March 29. 2010

Nothing terribly funny this week (or maybe prior week’s either for that matter!) unless you count me not giving Tucker enough cab money to get to basketball practice in a driving rainstorm. He didn’t think it was too funny. Nor did the cabbie, who’s scheduled to stop by to pick up his 7 dollars and 25 cents. Sing.

Just a few thoughts about our trip to Vietnam. Pictures are on the website: www.mathii.com/Hanoi.html

• Vietnam Ponderings

o We spent Spring Break in Hanoi, as one does. It’s Asian-French, communist and capitalist, and definitely loud.

o The Traffic -- There were more motorcycles and mopeds than I’ve ever seen. And everyone honks. Crossing the street is like the video game Frogger. We had been told the best way to cross the street was to just go, go slow, go steady, just go and the motorcycle waters will part. That first time was a little nerve wracking, but then it got easier. Step off the curb, find an opening and go. Miraculously, the speeding motorcycles and mopeds and bicycles and cars don’t hit you. I think a blind man could cross the street there. Traffic was slow everywhere we went, but it was steady, there were no crazy fast drivers, and there was never a jam. In many ways it was much more civilized even with the incessant honking than Singapore or the U.S.

o The Communists – Other than the flag, there were no outwards signs of this being a Communist country. Our guide, who is now my authority on all things Vietnam, said that the people don’t like the government because it is corrupt. But there is little or no resistance to it. North and South, together for ages now, still seem to be leery of each other.

o The Paper – Hanoi had the best English language newspaper we’ve read in Asia. Great international news but with a bent towards Russia, Cuba, and China.



o The War – When I hear “Vietnam”, the war is first thing I think of as I assume most Americans do. The Vietnamese call it the “American War”, which makes sense. But other than a few museums there are no signs of the war, there are no references to it in shops, or in the attitudes of the folks we met. My evaluation is that it was 35 years ago, a generation and a half, they’ve moved on. For the Vietnamese, the “American War” was sandwiched between a 10 year war with France for independence, and another 10 year war/occupation of Cambodia, and then the merging of the two formerly warring Vietnams. They’ve had a lot to worry about, and it doesn’t appear they’ve had the time or inclination for grudges. Of course, the winners don’t often hold grudges.


o The Prison – Two interesting observations about the 100 year old Hanoi Hilton. The exhibits were very bent towards the horrible treatment the French gave the Vietnamese prisoners, and the “good” treatment the Vietnamese gave to the American pilots. Certainly not very objective, but if it were my museum… One thing our guide said was very interesting. While discussing the museum he said, “After the Russians defeated the Germans in World War II, we began our battle with the French.” Technically he’s correct, but it’s an interesting and contrarian to our American perspective.

o The People – These are the tiniest people I’ve ever seen, yet somehow I gained 10 more pounds. Jacey was even taller than some of the aunties. They were friendly but with reservations. In contrast, in Cambodia and Thailand, everyone is happy and always smiling at the Caucasians; In Vietnam, there wasn’t anything bad or uncomfortable, just not total enthusiasm that we were there.

o The Food – Didn’t have a single thing that was bad. But didn’t have a single thing that made me want to come home and learn to cook it. Vietnam is the 2nd largest exporter of rice after Thailand; just about every meal had or could have had rice. It’s a different type of rice, a smaller grain half the size of a regular rice grain; I’d never had it before.

o The Longhorns -- We came out of the Prison Museum and were searching for a Cyclo to take for a ride. There was a lone driver resting before pedaling large American tourists around the Old Quarter. It was fate. Somewhere, another travelling Longhorn is writing about giving his favorite cap away. (We had to teach him how to Hook ‘em though)

OK, one funnier Vietnam story...

I wanted a shirt with the Vietnamese, yellow star on it to match my Chinese red star shirt. We stopped in a shop and I tried on an XL. I could tell from looking that it wouldn’t quite fit. In the US, an XL always fits. On a really good day, an L is feasible if the day doesn’t include eating. I went to a 2XL. I looked like Simon Cowell it was so tight. I usually quit there because the shapes get all out of proportion above extra large, but these were kind of normal. I pulled on an XXXL. It was still tight in the stomach. By now it was just a game. The XXXXL was still a little snug. I was certain I had reached the top, or the bottom of her pile of shirts. But the smiley lady dug deep and found an XXXXXL. Yes, a 5XL is the size I wear in Vietnam.

March 13, 2010

I coached Jacey’s softball game Saturday morning. I can hear my parents laughing from here. After that grounder jumped up and hit me in the nose in fourth grade (many, many years ago – but I still remember) I never really cared for baseball. I got t-shirt and cap though.

A friend of ours played Happy Birthday to me on his bagpipes Saturday night at a St. Patrick’s Day party on his 27th floor patio. After many, many birthdays, that’s a first.

March 9, 2010

Dear sweet little Jacey had her first confession this afternoon. She is well on her way to her first communion in May. She’s been studying and learning her Act of Contrition and Hail Mary’s and all that other Catholic voodoo stuff.

We walked into the church and sat with her classmates. As the first classmate went, she looked over her shoulder and watched with a bit of trepidation. She was a little scared and readily admitted it. I wanted to help. Out of the blue I remembered how I used to tease Tucker before his first confession to ease the tension. I would remind him to be sure to confess everything to the priest, especially the part about… and then I’d make up something silly. Tucker thought it was hilarious 3 years ago. So I leaned over and told Jacey the story. Soon it was her turn.

The priest was in the back of sanctuary, far enough that you couldn’t hear, but close enough to see. Jacey sat down in front of the priest and there was a bit of crossing and chanting and incense, and then the priest, who had been very serious with the previous students, leaned back in his chair, chuckled and began to smile. Jacey had a big grin and looked our way. They continued talking and smiling and smiling and talking. This wasn’t like any of the other kid’s confession. What had I done?

As we walked to the car, we asked what she confessed. What had she said that made the priest laugh? She didn’t want to tell. We begged. She hesitated. Then giggling: I told him my Dad said that I should say I once killed a man in Tennessee! And that sometimes I roll my eyes. And I hit my brother.

We’re going to have to change churches. Maybe it’s time to move back to Austin.

March 3, 2010

Today was painting class with Mr. Tan day. Mr. Tan, the 62 year old Chinese man who doesn’t speak English, but is one of the funniest men I’ve met in Singapore. This man makes you laugh without saying a word (of English). I arrived about 15 minutes early as I’m prone to do (when alone), dropped off my bag at the studio (and I use that term lightly), and headed off to grab a Coke before class. I think I woke Mr. Tan from his afternoon nap, as he was sitting on the couch, arms crossed, head slightly forward. I love a guy who savors a good nap. But Mr. Tan isn’t the story this time.

With 15 minutes to spare and my teacher asleep, I decided to explore the Golden Mile Tower or “Little Thailand” where the studio (lightly, again) is located. It’s an odd half-mall, half office-building type of building that I don’t think I’ve ever seen anywhere except Asia – it’s as if they put the nastiest strip center, along with the nasty strip center next to it, and the next one, all in the same older, smaller mall. Then someone closed up some of the skylights and broke a few of the too narrow escalators, and turned off about half the lights. The first amusement I came upon was outside a shop selling camouflage items and advertising that they’d sew on your army patches. Outside this Asian Academy Surplus was a lawn chair with the most shrunken little old lady I’ve ever seen, at least 95 years old, wrapped in a blanket and wearing a too big baseball cap that said “I Love Teachers” pulled down over her eyes. She was being force fed a gruel by a younger woman (remember, all in front of a shop in a mall). When later I asked Mr. Tan how long she had been there he said, “110 years.” I told you he was funny.

Next, I take one of the working escalators up a level to continue the exploration. This particular escalator begins in a food court area that is full of elderly men-- but not as elderly as the Teacher-lover lady– all having their afternoon beer. There’s a full table butted up to the escalator, all staring at the only Caucasian in the mall (me). I’m cool, very cool, and comfortable being the only Caucasian in the mall, and on the escalator, so I casually (and coolly) lean over and place my elbows on the black escalator track, my hands hanging over the edge. I’m cool, nodding a greeting confidently at the older beer drinkers as I’m moved along by the escalator. I’m cool, as my left hand, gliding along with the rail, perfectly snags the drinker’s grocery bag that was sitting on the edge of the table and lifts it up, up and away. My hand went through the handle! If I were a thief I couldn’t have been any smoother. Their grocery bag is now mine. After I shit myself in fear and disbelief, I realized my mistake, took several steps down the up escalator, lowered the grocery bag back to the table, and began repeating, “sorry, sorry, sorry…” as fast as I can, turn and walk up the escalator to speed my retreat. No one followed or said a word. It’s not every day a Caucasian grocery bag thief visits the Golden Mile.

The rest of the mall was either travel agents, karaoke bars which weren’t much bigger than a small café, massage parlors, religious stores selling every type of Buddha’s, a few tattoo parlors (see, just like a Texas strip center), this was the surprise – mail order bride shops. I’ve heard of them, seen TV shows make fun of them, but never have I seen one in person. After the grocery bag incident I was a bit hesitant to push my luck, but there were so many of them I couldn’t resist. About half were closed. One in particular was the Ideal Marriage Center www.idealbride.sg where they advertise “Select your bride on the spot or visit Hainan or Vietnam and choose from hundred of beauties over there” – “Our Philosophy -- Integrity, Practical Service, Best Service”. (I don’t guarantee the website’s safety, but I went to it and looked and nothing seems to have happened to my computer – it’s interesting). The ones that were open appeared to be a one stop shop. Each of them had women lounging about in the lobby who looked remarkably like the Vietnamese mail-order brides in the photos on their walls. I saw no purpose in pursuing the issue further. Though I reserve the right to do further research later.

It’s all fun and games until it hits home. While cooking dinner – yes, I helped – I was discussing my exploits with Cenie. I think I was telling her how sad the whole buy-a-bride thing is. Apparently she didn’t hear the sad part because she proceeded to tell me how she sent in her resume (somewhere) when she was younger and was contacted by a man. The American man moved to Hong Kong and she moved to Hong Kong. They had a year and a half relationship. He was 45. She wasn’t. He wanted to get married, but she didn’t so that was it. That was it except for her Aunt in Los Angeles who tried to arrange a marriage with an American man which she also rejected. After Hong Kong she moved back to the Philippines and married a Filipino who’s 15 years older than her who she supports. Not sure if that’s better, but who am I to say…

And thus ends the Day at The Golden Mile. At least I’m not being caned for petty grocery bag theft. Yet.

March 1, 2010

• We’re on the Equator. It’s hot. Everyday hot. Yet, February was the hottest and driest February on record in the 140 years they’ve kept records here. There was only about 1/3 of an inch of rain last month versus an average of nearly 7 inches. Yearly rainfall averages 93 inches.

• I was exercising in the botanical gardens this morning and an Asian man and his 4 or 5 year old daughter walked by out for a morning walk. All very normal. Except they were taking their bird for a walk. He was carrying a cage about the size of a pumpkin with a pretty little yellow bird. I asked him what type of bird it was. He said something indecipherable and I nodded in agreement as if I understood every word. Then I noticed the cage. It was bamboo and beautiful. It had carvings around the base and top, a brass hook, and a rail through the middle for the bird. The pencil thin rail was made of bone and also completely carved in filigree. He said it was 90 years old. You just don’t see folks out walking their bird in the antique bird cage in Austin -- though the crazy neighbor next door did occasionally walk his cat in his cat stroller.

• Bought a Whopper in the mall and took it to the car. I ate it while driving down Orchard Road. I believe I was the only person in all of Singapore eating a Whopper in their car.