an undergrad, I fell in love with Asia. I guess if you throw a guy with a tendency to become obsessive over new things into such an amazingly magical place on a six-month study abroad trip, the results were inevitable. My relationship with Asia, particularly my parents' birthplace of Vietnam, was overwhelming to say the least. I entered a clueless observer and left a self-proclaimed expert. Some might say I was under a spell.

Like all the other obsessions in my life, this one also faded after some time. I returned after my initial discovery several times to the point where, sad to say, I became almost jaded. I began to realize that I was naive. I entered into this strange paradox, so obsessed with this new-found "worldliness" that I became rather narrow-minded. It was almost like I realized some kind of "truth" while abroad and returned to find the people around me stuck in ignorance. Although I did return to plenty of people who were comfortable living with a lot of lies and half-truths (especially in my own community), I was much more critical of people than I wanted to be.

After some years have passed, and I was able to gain some precious experience working on my own and being in relationship with a very mature and responsible girl, I think I have cooled down a bit. I feel like I'm more capable of checking the excesses of my obsessions.

At the same time, however, I kind of miss having them.

I think it's for this reason I'll be returning to Asia once more. I've had a strange few years after my experiences abroad. I worked hard to get far away from the Valley where I grew up and somehow ended up right back where I started. I waited for that cliche moment to hit me--where one realizes after years of traveling that all the answers were right at home. But it never came. I put all my energy into the one marketable skill that I've developed over the past few years--teaching teens--but I was still not happy. I thought that if I took it a step further and lunged into the American school system, becoming a full-fledged licensed teacher, that I would be satisfied. Although I haven't accomplished that, I can't imagine myself being happy doing that either--at least not right now.

So I'm taking a blind step thousands of miles toward the other side of the planet. There are plenty of risks and I can hear criticism and disapproval from a lot of loved ones, but this move just feels right to me. I feel like I'm actually listening to my "soul", combining two of the things I am wholeheartedly passionate about.

And somehow it feels different this time around. It's not that I'm so obsessed about this. After all, I agree with a lot of people about the downside of Vietnam. I'm conscious of the risk of spending all of my tiny little paychecks on cheap thrills. This time, I'm doing something I love, but with control. I'm pursuing a dream, but with my feet planted in reality.

I hope this works.