Act I, Scene I

I wake up, not sure where I am. KA-CHUNCK. KA-CHUNCK... For the last four days the construction next door starts every morning at 8am. I fumble for my Ipod, but I have to take it to almost max volume to drown out the jackhammers and the drilling. I roll out of bed, stepping right into a crusty bowl of instant noodles form the night before. The ants are already here, tiny tributaries of single file streams from all corners of the room, to meet at this Mecca of broken ramen and chicken powder. Toothbrush sticking out of my mouth I search around for one of my favored shirts. Since the day the maid stuck some girls' panties in with my clean clothes, it's a fair assumption that some other tenant could have an article or two of mine. I'm greeted by my landlady on the way out: "You can have your sheet's cleaned one time a week only" she says (or at least I think so), "I have to charge you for two washings!". I brush past her, I'm late for daycare.

"Daycare" is what I call it. Really its supposed to be teaching primary learners. Every Sunday morning for one hour I am subjected to screaming, sandal throwing, table graffiti, and all-out lack of using English. If you've have 40 bowls of fruitloops for breakfast (I've had no breakfast this day) and you see some mustachioed, long-haired Westerner walk in to your class room... what else would you want to do? 13 "students" from the ages of 8 to 14 are probably as upset/uninterested with the lesson as I am. We should play a game! Great way to learn a bit of English and work off some of the sugar, I think. I explain a simple game to my teaching assitant, an 20 year old girl who is my translator, discipliner, co-bearer of the brunt of flying markers. After 10 minutes of simmering down the kids, they divide into two teams. The kids then discuss for a few minutes what their team names will be: Team Chicken and Team Spiderman. OK, I begin to write the names on the board for keeping score. "NONONONO!" scream the kids. They want to write their own team names. A volunteer from each group comes up and reaches on their tiptoes to scrawl out the names. Team Chiken and Team Spiderman3 (the kid copied it off of his pen holder) are finally ready to go... ready to play futbol, with a paper ball and me as the goalie. No English, just kicking, yelling, and laughing. "See you next week!" my teaching assitant conducts the children to say in "unison". Yikes...

I get out of their no minute later than 1 hour. From children yelling I'm out into deadly traffic, constantly on my guard. A motorbike zooms inches from me, carrying 3 adults and one baby, the driver on his cellphone. I clench the handlebars, squinting through smog and dirt, searching for someplace to eat a late breakfast. There's a pho place! Nope, I had pho yesterday. There's a place! No it's too empty, probably no good. Over there on the otherside of the street! No way with this traffic am I cutting over! How about that rice place from last week? No, food wasn't hot enough. I pass another pho spot (for the 10th time) and, grumbling to myself for lack of originality, I settle. I bat away flies as my food comes to me at a surprisingly slow pace. Other customers stare at me for a second too long for comfort over their steaming bowls. I keep my head down and slup, definitely not a sign of bad manners here. Meh, these noddles taste like every other noodle I've had here. Duh, Jake, it's all made of white rice, what do you expect? Spinach and squid ink fusilli? Whatever.

I spend the rest of my afternoon walking in circles in the Old Quarter. I feel the need to buy someting, jsut for the sake of bargaining with someone. I'm approached by women carrying the yoke tethered baskets of pineapples and bananas. No I don't want to buy, can't you see me scurrying away from you? Really though, some fresh pineapple would be nice, but I am on a mission to find the BEST price for pineapples and all of a sudden I'm in no mood to bargain. I duck into a cafe and try to write in my journal, but it seems to be the same crap that's been trickling out of me for the last week. I glance outside and the sun is coming out, a rarity for this city, yet somehow I find little motivation to go back outside. I send some text messages out to a few people I know in town to see what's up but no one is really responding. Another cafe-er comes up to me: "You from?". I sigh and give in. "California??! WOWOWOW!". If he weren't so obnoxious I might let it slide. "Harisona?" he looks disappointed. I do my best to be polite and do something like stir my coffee to avoid further contact. Nothing makes me feel more like a foreigner. I feel lonely.

I'm getting nowhere today with the book I'm reading, One Hundred Years of Solitude. After 2 hours, 2 coffees, and maybe just more than 2 pages of classic Colombian literature, I remember that I need to replace the showerhead that I broke the other day in my apartment. I ask the girl at the cafe where I can find a replacement; no mis-communications here, I have the actual piece with me. She understands and shows me on my map where I can find a shop that sells this item. In Hanoi, many of the street sections are identified by what they sell ie: silk suit street, computer part street, Chinese lantern street, etc. so it's easier to know where you are going ahead of time. I get to the street she told me, about a 20 minute bike ride out of my way. I see lighting fixtures, stoves, fans, other home appliances, but no showerheads. I pull out my sorry piece of broken metal and show it to a vendors. They wag their finger and shake their head, like I'm the kid who's just too fat and pathetic to ask for more candy. C'mon, this store is like a regular Bed, Bath, and Beyond... minus the "bath". I return home to take a shower with just a stream coming from the open hose. On the way I stop for a bowl of pho.



I wake up, not sure where I am. KA-CHUNCK. KA-CHUNCK... 8am. The jackhammering is constructing this perfect metal riff! I roll out of bed, not bothering to put on anything besides my briefs and rock out with beat of the brick-laying next door. What took me so long to get this guitar? I smile to myself, impressed with the painstaking bargaining deal I made for my newly purchased second-hand-no-brand-barely-stays-in-tune-sorta-ugly-beast of a guitar. My phone beeps to me. Cool! My friend Lien texted me to see if I want to meet her for lunch. I meet her at the bank where she works (mostly everyone my age in Hanoi is either an economist, accountant, financier, business consultant, etc.) and we catch a lady selling Mum Tom right out of her yoke baskets. She's a true "one-man-band", carrying plastic stools, plates, bowls, and utensils in one basket, and her ingredients (shrimp paste concentrate, limes, tofu, rice noodles, fresh chilies, fresh herbs) in the other. She manifests this tiny clay single use "stove" (looks like the cross section of a lotus plant), heats up the dipping sauce, and then fries the tofu. All of this while I get to watch a foot away from her, a foot off the ground from my stoop. This is magical, and it makes food is much more delectable than one would think. The experience is delicious, the company pleasant. I finish my plate of noodles and tofu only to be greeted with a freshly fried batch of seconds. I can't stop eating, the combinations are endless: taste a bit of the rice noodles with the tiny basil leaves, not too much shrimp dip, it'll drown out the crisp from the fried tofu, chase it with a sliver of raw chilly, enjoy the pain. A family unloads off their motorbike, unfolding one at a time to pry themselves away from each other, to catch the Mum Tom lady before she packs up for the next block. They peel away from one another, careful not to knock the bike over with the shifting wait. The father smiles and waves at me, momentarily interrupting his cellphone conversation. The children scream "ello! ello!" and flash me a thousand peace signs. Lien laughs, embarrassed that she's getting so much attention by the novelty of my presence. I can only return the biggest grin yet. Nothing makes me feel more like a foreigner. I love it.

It's super hot today but my bike has become an extension of my body. I am learning the ways of the road, sure to stay on the right, give a bell-jingle here and there to keep with the conversation of other motorists. Ah! By some weird luck I've found my showerheads! I flash a most charming smile and the price drops by half. The sales woman asks where I am from and that she has a brother in California. I tell her it's all about "the AZ" and she totally laughs.

I ready myself for my other English class, this time it's with intermediate speakers. Most of them are lively and excited to learn. We loosely follow the lesson plan which is fairly beginner and then go into open discussions about travel, cultures and customs, even green energy. They ask great questions. They even teach me a thing or two about propper English grammer. An hour and a half flys by, I've extend my stay an extra 30 minutes. Before I leave they present me with a gift. Apparently it's Teacher's Day in Vietnam. How lovely, it's a sweater! They clap as I try it on. Perfect fit. I feel like I'm showing signs of tears. Somehow the smallest and simplest things here flower into something so memorable and beautiful. "See you next week!" they call to me as I bike away. I can't wait, new topics already bubbling in my head. On my way, wherever that may be, I stop for pho.

"Jake is unable to connect"

Many of you may have known my disdain for FB back home. I'd just started using it (poorly) upon my arrival, and now...

http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/n/a/2009/11/17/international/i033256S37.DTL

Interesting, hilarious, and scary all rolled into one. A good reason to start writing me emails!

Classified Ad: FREElance cook...

Since I've been doing absolutely no cooking in my "shared kitchen" (aside from rice... so gourmet) I had to get back into the throng ASAP. So for the last two weeks I have been volunteering in VietKitchen Spring (check out the website for the sister restaurant http://www.vietkitchen-restaurant.com/home/gioithieu.asp), a higher end restaurant in my opinion since entrees go for about $8. I arrive at 9am on my first day and am greeted by the kitchen manager, Tho. She speaks decent English and is excited to introduce me to the staff. Located on the third floor of the restaurant is where all the magic happens. And it happens with woks, cleavers, chopsticks, and MSG. Initially the cooks look at me with confusion. Puzzled looks convey: "How do you pronounce his name? He's working for free? We don't have any kitchen sandals in his size!". I'm just like "hand me one of those cleavers, let's go!". Tho sneaks out, leaving me translator-less. Sous-chef Quang leads me to a wooden cutting board and plops down a grocery bag of chicken legs. I'm watching him, frantically making mental notes. Make a central cut down the length of the bone, pick up the leg and crack it backwards, cuting into the joint, turn the cleaver over and crack the top of the bone, hold onto what remains and pull off the meat. "No No NO NOO", Quang grunts at me, waggin his finger and hip-nudging me out of the way. "Do it like this", he shows me again, no slower than before. I did do just that! Why does mine look like it's been chewed up by a dog? My fingers slip dangerously on the chicken meat while I try to manage this brick of a knife with a surgeon's precision. The cooks look at me out of the corners of their eyes, excitedly waiting for the tips of my fingers to go flying. The head chef, Minh, enters the kitchen speaking quickly to sous-chef Quang, who been patiently babying me through 10 sub-par legs. Poor chickens, as if a Vietnamese execution weren't enough. Quang quickly take the knife from me and sets it down with the manner of a parent placing the cookie jar just out of a child's reach. He leads me to a tub of water and all of a sudden I'm squatting on the floor cleaning water spinach for the duration of the lunch shift.

So much of my time in the kitchen has been spent watching, swerving out of people's way, and honing my ability to cut flowers out of carrots with this abomination of a knife. I am always grabbing for my pen and pocket book; jotting down the phonetic spelling for common items, drawing pictures of mysterious produce, "stealing" recipes. After sometime, the crew becomes comfortable with this big white buffoon in their midst. Give it a few days, it's sorta like any kitchen: crude jokes, male-to-male ass-slapping, pork fat throwing. My co-workers include Sous-chef Quang (Chief), Ngoc (Leo), Nam (Old Timer), Cong (Flea), Luan (Punky), Huy (Loud Mouth), and Trung (Bad Ass). So far, there isn't any hostility towards me or my (lack of) abilities with the wok; egos seem to eerily absent at VietKitchen, practically unheard of in the states. The work load here is minimal compared to the last place I worked, perfect for the Vietnamese who never seem to pass up the perfect opportunity to squat on their children-sized plastic stools, play on their cell phones, and sip on a cup of iced green tea. Then the orders come in, someone hits a switch and the hoods roar to life. On cue, the cooks suck down the last of their cigarettes and Huy begins barking orders off the tickets, hence his newly acquired alias of Loudmouth. It's an appetizer of fish soup (canh ca) and fresh spring rolls (nem cuon). Old Timer is at his board dicing fresh tomatoes and pineapple for the soup, passing this on to Bad Ass who fires up the giant wok over a raging blue flame. "Zake! Zake!" (that's my cue!) calls Flea, excitedly pointing to the rice paper he's laid out for me. In my time here at VietKitchen Spring I have become proficient in the language of preparing the spring rolls, a task that doesn't seems to require anyone to babysit me. Chopped lettuce, mint, cilantro, rice noodles, poached pork and shrimp rolled into tiny packages of deliciousness. Served on a plate with the famous dipping sauce nuoc mam (fish sauce, sugar, lime juice, and chile), this is the "hamburger" of Hanoi, a national dish. Just as soon as it began, the hoods are killed and fresh smokes glow in front of toothy grins. Good work boys! "Berry Goot!" yells Leo in my direction. He has a striking resemblance to the actor, not-to-mention a golden singing voice. Later this night, he'll have a grand opportunity to flaunt this ability.

It's one of the managers' birthdays and this is taken very seriously in Vietnam, just as seriously as they take their karaoke clubs. We arrive at the establishment, take the elevator to the 4th floor, and enter the private room. 4 plasma screen TVs hang from each wall. Humongous candles drip onto tables adorned with bottles of beer, red bulls, fresh fruits, fish jerky, and chips. Laser lights and disco balls' shimmer against the potted palms swaying lightly in the breeze from the fans... it's about to get very hot in here. The birthday boy shows up with the rest of the guests, maybe 40 people total. Someone opens a bottle of Johnnie Walker. Across the room people are cheersing at the volume of a passing train. Everyone takes turns crooning into the microphone, the cheesiest of cheese love songs (I don't need to speak any Vietnamese to know that). They drop to their knees, pleading with the flat screens to never let the lovers fall astray. My glass curiously never seems to empty, I'm making friends that fast. I want to say that someone hands me the mic to do a song, but that just wouldn't be the complete truth. I glance at the DJs screen and land on Ace of Base's "The Sign". People are whooping and cheersing each other to my foolishness. All eyes on me. No time (or audibility) for checking my pitch, I plunge into a song that is about 3 octaves to high for me. Halfway through this massacre, the novelty wears off and people go back to their mass cheersing. People might be eagerly willing to accept me, but thank God they have enough integrity to not ask me back for seconds.

Teach your children well

Things have been picking up. Recently, I got a teaching position at a local English school. Mr. Nate, the director, who runs daily lessons out of his house, keeps telling me he loves my accent. He even calls me "bro" and does the little hand shake into the fist pound (so Boulder). My first day he hands me a xeroxed packet of lessons, size 6 font, and points for me to go upstairs to his classroom. I have never done anything like this before. Do I write Mr. Alpert on the blackboard? Am I supposed to take role? One by on the students file in and take a seat. Six in total, ranging from 17-22 years old, the kids stare quizzically, as if at a long-haired zoo animal (which I guess I sorta look like). "Where are you from?", "How old are you?", "Are you married?" are some of the more common questions. Some speak so softly I have to crane into their face just to make out their words. One girl asks: "Do you practice English everyday?"; maybe she confused my daily practicing of Vietnamese, but hilarious none-the-less. The lessons prove to be a bit boring (that's school though, right?) and at the end we go into a free discussion of the American practice of Halloween. Between my chalkboard drawings of jack-o-lanterns, "mummy-walking", and countless disgraceful outlines of the United States (and thus little blobs of Arizona's), I am somehow convinced to sing a freestyle "Stand By Me", since the kids swear it's part of the lesson. Not cool guys.

I've been staying physically active, not like I sweat enough here already. The ping pong club has been a great; all you casual players better watch out back home! The Viets take this game waaaaay beyond just a backyard-BBQ hobby. I even went out the other day and got my first paddle. And now I sleep with it.

It only took me 2 weeks to get myself onto a soccer team, although from here on I must refer to the sport as football. I bike to a university early the other morning based on directions from a friend who I met at pong. Somehow I manage to find the fields he describes to me. I tell ya, this is where the stars are born. Dirt fields lined up grid style, separated by lines dugout in the ground. Swaying palms and tall grasses prove to be a beautiful contrast to the orange ground. Approaching the lot of fields, one cannot tell who's playing for who. Kids run everywhere, a yelp here and there for goals scored and headers nearly made. Some players run barefoot. Others don the jerseys and colors of their favorite Premier League teams. Yet everybody is here to kick ass. My pong buddy, Hung, sees me lurking around the ouskirts trying to look casual. He introduces me to his team, I'll call them the Red Dragons, and tells me I'm actually playing with the opposing team due to uneven substitutions. I'm releaved with the aloofness already: no ref, no shin guards, and free green tea for the subs. We play aggressively but have a good time as well. I get two goals in fact, the high scorer on my team! I even play as a very poor goalie. Regardless, I'm invited back for the next game.