Yesterday, 30 March, passed pleasantly with a tranquil air. I slept in until about 1030 and then watched Old School during my breakfast on the community flat screen. I love this veranda. Just about 1300, I made my way to the central market, a huge yellow-domed building with four perpendicular branches set up as the official marketplace for the city. Its enormous dome brings to mind images of mosques, except that the sides are terraced to allow air to flow through. Beneath the dome, the classier vendors of watches and semi-precious jewelry are stationed in a large circle that mimics the shape of the ceiling. Each of the four arms teem with clothes vendors selling rip off purses and wallets and beyond them, a small city of tents has reclaimed the street for commerce, offering grilled squid, fruit and cookies while also providing parking for the endless mopeds. I think that the central market is possibly PP's greatest architectural feat. Its high dome suctions the hot interior air upwards and allows it to escape through the same ventilation that bring the soft sunlight in, making the gems below glow and glisten the way they do in pirate movies. The au-naturale AC also helps the temperature to hover around 85F as opposed to the easy 95F outdoor air. I still left embarrassing sweat streaks on the glass of all the watch cases. 

Quite coincidentally, Alex and Jenn, two Canadians whom I had met at Mui Ne, arrived that afternoon from Saigon. We ran into each other as they were being dropped off by their tuk-tuk and I suggested that they join me at the market for some easy, late afternoon fun that wouldn't require tickets or planning. Luckily, I had fallen in love with some designer watch knock-offs and I happened to be in the alley at that moment to retrieve money from my 'secret stash.' About an hour later, I negotiated a Tag-Heuer and a Folex for $53. They are both powered by motion and they both passed the basic water-tight seal test (I drowned them in the sink while I showered that evening). I’m hoping they will last a few years in style. 

Satisfied with our purchases, the three of us searched in vain for a boutique that turns recycled materials into functional pieces, like hand bags and wallets, but a half hour and three confused drivers later, we found the locked-up store front. Dinner was quick and disappointing, but it gave us an opportunity to meet up with the Dane, whose name I am proud to announce is: Karsten Holm. I have no idea why that was so difficult for me to remember for three days. In all truth, it still takes a couple minutes of brain racking to pop up. There are so many English words that it resembles -- Castor Oil or Castor of Troy or Casper the Friendly Ghost meets cistern or intern. It's so obvious. Luckily, I have never had to rescue him from an oncoming car or find him in a crowded place, so we've interacted on the basis of ''you" inconspicuously for about three days now. It's gotta stop.

Anyway, so we pick up Karsten and head to the riverfront -- the lakefront rocks, don't get me wrong, but I was wanting something just a notch classier. We had snacked at the FCC (Foreign Correspondents' Club) earlier that evening, which is a very artsy, journalist haven that also allows common folk in. The only thing better than all those photojournalists' art is the view their fourth- and fifth-story balconies offers over the Tonle Sap River. The river itself is pretty typical, but the boats light up their bows at night, so it looks like alien jellyfish moving over a black sheet when they cruise along the banks. The sight of the street is less enticing. It is so hot in Cambodia during March (the hottest month of all it turns out) that toddlers don't wear clothes. In my opinion, it's not because they are too poor to afford them because Cambodia exports garments and the markets are awash in them. Rather, I believe that children, being self-involved, demanding, and temperamental, rip them off progressively during the day, and after a certain point their mothers must just abandon the fight. But it doesn't look like they believe much in circumcision either. Power to the phallus au-naturale lol. 

Opposite the FCC, another deck bar advertised itself with a poorly-placed, poorly-designed street sign that pointed upwards for the "Lookout Bar." Its hanging plants, sitting two stories higher than the highest level at the FCC, were the true temptation. I wanted to taste the dust-free air that they enjoyed. Seven flights later, we arrived at a deserted bar and ordered four overpriced beers. 

The waitress was apathetic to our presence, but luckily a manager, maybe owner, was nearby and he brought us our order. This poor, tired man moved with hunched shoulders, a slight but over-emphasized gut and disheveled hair. Business must have been bad in this oasis of Western culture because mid-way though our beers and conversation, he took the opportunity to go through his entire menu with us 'briefly.' He offered smoked trout pate, which we received a delicious sample of, something with brie, fettuccini alfredo that actually ‘had sauce,’ and imported USDA certified Black Angus Steak for $33 per gram. His speech would later confirm that he was out of touch with reality, but for the moment he was only clearly out of touch with basic business practices. 

I tried to change the topic from his gourmet-but-totally-out-of-our-budget menu by inserting small talk. How did he get the steak over here? He must have some amazing friends in Texas! And how long had he been in Cambodia? What kept him here for fourteen years!? The man's Kung Fu was strong. He swatted my questions out of the air like they were the gnats that had managed to climb the seven stories to bite our salty skin. Conversation almost immediately returned to his menu or how totally worthless the Cambodian/Khmer people are. We were shocked by his opinions. 

Probing background questions revealed his political mindset to be a rather rare combination of socialist meets anarchist with a pinch of capitalist thrown, demonstrated by his being an unabashed member of the petty bourgeoisie (he owned the bar). I'm pretty sure he was French originally, maybe, and had worked as a soux chef in Europe for a while when he accidentally fell into a love-hate relationship with Cambodia and decided to open this French-Italian restaurant. Naturally, he opened the only authentic French-Italian restaurant in the entire city and every other attempt at real cuisine in Phnom Penh palled in comparison to his posh, imported ingredients. I could tell that he enjoyed my recognition of the popular but elusive German import beer he had on the menu. 

Anyway, the conversation changed to the masses huddled and bustling around the banks of the river. One would expect a man who had married a local, set up a capital-intensive business in the country, and fathered two children who would have its nationality to appreciate his host country. But no... In his opinion, Cambodians are good at talk and nothing else. They have an attention span of thirty seconds and can talk for an hour about a beer bottle. To be honest, if his beer bottle comment was accurate, I was impressed. I couldn't discuss much more than the color, shape and maybe environmental impact of a beer bottle and that certainly would not fill an hour. He derailed the suffering humanity below us with similar jabs at their national culture and their refusal to import Western concepts even though it left them comparatively in the Stone Age. 

His comments made me regret patroning his bar. Sure Khmer society is pretty close to the Stone Age on a national level, but after thirty years of genocide, war, internal population relocation, failed social engineering, paranoid despots and multiple invasions, even France would be a little f'ed up. That night became another reminder of the fact that everyone lives in a schizophrenic world ruled by money. The physical Earth, the one every human being is bound to by gravity shows two faces. To those who can build fancy bars high above street level, the world is a clean, sensible, organized and civilized place. They can afford to see nothing but. But to those who just finally purchased the last piece of corrugated tin to complete a leaky roof on their dirt hovel, the world must always seem selfish and unrelenting.

location: Siem Reap, Cambodia mood: annoyed

I got an email from Warren (aka Wazza, aka Aussie) that included a copy of his ticket from his home in Melbourne to Kuala Lumpur!! I have known company on its way with just a three week delay. haha. It almost feels like a care package.

We had been discussing the idea over email earlier this week. Since I am in the Pacific, it's the closest I'll come to Australia for a long while. Plus, he had never been to Malaysia and is even more obsessed with travel than I. When I checked my inbox, I could read the preview lines offered by gmail's brilliant system, one saying that he was looking into it and the other saying "FW: Jetstar Itinerary for Warren Evans"! I hadn't even gotten a chance to give him exact dates!

It's okay though, he booked it for only one week sooner than I had planned on arriving, and I can eaisly change my schedule to match up with his university schedule. At this point, I may have to cut out Chiang Mai because I stayed in Vietnam too long. I was hoping to add Laos into the trip because everyone who has gone has raved about the place, but not seeing some things gives me incentive to return. Or I could just do a giant loop from Bangkok to KL to Chiang Mai back to the southern Thai islands. That will most definitely cost airfare that's out of my budget, but what the hell - I have a credit card for a reason. All I need now is the time. Maybe GW will push back graduation if I explain my delicate circumstances. ;)

location: Saigon, Vietnam mood: excited

I am back in Saigon today. I arrived just after 1300 on a bus from the beach resort town of Mui Ne, and, oddly enough, I like being back. 

Perspective is a fickle bitch. I feel slightly buoyant in a city that only last week was drowning me with apprehension and second guesses. The moto-bikes on Bui Vien simply go about their business instead of scraping my senses as they whiz past, and the endless noise of construction, horns, and small-time entrepreneurs have become a background soundtrack as opposed to a basis to sue for mental duress. I now know how to get to the KFC on the main drag and where the cheaper of the chique coffee shops are in this district. It's also a big relief to know how to get to the park without referencing a map and even having the confidence to just wander around looking for interesting new places without needing a target destination. In short, I no longer need the shackles of Lonely Planet in this city.

Part of that is due to Pao. I think his friendship and hospitality have really rescued my experience of Saigon. Tonight, I hope to check out that Jazz Club again and maybe eat at one of the restaurants recommended in the expat's magazine, which he gave me. The important thing is that I've got my bearings back, and Saigon lies before me, just another oyster of a city, hiding is pearls uselessly against my inquisitive nature. 

Last night, as I ate dinner on the soft sands of Mui Ne, I had a conversation with myself about the definition of home, comfort and familiarity. At the time, I was looking forward to Saigon, even though I was in one of the most relaxing, beautiful beach destinations in the country, and it got me thinking about what I considered a 'comfortable' environment. Mui Ne most certainly could not be considered uncomfortable, minus the thirty or so mosquito bites I got there. (Apparently, there are ways they can get around the net.... Luckily, I have no fever nor nausea, so fear not mom, malaria still alludes me.) But still, I had grown tired of the drawn out, beach-strip town. Saigon offered people, energy, and familiarity.

Under an burnt orange moon, I deduced that familiarity is something that you can't consciously develop. It just slowly enters your consciousness while your brain tediously cataloges the environment around you. As you recognize streets, signs, buildings, smells, your favorite internet cafe, and the booking office from which you bought the bus ticket, these things become mere reference points instead of open, and potentially dangerous, questions. So then comfort is simply having a map of a place, and building that map takes time. Ergo, you don't know that you are comfortable in a place until you have left it. By that time, a new round of ostracization makes you long for a location that corresponds to a map, any map, already formed inside your head. 

I think friendships, indeed relationships of any kind, work in the same way. As you interact with another individual, you map them out. After enough time, you know how to read their body language to know their state of mind. You know what actions from your end will produce predictable reactions on their end, and along with that comes a map of similar interests and a basis of attraction. But no real-time indicator light flashes to show that the streets of a city are making a connection to each other on your mental map, or that the independent observations of another individual are coalescing to create a personality profile that you can internally reference. It is a natural, silent process. Yet once you are in a situation for which your mind has no map, it potentially defaults to the ones you do have, looking for a crutch. That is why I think I panicked so badly last week. For two weeks, I had been building maps, small maps. Each place was small enough to get a feel for it within a day, but not Saigon. I had moved around Saigon for 48 hours and still felt lost. The incomplete map I did have was of little use, so my mind virtually went to a place where a stored map did make sense, which left my physical presence abandoned , confused, and desperate for something recognizable. Luckily, modern technology gave me an ounce of familiarity; I found a reassuring reaction from those I love that my mental map told me would be there.

I'll be building maps for the rest of the trip. Hopefully, they will stay with me in case I should ever return to Asia. The key, however, is not to get lost on the wrong grid when my local map is still in the process of becoming. It would be a relief if there was an indicator light for that process, so that when I feel lonely, I could just look at the blinking light and know that familiarity is still under construction. Cheers to the adventure of mental cartography and cheers to finding drinking friends and friendly drivers when the process takes more than a day.

This quick sojourn in the city offers fast internet access, so I need to use some of my time here to catch up on old posts. I never wrote about Hue or Hoi An. They were both very positive and enjoyable stops, but I never made the time between those visits and Nha Trang to write about it. At this point, I will just rely on the kick ass photos I took there to jostle my memory, but for the record: Hue is a good one-day stop to look at their concrete-based imperial monuments (which it's odd that they used concrete for an imperial structure intended to last the ages in style), and Hoi An is the tailor capital of Vietnam. Eric got a suit for $50 USD and I came within a few yards of one myself until the tailor ran out of the fabric I had chosen. Oh well. Guess I will have to resort to a $500 one in the States when the time comes. Or, maybe, I'll be able to write off another trip to Vietnam's tailors as a business expense. Note to self: consult a tax lawyer concerning phraseology on my next tax return. 

As for the Chuchi Tunnels and Mui Ne, they are both cool enough and recent enough to warrant their own entries. I'll just have to back date them.

location: Saigon, Vietnam mood: calm

I'm now writing about these things five days after they happened. The emotions that made me bind up have now released and getting out of Saigon has slowed my heart rate. So I need to get this on e-paper before it slips away; although, I doubt it would.

After Indian, Eric and I stopped for a coffee at Gloria Jean's. From it's sitting area, you have a perfect view of the Guchhi store window. To my right that night sat two wealthy Vietnamese girls playing with their iPhones and another pair of girls behind them, one tutoring the other in French. It struck me that in one district I could mingle with people who hustle you to buy fruit for less than a dollar but also sit next to local young women, who probably do not work, yet enjoy gadgets that are far beyond my budget. But like I said earlier, I have learnt not to be shocked by what I see anymore.

The two of us returned to backpacker's alley to grab Eric's bag. I hailed down a cab at the nearest thoroughfare and hoisted his bag into the trunk. We said goodbye warmly; there were no tears, no breakdowns. I was just glad to have had the familiar company for the previous two weeks, and he was glad to have had an Asian Spring Break, plus extension. Watching the car drive away, I felt suddenly heavier. It was like someone had increased the air pressure in the city, as though the momentum of all those moto-bikes was now aimed squarely at me. Walking back to the alley, the typical vendors shouted to me about their wares, and as usual I swatted them away, but this time I had no one to complain to, no one mutually irritated. 

Earlier that day, I had moved my things to a dormitory-style room above one of the internet cafes. It cost only $3 USD/night but had a shared bathroom and each of the two rooms had about four bunkbeds. It was depressing, but I assumed that this is the way backpackers travel. This must be the way to meet people. I wish I could have known better to avoid the whole fiasco because sharing a common sleeping space is not automatically a good conversation starter. 

Officially alone in a city I didn't know, I consulted the travel bible but it offered no new options for nighttime entertainment. So I used the internet for a couple hours, cleaned up a bit and returned to Apocalypse Now, arriving at around 11:30. The weight that my stomach had gained watching Eric's taxi drive away had not subsided, and the tensions of being in a new club without any friends added pressure to my already stressed nerves. Apocalypse Now is an expensive place by Vietnamese standards., but for my exchange rate, a basic G&T or a rum and coke cost only $4USD. Determined to have fun, I ignored the fact that I was about to spend the same amount of money drinking as I had on my hotel room, explained the concept of a credit tab to the bartender upstairs, and began downing drinks, waiting for the buzz that I hoped would lighten the knots in my stomach. 

The drinks were weak. It took over an hour for me to feel buzzed. In the meantime, I tried sitting and listening to the house music in the upstairs bar. I moved around the club looking for changes in the clientele from the previous night. The two men with whom we shared a late-night snack the night before were right, Friday is the gayer night. Still, the juicy girls got in everyone's way and it felt odd to dance in a place with police uniforms staggering the club's walls. "Whatever," I told myself. "This is the way it is here." I could work with it and have fun or I could go home and waste all that money I had spent on drinks. I stayed.

On the main dance floor, I noticed a group of three friends dancing in an informal cluster, cruising the club. One looked Californian, the other seemed like a Asian parody of a failed mafia boss, and the third kept giving me interested eyes. I moved in hoping to start some kind of conversation while trying not to be too sexual. I didn't want a hookup; I wanted company. We exchanged the basics, name, place of origin, purpose in Saigon, etc, and grabbed a couple more drinks. The third guy, Pao, maintained conversation with me, and I was thankful not to have to rely on my own thoughts for entertainment or commentary any longer. The four of us made a small semi-circle in order to facilitate conversation and maybe even elbow enough juices to have room for our own bodies. 

But by 1:30 we were all disaffected with Apocylapse Now and the guys suggested another after hours bar that they liked. Q Bar filled the basement of a building across the street from the Opera House, and its posh setting and trendy patrons made my backpacking ass feel trashy and inappropriate in jeans and a t-shirt. We continued to make small talk, the three of us. Pao noticed that I had stopped drinking. I had been thinking of ways to politely convey my wish for company, not sex, and this seemed like a good segway. Looking back, I am really glad that I ran into Pao at the club that night, that it was he who had bothered to make conversation with the loner because Pao turned out to be a really quality individual. In 'basic English' I communicated that I wouldn’t be going home with anyone tonight, and that I had stopped drinking because it would be time to return to my hostel soon, if they would let me in at this forsaken hour. The perfect gentleman, he acknowledged it as though I had given him my birthday, which is to say he made no objections, and we continued with the night. In fact, the night would have been a textbook case on making friends and having fun if one of the other guys in the group hadn't been such a fool. 

The Asian parody of a failed mafia boss had kept quiet most the night and I made a minimal effort to include him in the conversation. But when I stood up to use the toilet, I guess he imagined an opportunity. In the bathroom, he rather blatantly stood next to the urinal, inspecting my wares. I was buzzed enough not to be bothered by a voyeur and tried to angle my body in the opposite direction. Maybe I should have rebuked him, but I didn't want to come off as prudish. Besides, who turns down a compliment? In the long hallway out of the bathroom, however, he crossed the line. He was walking behind me, slightly to my right, and said something to make me turn. With my reflexes delayed from drinking, he succeeded in getting close enough to push his mouth onto mine. Startled and disgusted, I clamped my teeth against further intrusion and pushed him away. My only regret in the timing is that I didn't manage to bite something off his unwelcome tongue. In even plainer English, I told him that I had absolutely no interest in him and he scuttled into the background for the rest of the night. I'm not sure why I didn't cuss him out, or even punch him. There was still a sense of vulnerability in my situation. I was in a part of town that I had walked to only once, and I was interested in keeping in contact with Pao, but as a friend in his circle, punching the failed mafia boss could have caused all of them to just walk out together. I'm a firm believe that denial is among the most powerful of emotional survival tactics. When I left the bathroom, I simply told myself nothing worth noting had happened.

It was about 3:00am when we were kicked out, I think. I lost track of time that night, not because I was drunk, but because I was so dedicated to having fun and making some kind of fresh contact. Because of the time, going back to the hostel would have required waking the man who ran the internet cafe from the street. Aside from considering his sleep habits, I had no desire to actually sleep in that place; I had chosen it on principle, not comfort. Knowing how late it was, Pao offered to let me crash on his couch and insisted that nothing would be attempted from his side. In the back of my mind I made contingency plans in case he was lying, but went along with the plan because I believed him. And I am glad I did. We stayed up until 6 am talking philosophy, semantics and movies. The whole experience was bittersweet because on one hand I knew I was making a great friend and on the other, the surroundings and circumstances secretly denounced my actions. Being in a stranger's apartment just made me long for the comfort of the one I shared with Ben in DC and because we had met in the club this had an eerie suggestion of infidelity.  But I was exhausted and mentally in survivor mode. I only slept until 11am then rushed home, thinking that I had abandoned Eric at the airport the night before based on 4 missed calls, two of which were also my family.

Pao lived a short drive outside of downtown, in a suburb that looks alarmingly like Plano, Texas (essentially Dallas), and the taxi back to backpackers' alley cost three times the price of my dormitory room! Welcome to Saigon. I was amused, but alarmingly anxious. I began running over the night in my head, attempting to convince myself that I had acted appropriately.  When I arrived at the internet cafe, its mild scent of body odor seemed to be double the normal dose and the dilapidated building with its poor ventilation, dirty hallways, prison-like beds, and bare fluorescent lights increased my sense of unfiltered exposure to this city. Then I had an anxiety attack in the shower. The cold shower. In my Keens, afraid to put my feet on the floor. I would call it a panic attack, except that I don't know exactly what I was panicking about. But after only a minute or two under the cold trickle I was unable to fill my lungs more than a couple of inches. I felt dizzy and sick and began to cry as quietly as I possibly could without alerting the person sleeping in the other room to my presence. I told myself that I was being foolish. Sure I missed Ben, missed DC, missed my friends, was 'stranded' in this overwhelming city and had no one to talk to, but I was just being weak. I was overreacting. I was able to bring my eyes under control, but my heart raced for the rest of the day and the feeling of wanting to just collapse on the floor and weep out my conflicting emotions never really left. 

In an attempt to convince myself that I could have fun alone, I left the dormitory as soon as possible and went in search of somewhere to ship postcards. My breathing and heart found it difficult to stabilize themselves as I looked at the quick snippets of thoughts I was about to send to friends and family. One of the problems of being alone is that there is no one to give input on possible activities -- what would be the best option? I settled on the Jade Emperor's Pagoda and hired a moto-bike. He was very friendly and chatty but I felt depressed and squeezed by his interrogation. The temple offered little relief even though it was beautiful in its smoky haze, opulent wood work and bizarre statues of Chinese ancestors that had ascended to godhood. I returned to the alley and wasted time on the internet until it was time to meet Pao. We had agreed to explore the Chuci Tunnels the following day through a tour group and we were meeting up to book it. He was a great sport in helping me find a new hotel. My refusal to tell him where I was staying out of embarrassment gave away the fact that I needed to move. It only took over an hour and three gallons of sweat in the Saigon heat, but we found a room with AC and hot water for only $12/night. 

I liked the extra input since it had been Eric's job previously, but at dinner the conversation naturally drifted toward past relationships and the discussion of boyfriends pushed me over the edge. I went to the rest room to 'wash my hands,' but red eyes gave away what had really happened when I returned. Pao was gracious and tried to help me to put things into perspective. He was the one who suggested that I was experiencing separation anxiety and that he assured me that it was temporary by nature. I held onto those words even though they didn't offer immediate relief. I needed some way to make it through the next few weeks. If that meant that I had to do it one day at a  time, assuming that the next day would somehow become easier, than that was a formula that I could hold onto. The rest of dinner passed pleasantly, and I got to learn a lot about his experiences in dating. But I was dirty from the day's activity and wanted time to clean and write, so after dinner we separated for about an hour and a half and planned to meet at the Jazz Club at 9:00.

When I got dropped of at the alley, the urge to just speak to someone familiar made my ripe condition unnoticeable, and I had too much mental chaos to use simple email. But backpackers' alley is not a place to have a quality phone conversation, let alone an emotional one. It is packed with people so close that you have to choose to not listen in on your neighbor's conversation. Hoping to find a smidget of privacy, I searched out the nearest park while attempting deep breathing techniques among the noise. My fingers dialed Mom first probably as a vestige of childhood comfort but most definitely because I knew that she would drop anything to talk to me in this state. Because incoming calls are free for me in Vietnam, I called her and waited for the callback, sitting cross-legged on the only bench available in a park full of lovers. Here, it is unacceptable to bring the person you're seeing into your parent's home unless you are courting him/her, and living as an independent young adult just isn’t in the culture. As a result, every night the parks fill with couples intertwined on benches and sprawled across parked moto-bikes looking for the intimacy their day lives don't allow. Needless to say, the scene didn't help me compose myself. 

When a dependable connection finally went through, Mom knew something was wrong from the first word. She just waited for my response, my prompt. I was all kinds of emotional meltdown at that second and I found it hard to pick an object on which to focus my racing thoughts. But Mom just asked generically how I was and waited for the flood. Once again, I couldn't breath properly. I was gasping for breaths that were too short to finish a sentence anyway, and in between those gasps, I held my breath so that the couple behind me wouldn't know that I was crying. When I could get out phrases, I couldn't articulate what it was exactly that I was so upset about. I was overwhelmed, that was for certain. I tried to explain how my understanding of Vietnam from the previous two weeks had been shattered since I arrived and how the doubletake made me feel disoriented. I tried to explain how watching Eric drive away suddenly made me feel like the only foreigner in a sea full of 'others,' all demanding something of me. I tried to convey the sharp scratching feeling that filled my the inside of my stomach when I acknowledged the distance between Ben and I and the remaining distances of this trip. I tried to explain my own internal shock at the fact that I was experiencing feelings this strong. No one had every penetrated me that deep, yet here I was, on the most exotic trip of my life wanting nothing more than the arms of my boyfriend and the relative quiet of 802 Rhode Island Ave NW. Every one of these emotions whirled around my thoughts in fragmented patterns, and I couldn't even pick one to try to address at a time. 

I'm sure my speech was just as fragmented as my thoughts, but hearing Mom's voice helped to orient things. Having to explain myself made the fragments fall in line, at least enough of a line to identify some causes and effects. Mom spoke about this being among the moments when I discover some core facet of my personality that can only be brought out through hardship and painful internal stretching. The cliché term for this is 'discovering oneself.' I thought I had already discovered my identity and had settled it down in DC, but Mom's words offered both encouragement by implying that there was an end result on its way and familiarity in the soft vibrations of her voice. Thirty minutes of international calling later, I had found enough of my breath to complete a sentence. We attributed the incident to shock, stress, exhaustion, personal growth and separation anxiety, and she ended the conversation suggesting that I relax, allow growth to happen, and seek out God. I'm sure she knew before even speaking that I would heed all her advise except the last bit, and at that moment I certainly wasn't about to discuss the unknown reasons why God would bring me all the way to Asia to have a meltdown. No matter what though, I cannot be grateful enough to have a mother so deeply concerned for my well being and so self-sacrificial when that well being appears threatened.

Only about fifteen minutes of call time remained on my SIM card and I was supposed to be cleaned, changed and listening to jazz in only twenty, so I lumbered off of my bench. But only a few steps later, there was no way that I could move one more block in this city without talking to Ben. Even though I had composed myself by the end of the conversation with Mom, the anaconda of those fragmented thoughts - my desire to be in DC, in the identity I had found, with the one I love - reared its ugly head as I dialed the frustratingly complicated formula to call my boyfriend. I was crying before the call even went through, and when I heard his voice all I could muster was a whispered "Hi, babe." There was no way I could mask the emotion in my voice and I gave up any attempt to do so. All I wanted was to hear his voice, to have some kind of psuedo-touch that would make me feel safe. I'm not even sure I had said anything besides "hi" because the first word's of his that I remember were simply "don't cry." Of course that didn't help the situation, but I felt the sincerity and the concern and the love in his voice, and even though my vision was blurry from tears, I smiled. With the most consistent voice I could manage, I tried to explain how I was feeling and why I was feeling it. Then I realized that I was just wasting time. I hadn't called to discuss Saigon. I called because the distance between my boyfriend and I stretched out in front of me. Now that I no longer had the responsibility of planning a trip for two, all the thoughts that weren’t spent getting my internal shit under control, that used to be spent making sure Eric and I were on the same page and schedule were suddenly free to roam. They landed directly on Ben. Hearing his voice helped to settle those thoughts. Knowing that he would be getting ready for work when we hung up almost felt like saying goodbye when he would leave the house before me. Either way, I was now calm enough to remember where I was and maybe still enjoy it. 

I arrived at the Jazz Club without having showered and, just like Q bar, I was underdressed but no one was kicking me out. Because all the seats were taken (I'm sure) the hostess shoved me into the back of the club, next to a fern that persistently tickled my ear. I ordered a glass of red wine. Pao hadn't arrived yet, so I just stood there appreciating the familiar sounds. When you live with a Cajun, Jazz becomes part of the background noise of your life. I allowed the sultry sounds of saxophones and the electrifying jabs of the trumpet to envelope my senses. The music helped me to realize that it's okay to want a little bit of home to move around with you. Small doses of familiarity help you to keep your sanity when every other point of reference is gone. Even though I order food without knowing what it entirely is, and negotiate prices for things without knowing how it will impact the vendor's food budget, and cross the street without knowing what direction the normal traffic would be moving, I knew what I was getting with Jazz. I knew that it came from New Orleans and so I saw the French influenced architecture of old NOVA mirrored in the shutters of the French Colonial buildings in Saigon. I knew what the beats were supposed to sounds like and the way the vocals both lead and are teased by the music when a romantic song comes on. That Jazz Club reoriented my senses and gave an immediate connection to the things that symbolized what I was missing most, even though he couldn't be there to dance in the aisle.


That night, I slept wonderfully albeit briefly because the bus for Chuchi left at 8:00 the next morning.

mood: optimistic

 "Saigon............................................shit."

That is the opening line of the famous movie Apocalypse Now. Army Captain Benjamin L. Willard sits in his hotel room in Saigon, waiting for orders and realizes the insanity of his mutual love and hatred for the place. Right around my third day here, I had a similar opinion. My version sounded more like "Saigon, fuck! Why am I here!?!!!" and at that time all I felt was revulsion. On my third night, I sat alone in one of the many pristine parks here, struggling to simply inhale enough for a complete sentence as I tried to explain my experience to my mother and unsuccessfully pushed back tears when I finally got to hear Ben's voice after nearly a week of going without contact. The complex cocktail of emotions that led to that breakdown cannot be explained without relating my experience of Saigon chronologically because Saigon/Ho Chi Minh City is a place that changes as you move inside of it. The city is something different for different people and combines so many influences into one experience that the initial impression can only be described as debilitating shock. That moment in the park was a complete breaking point for me, and now I hope to find some new means of survival for the next six weeks, which will be free of any kind of familiarity. 

Even though the country has been ruled by one government since April 30, 1975, there remains two Vietnams. Much to the contradiction of Communist principles, the most obvious split occurs along class lines based on income. This separation then becomes reflected in the geography of the land because the majority of foreign investment has occurred in the south, notably Saigon. I cannot stress enough the ways in which Hanoi and Ho Chi Minh City are different. Even calling this place HCMC should be considered a failed attempt to make the two cities into parallel Communist symbols. Hanoi rests securely in old Asia, old Vietnam, old culture and tradition, but Saigon (and yes, it should be called Saigon, in my opinion) explodes from traditional Vietnam, mincing together new, wealthy Asia, international marketing, global culture, high-end consumerism, and western organization with poverty, pollution and the hope of escaping it. A walk of only four blocks will bring a traveler from the traditional crowded market, where vendors sell exactly the same mass-made goods and yell at you to explore their wares as you squeeze among the narrow isles lined with baby clothing, watches, suit fabrics, fruit, pearls, and the occasional knock off electronics, right to Saigon's 'downtown' development district, where you can sip a Triple Espresso Soy Mocha Latte at Gloria Jean's while spying the display windows of the neighboring Gucci and Dolce & Gabbana stores. The opposition and contradiction is mind boggling, and I get the feeling of warp travel when my surroundings change so quickly. Saigon's city limits may be filled thoroughly with Vietnamese, but it has captured a little bit of every influence that has ever moved though this city and compacted it together among its shady alleys, tree-lined boulevards, gaudy western architecture and street-side food vendors. 

I can explain the meltdown this past Saturday night only as delayed shock. For two weeks I had traveled old Vietnam and in my mind, the farmers in rice paddies, the children begging you to buy gum, the conical hats, the street-side Pho, the crammed alleys, the rugged mountains bleeding green, the bumpy roads and lumpy beds -- these things characterized Vietnam. I had little reason to believe otherwise when I arrived. Eric and I took a sleeper train from Nha Trang Wednesday night in order to maximize the few days he would have available in Ho chi Minh City. It is also relevant to say that I insisted calling it HCMC then because Saigon still had too much American sub-culture in it. The train disappointed me. We were told it was better than the bus, but I disagree. The beds may have been longer but the air was staler; locals shouted loudly in tonal Vietnamese until my sleeping medication set in; and the hole of the squatter toilet, whose door didn't close properly, threatened to turn a bowel movement into a bath of human excrement. So it was with quite a bit of irritation and pain that I arrived in Saigon's train station. Murphy's Law dictated that the toilet in the train station would be occupied, and I waited crouched at the door, staring at my impediment’s feet as he ever so slowly zipped his pants. At least this toilet featured a bowl, even if it lacked a seat. Eric and I downed a cup of espresso each, used caveman grunts and gestures to instruct our moto-bike drivers and headed to the 'backpacker's ally' of Ho Chi Minh City. To cut out irrelevant parts, finding a hostel became taxing when most places told us they were full, were closed, or simply quoted outrageous prices. Breakfast offered a moment's peace and comfort with honey crêpes, and we ate begrudging fighting off the desire for more sleep. Lazily, we set out into the thick, hot morning air smelling slightly ripe and feeling pasty after nearly 36 hours without bathing. 

The first stop was the Reunification Palace. Our first encounter with south Vietnam confirmed my fears of American resentment when a local looking for a moto-bike fare asked us our destination. When he heard "Reunification Palace," he snickered, turned up his nose, and searched for the next tourists to target. In hindsight, he could have been snickering at the name and its implication that all of Vietnam falls under one common identity, but it felt targeted at us. It used to be called "Independence Palace," but I guess Reunification Palace is friendlier to international-minded Vietnamese. Still, the change is it a textbook example of Communist propaganda in renaming things. Anyway, the place is an architectural nightmare. There is not an ounce of Asian flavor in its structure. After walking around the complex's walled perimeter, we entered the main gate to see a white, stylized concrete facade that mimicked the failed attempt at stylized 1960's government buildings in DC. That was the first shock to my stability. Here was this exported American building in Vietnam. It betrayed the fact that the South Vietnamese government was a puppet government set up by the United States. In a county that is less than 5% Catholic, the President of South Vietnam during the war would have found privileged access to the Vatican as both a statesman and a devotee. Washington was not supposed to make an appearance in my Vietnamese excursion, but I kept exploring in order to overcome the déjà vu. Unfortunately, the interior didn't improve much. The support structures boring square columns, glass walls partitioned meeting rooms from the hallways, and a red velvet-lined, boxy grand staircase looked like something straight out of the State Department. The prestigious President's welcoming room had the ugliest golden hued carpet I have ever seems that was accented by a lacquered panel on the far wall featuring a Vietnamese landscape in Mother of Pearl. As we continued, I saw two ivory tusks flanking the President's Chair (perhaps it should be called throne) that would have created an Asian ambiance if it weren’t for the square-cut glass chandelier above it. Yuck. In many ways, the building is a memorial to the Cold War more than anything else. Symbols of technology and design from the 1950s to 1970s hang on its walls and decorate its rooms. Green plastic phones sit uselessly on aluminum desks behind doors designated "staff only," maps of northern troop movements and Communist sympathizers yellow beneath reflective sheets of protective plastic, and the signs labeling each room are cast in old-fashioned black plastic boxes with illuminated yellow letters in an outdated script. When the Communists broke down the front gate in 1975, they decided to leave the place in tact as it stood that day. I can only presume that this was some kind of smear attempts against Western sympathizers because it showcases the way Saigon sold out to its occupiers. At least an abandoned army helicopter sat perched on the roof. It was a lovely show of machinery, but any student of history would not have been able to see it and not recollect the famous picture of south Vietnamese trying to evacuate the American Embassy during the Fall of Saigon. 

Mildly amused at the absurdities of this building, we then went to the War Remnants Museum, a collection of abandoned military vehicles, photographs from the war, and various exhibits that discussed mostly American atrocities during the war. This bias to demonize Americans was both historically accurate and historically abridged. After all, the greatest damage to the people of Vietnam occurred during the escalation of American aggression during the 1960s and 1970s, but the museum failed to account for French or Japanese war crimes as well, and conveniently ignored the brutalism of Vietnamese guerilla fighters. Nevertheless, outside of the South Vietnamese government, which was an American proxy government to begin with, the United States' actions produced the most tragic and longest-lasting atrocities due to the useof napalm and defoliants like Agent Orange. In fact the photos of napalm victims and the children of people exposed to dioxin, the effective chemical in defoliants, brought up some real pangs of guilt in me. Earlier that week I had joked with Eric that the Vietnamese must have a recessive gene that produces dwarfism because I had seen an awful number of "little people." It turned out that dwarfism and misshaped limbs were some of the more manageable side effects of dioxin poisoning. Severe retardation lies at the other extreme along with grotesque malformations. One of the more nauseating exhibits featured two large jars of preserved, malformed fetuses. They were discernable as human mostly because they had recognizable limbs, but their craniums were enlarged and one jar even had a pair of conjoined and malformed figures. I took one of the most remarkable pictures of the trip at this exhibit. The pane of glass protecting the jars reflected the hall of the museum and, more importantly, the perturbed and horrified faces of the people moving though the exhibit, but the jars and their contents, though not entirely in focus can still be clearly seen. 

Continuing along the exhibit took a lot of effort as the subject transitioned to the painfully lingering consequences of landmines and their removal efforts. An NGO named MAG works in Vietnam, Cambodia and Laos to remove abandoned land mines and other unexploded ordinance, and the stories of farmers who could finally resume their lives without fear offered a refreshing positive note. Still the legacy of landmines remains more complete and dangerous than the chemical warfare. Only one generation had to suffer the effects of Agent Orange, maybe two if you consider mother and child. But landmines still attack indiscriminately over forty years after the conflict has ended. Children who were miraculously born without defects loose limbs when playing in the fields and many households loose their best laborers when hidden, unexploded ordinance is accidentally set off during the farming process. Outside of the museum, among the abandoned tanks, planes, and 12,000-ton bombs sits a stand-alone exhibit dedicated to the prisons of the South Vietnamese government. Record show that the budget of the Saigon regime allocated three times more money to 'internal security' than it did to education. Pictures abounded of detainees who were permanently disfigured from torture and skulls found with multiple nails still embedded in the bone. But those don't really compare to the "Tiger Cages." They were concrete cell blocks no more than ten square feet, which could be packed full with as many as ten political prisoners who had to rotate the seat near the door in order to grasp a full breath of air near the only vent in the room. When the rooms weren’t full, a prisoner's legs would be shackled to a concrete slab. At best they could move their upper bodies maybe 180 degrees. The prisoners who received this treatment were often locked in that position for so long that they became paraplegics after years of atrophied leg muscles. This museum, despite its poor layout and need for a trained curator, has surprisingly been among the most powerful experiences I've had on this trip. I can't feel guilty for being an American, especially since I had no say in the policies of the government at that time, but that doesn't mean that I have no responsibilities to the legacy of the actions of my predecessors. I am so passionate about politics and diplomacy because when war is used to resolve conflicts, the process always produces side effects that often make the impetus for war insignificant by contrast. It is my hatred of the consequences of war that often leaves a sour taste in my mouth when subjects about the American military arise, but perhaps with some vigorous efforts at diplomacy in my future career, I can be a part of something constructive that will outweigh the damage done when diplomacy is abandoned. 

But back to Saigon. Not knowing if my nausea was hunger or disgust, Eric and I set out for a bite to eat and a refreshing shower (finally by 13:00 that day).  We relaxed, napped and silently processed what we had seen. I suggested that we walk to the major Cathedral in town in order to change the imagery in our heads. It worked even though a Notre Damn replica in a country of Buddhists doesn't make much sense. If there is only one cathedral in town, might as well make it grand I guess. Amusingly, I could recognize the inscriptions above the church doors that were written in Latin, but the service was in Vietnamese. We didn't bother going in since it was a familiar sight after all. 

That night we partied. Of all the cities we had visited, HCMC was the largest and Lonely Planet listed the few gay options that we had. A famous bar/club called Apocalypse Now came highly recommended, but first we made a stop for dinner and some drinks at the bars surrounding backpacker's alley. The most accessible option tuned out to be a "juicy bar." We just wanted basic food and drinks, but our 'server' hovered constantly around our table, making irritating small talk in her poor English while fussing around to show off her primped figure and immaculate make up. I tried my best to convey disinterest by chatting with a lower ranking employee. The first girl assumed she was our preference, and though we were relieved of her anorexic ass, the newcomer didn't give us much peace either. They looked equally disappointed when we both left them without our real names or hotel room numbers. Around 10pm, we landed in Seventeen Saloon. If the Reunification Palace was a bastard child of architecture, this was the most monstrous mixture of cultures imaginable. The outside of the bar looked like a log cabin and neon lights lit up the woodwork, advertising "live music." The cheeky welcoming party at the front door asked us to enter a raffle, so I created Bob Jones, who lives in Toronto, Canada, and can be reached at isthisnecessary@gmail.com, or something like that. The inside was just as bizarre as the outside. Climbing the stairs (also decorated in log-cabin style) we heard classic American Rock n' Roll, but when we got to the stage, the lead singer looked Native American and was supported by Vietnamese backup singers dressed in wisping shreds of red cloth and accompanied by an under-enthusiastic bassist. The bar room itself managed to mix Texas, Las Vegas, Holland, and Vietnam into one. The log-cabin walls were made more Texan by old-fashioned cart wheels straight out of the Wild West and skeletal Bull heads that should hang in the student union at UT Austin. The neon lights found their way indoors as well, advertising drinks like casinos, and they were punctuated by strobe lights that spewed different splotches of colors erratically across the faces of the patrons. New Heineken art hung on the wall, showing its recognizable green bottle broken into puddles of colored mercury. To top it off, Brittney Spears' new beats rumbled though the floor below us. When the dizziness of so many sensory inputs resided, I felt worn out by the incoherence of it all.  But we still had Apocalypse Now waiting. 

Later on, I learnt that Apocalypse Now was actually the less illustrious club in town; nevertheless, it was packed. Being white helped me get through the door without having to pay the cover charge, I'm sure, but this club made no exception to the conglomeration of opposites we had encountered so far. By DC standards, it was a poorly planned, cramped straight club that had the brilliant idea of selling food to drunk patrons inside the club. But Eric and I wanted to dance, so we downed a few more drinks to loosen the nerves and elbowed our way onto the table-littered dance floor in front of the DJ. I couldn't tell which women were prostitutes and which were there just to have fun, but women most certainly dominated the dancing space. Those who dared to dance couldn't because the prostitutes' attempts to advertise took up the space needed to pop out the really good moves. Frustrated, I suggested going upstairs. 

To my relief and astonishment, a Venezuelan-based band was playing salsa and would latter play a few American classics, but stuck mostly to Latin music. I loved it. Only the decoration outperformed the band. Encasing the room was exposed brick walls whose built in windows were back-lit in ominous red, evoking images of blood or blazing fires, take your pick. Different sized replicas of oil barrels served as tables and chairs respectively, and painted screen shots from the movie Apocalypse Now lined the wall behind the bartenders. The most striking one featured Marlon Brando, the renegade commander whom Captain Willard had been ordered to 'eliminate,' and the infamous scene of the helicopters riding above a canopy of palm trees complimented the dazed expression on Brando's face. I am so thankful that Ben took the initiative to expand my cultural references by getting Apocalypse Now off Netflix because without that reference, I would have missed the value of that upper room. Eric and I occasionally drifted downstairs, but this Latin band was far superior and rescued my night personally. 

When the band stopped playing we lost interest in the place and decided to grab a snack of beef Pho. Coincidentally, we arrived at one of the few late-night restaurants near our hotel and took up a curbside table. Within a few minutes, two men were shown to the remaining seats by a waitress. After a couple of disparaging comments about being placed at the "gay table," Eric and I nevertheless welcomed them into our company and tried to figure out what their deal was. One had been living here for about three years and had finally persuaded his friend to move to Saigon from San Francisco a few months prior. Each one insisted that he was straight and demonstrated it by making idle chat with the neighborhood working girls while also insulting them in English too advanced for them to understand. Eric and I agreed that the friend gave off an odd, curious vibe that was aimed our way even though his chair was as far to the corner of the table as it could have been while also being considered a dinner guest, I think we enjoyed a little schadenfreude by making gay jokes to him and talking about sex. You can always tell who the closet cases are by their responses to sex talk. The veteran of Saigon kept the banter up just fine, but his friend, who conspicuously lived in SF, became gradually quieter. Still, we had fun comparing notes, so to speak, with these total strangers and managed to have some normal conversation about the city and other generic, time-filling subjects. When we paid the check, it was nearly 4 am. Somehow, I was unable to sleep past 10 the next morning. 

Speculation about what I would do without Eric's friendly company prevented me from falling back to sleep that morning and stole away any refreshment sleep could have offered. Since we had already seen the primary sights, according to Lonely Planet, I suggested Dam Sen Park on the outskirts of town. According to the guide's description, I pictured it to be a pleasant place, characterized by unique statues made out of CDs and coconut husks. It turned out to be a very sorry attempt at a theme park. We wasted a few hours paying for the rides that remotely interested us and took some great shots among giant ice sculptures that resembled historical places like the Great Pyramids and the Taj Mahal, but my coconut gorilla never made an appearance. That was the point at which I lost faith in Lonely Planet and my disappointment would only later be reinforced by a desperately lonely night. Luckily the Dam Sen Water Park was next door. Eric and I bought bathing suits in the grocery store nearby for less than two dollars and entered the park for the remaining hour and a half that it was open. The slides were amazing! I felt lightweight and liberated from both the heat and weight of what was to come. But we had barely an hour there. After getting separated on different moto-bikes on the way home, we crossed half the town searching for an Indian restaurant and decided that it was a little too sketchy to eat at in the end. Leave it to irony. 

starting a new entry now...  to be continued...

location: Saigon, Vietnam mood: intimidated